Watching Nine and a Half Weeks in one sitting is an odd start to the day, to say the least.
But that’s exactly what I wanted to do after Sean Bean (the one who dies in almost every movie, aka Ned Stark) was virtually busted for saying he wanted more spontaneity in movie sex scenes.
Actresses who can’t match either Bean’s talent or filmography race to explain that it’s a good thing that there are already choreographers for the erotic scenes so that someone doesn’t accidentally or not so accidentally touch them on the butt.
Oh, how much safer it is that every kiss and every touch is carefully coordinated so that there won’t be another #MeToo!
It’s probably safer, but it also helped drive the good sex out of the cinema.
Intimate scenes can no longer be called intimate at all, because they are more sterile than a newly opened pharmacy. Rachel Zegler, who protested Bean’s words, said she felt more comfortable on set because there was a choreographer for the hotter shots.
How much safer, since Zegler only has to exchange a few kisses with her on-screen partner, sans tongue, of course.
Out of fear and feigned celebration, Hollywood reduced eroticism to looks and the occasional touch. American society, which secretly consumes monstrous doses of porn, decided that for the sake of peace of mind it would be wisest to erase sex from its cinema productions.
And there is logic in this, because there is always the chance that an actress will regret that she once showed a little more flesh and passion than necessary. Even “50 Shades of Grey”, supposedly an emanation of modern eroticism and bold sex, was filmed shyly, somewhat shyly, and the chemistry between the characters was simply absent.
However, we, the viewers, remember the titles like “Primal Instinct”, “Boogie Nights”, “The Secretary”, “Eyes Wide Shut”. We remember how the fake orgasm in “When Harry Met Sally” brought real orgasms.
Between Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas, Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader, between Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, such currents flow on the screen that it even hits us. And no matter how many times we watch these films, we will always shiver because the footage is sincere, candid, shot and played with desire.
I’m watching “Nine and a Half Weeks” and I can’t imagine how someone called a sex scene specialist stood on the sidelines instructing Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke on the most erotic way to eat cocktail cherries, shower themselves with champagne and have cinematic sex.
Now there are clearly such specialists, at least on paper, but in practice they erase the last drops of passion from the films they stand behind. For shock doses of erotica, goofy movies like “After”, “365 days” and the series Bridgerton are accepted, you will forgive me for the bad examples.
According to women’s magazines such as Cosmopolitan, these productions were even “better than porn”, although at least there is some realism in the adult industry. Such has long been missing in conventional cinema, where more and more often women have sex in bras.
And we are left with the hope that the wave of #MeToo will eventually pass and real cinematic sex will resurface in its wake.
But not the self-serving one that we see in Bridgerton and “365 days”, but those that are exactly in place and with all their density and saturation only help the development of the plot.
Yes, Hollywood, thank you in advance for the moment you come to your senses!