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What makes for a great sex film? We reveal the best sex scenes ever committed to celluloid, from lesbian dramas to gritty portrayals of sex addiction
Welcome to a countdown of the greatest sex films ever made about the small but preoccupying part of the human experience known as sex - from coming-of-age lesbian dramas to gritty portrayals of sex addiction to, erm, loincloths.
Put simply: these are the sex movies with the most to say about doing it, charting a history of how our attitudes towards sex and nudity on the big screen have shifted through the decades.
So get comfy - well, not too comfy - and enjoy.
The 90s were noted for a slew of uber-cool neo-noir films that took it upon themselves to give the old formula a new twist – which in a number of instances meant the addition of some thought and depth to the classic figure of the femme fatale. The Last Seduction made her into a hard-bitten antihero. Basic Instinct made her the movie's outright star. Devil in a Blue Dress, One False Move and Jackie Brown brought race into the equation to interrogate her social and moral motivations.
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Bound made her a lesbian. The Wachowski siblings’ directorial debut tells the story of Corky, a charismatic ex-con who begin an affair with the wife of a mafia money-launderer and together the pair hatch a plan to make off with a big bag of the abusive husband's cash.
If the twist such a plot gives to the film noir's traditions is obvious, the execution is elegant and subtle, with Gina Gershon as Corky offering a peppering of whip-smart irony that might be expected from the recent star of Showgirls (another film whose teasing critique of American culture has only come to be appreciated with time). In hindsight it’s perhaps unsurprising that the Wachowskis – then Andy and Larry, now Lilly and Lana – were both able and willing to subvert the Hollywood orthodoxy regarding gender and sexuality. Erotic but not exploitative, progressive but not moralising, pulpy but not cheap, the film trod a number of tightropes masterfully. And in employing a specialist consultant to help choreograph the sex scenes – now common industry practice in the post-Weinstein era – Bound was ahead of its time in more ways than one.
The Wachowskis would continue to explore and unsettle Hollywood's relationship with gender three years later with The Matrix, which turned Tinseltown's hunkiest hero into an androgynous goth, and then V for Vendetta, in which another sex symbol in Natalie Portman was recast as a revolutionary leader with a shaved head and ill-fitting vest.
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Lars von Trier is known as modern cinema’s great provocateur. His works feature dead children, bleak degenerative disease, the faking of mental illness, graphic genital mutilation and, in the case of Dogville, the complete rejection of all movie sets during the filming process. So when word got around that he was making a four-hour magnum opus about sex addiction, replete with unsimulated shagging, the presumption was that it would be the shocker to end all shockers. While this wasn’t entirely untrue – respectable cinema doesn’t come much more explicit than this, no pun intended – Nymphomaniac is a far subtler film that its titillating title would suggest. In fact, it works as a good demonstration of the famous line about pornography being impossible to define, but “I know it when I see it”. Nymphomaniac is as explicit as many porn films – and far more so than a lot of late-night cable TV fare – and yet the film’s eroticism works in inverse proportion to its explicitness: the most graphic sex we see is largely dull, monotonous and routine.
The obvious interpretation of Nymphomaniac is as a grand comment on the deadening nature of addiction – “loneliness was my constant companion,” Charlotte Gainsbourg’s title character, Joe, tells us as she talks us through her lifelong compulsion towards to all things coital. On the other hand, it actively declines to explain our heroine’s addiction with a tragic backstory of abuse of neglect, as would be standard practice for a Hollywood-style treatment. Instead we are given a portrait of her emotionally detached sex addiction as a kind of backlash to the sentimentality of polite society: unbound female promiscuity as a radical upsetting of the social order. Whether this idea represents feminist empowerment or sexist oppression is something Von Trier perhaps wants his audience to figure out for themselves – after they’ve watched the mid-movie montage of erect penises, that is.
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The late 80s and early 90s saw the quickfire rise and fall of one of cinemas most fascinating subgenres: the erotic thriller. Hollywood tends to work in trends, but rarely as frenzied or short-lived as this. In the six years after Fatal Attraction was released in 1987, we got Sleeping With The Enemy, Poison Ivy, Single White Female, Bitter Moon, Body of Evidence, Sliver, Disclosure and The Last Seduction – plus countless quickly forgotten imitations (Wikipedia lists no less that 207 erotic thrillers in that period).
But the most infamous, most flocked-to – and very probably the best – was Paul Verhoeven’s 1992 forincation-fest, which introduced Sharon Stone as Hollywood’s steam queen. There were various reasons behind the sudden explosion of the erotic thriller: the loosening of censorship restrictions, the proliferation of cable TV and the rise of the video-rental market. But most interesting is the genre’s treatment of women, which in most cases was a straightforward updating of the femme fatale – the unchaste evildoers of film noir – but in some instances was a bit more thoughtful.
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At first glance, and indeed for many years after its release, Basic Instinct looked like it belonged in the first camp, with the plot revolving largely around the difficulty had by Michael Douglas in investigating Stone’s trashy novelist for a debauched murder while trying (in pitiful vain) to resist her seductive efforts. This was lewd, thrilling, throwaway nonsense – right?
Hindsight – and the fact that the film has managed a shelf-life far longer than its peers – suggests differently. Taken alongside Verhoeven other films of the same period (RoboCop, Total Recall, Starship Troopers, Showgirls), it now looks a lot like a key part of a masterful project to paint a portrait of American depravity using the very trashiest materials within Hollywood itself. Watching it now, Basic Instinct looks less like a brazen attempt to titillate viewers than a winking, eyebrow-raised comment on viewers’ appetite for titillation – not that it altogether neglected the former, as many late-night Channel 5 viewers will be well aware.
The creative minds behind The Handmaiden are diverse to say the least. Park Chan-Wook, writer-director of the notoriously violent Oldboy, adapted a Sarah Waters book about an illicit lesbian affair, in the process relocating it from Victorian Britain to Japanese-occupied 1930s Korea. This odd formula produced a singularly odd film – and one that is an absolute treat, not least because of the rich beauty imbued into the film by Park, whose years as an aesthetics student shine through in every fastidiously composed frame. The story loses none of Waters’ fascination with gender and class, merely transposes it on to another society. Nor does Waters’ narrative surrender any of its intrigue, as the initially playful premise – a female pickpocket teams up with a male con artist to steal the fortune of a Japanese heiress – leads to one rug-pull after another, eventually revealing itself as a meditation on abuse, sensuality and survival as pickpocket and heiress embark on a cat-and-mouse relationship of deceit and desire.
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The idea of theatre and performance is returned to again and again, making the point that both our main characters – each switching between personas throughout – are constantly putting on a show, forced into doing so by the repressive social strictures they exist within. Like those in Blue is the Warmest Colour, The Handmaiden’s love scenes divided viewers for being unabashedly erotic depictions of lesbian sex as viewed through the lens of a straight man.
The film’s final shot, of the two women laid in bed together as a perfect mirror-image of one another, offers sex as a grand, multi-layered metaphor. As Waters explains: “When I spoke to Park he said he was bringing the Japanese mistress and the Korean sewing girl together on an equal level. The novel is about class rather than gender. The film is more about colonialism: the fraught relationship between Korea and Japan.”
Nagisa Ōshima's film about the increasingly violent love affair between a hotel maid and her boss in late-30s Tokyo depicts, in stark detail, pretty much every sex act you can imagine, plus plenty more you'd rather not. It courted controversy accordingly. The various bans and banishings are too numerous to list in full but highlights include the film being seized by US customs officials after screening at the NY film festival, a four-year court case for its director, on charges of obscenity and Portugal's Archbishop of Braga registering his disgust by saying he "had learned more about sex in 10 minutes of the film than in his entire life".
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But explicit as it was, and notorious as it became, Oshima's movie was not chasing cheap shocks. It's graphic sex scenes were laying bare the gruesome destructiveness of the central pair's relationship. And the matter-of-fact detachment with which it's filmed gives the sex a weirdly ritualistic quality and the film a gradually more sinister tone as violence begins to encroach into the bedroom.
The period setting is not incidental. Pre-war Japan was not only politically tumultuous (world war loomed, there had been an attempted coup in February and the following year the country invaded China) but also a place of stern patriarchy and severe repression, and the bleakly violent logic that guides the lovers' relationship is intended as a critique of the culture they exist within. In one scene Kichiko, the maid, is shown walking down the street while troops march by in the opposite direction. As sex and brutality become intertwined, and the affair becomes poisoned by intense possessiveness, the message is clear: society's insidious cruelty will manifest itself everywhere, and not even the realm of the senses can provide an escape. Or as Oshima put it to the jury: "The sex is not obscene. What is obscene is what is hidden."
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“We must not see humping. We must not see the rise and fall between thighs." Such was the advice of the American film censors to Nicolas Roeg, director of the 1973 horror film Don’t Look Now, in response to a sex scene that would become one of the most famous – and infamous – in screen history.
The scene, between Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, was a raw depiction of marital sex – with one of the few instances of cunnilingus in mainstream film – made all the more intense by the fact that the characters are grieving parents. Rumours have persisted that the sex was unsimulated, and although all parties strenuously deny any such claims, it’s easy to see why: it is starkly realistic. (On seeing the scene Warren Beatty, Christie’s then partner, flew to London to insist it was cut from the final edit.)
Roeg eventually appeased the censors by removing 0.3 seconds of footage and intercutting the sex with scenes of the couple getting dressed to go out afterwards (a technique that prefigured the great Clooney-Lopez love scene in Steven Soderbergh’s Out of Sight). But the scene remains famous – and rated as one of the best ever – not simply because of its alarming explicitness but because it broke a taboo few films ever venture near: the link between sex and death.
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The film opens with the couple’s daughter tragically drowning, and the bedroom scene comes after the stricken couple have been approached by a supposed psychic who claims she can “see” the dead girl. The news, morbid as it may be, immediately energises a broken marriage.
It is of a piece with the film’s uncomfortable, psychologically interrogative tone that lust and grief, two seemingly opposite mental states, should be connected in this way and its the rawness of emotions, rather than simply the flesh on show, that gives the scene such weight.
Roeg said he wanted to make grief “the sole thrust of the film" – and he certainly succeeded in doing so, “thrust” being very much the operative word.
The maniacal teenage libido has been a mainstay of cinema for some decades. Likewise the trials of adolescent friendship, and likewise the rebellious thrill of an impromptu road trip. But never have all those elements been combined to such remarkable poignancy as in Alfonso Cuaron's timeless Mexican epic.
Y Tu Mama Tambien manages to have its cake and eat it on various fronts, packing in the poignancy of a coming-of-age film, the liberation of a road movie and the winning stupidity of a sex comedy, without compromising on any. Not to mention the undercurrent of razor-sharp commentary on Mexico's rigidly tiered class system.
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The film stars Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna as goofy school-age buddies and from the opening shot, which shows one of our heroes frantically going at it with his girlfriend, it's clear that fornication will play a central role in the next couple of hours. And so it does, the pair soon making friends with an enigmatic older woman at the races and regaling her with tales of an idyllic beach spot, which – metaphor alert – doesn't actually exist. Before long the three have set off on a journey towards sun, sea and, yes, life-changing self-discovery.
The expected flings and fallouts do of course transpire, and the teenager boy's sexual appetite is depicted in all it's naive, clumsy, over-eager glory. Anyone who has seen American Pie, Superbad or Booksmart will know that the best teen sex comedies are actually platonic love stories in disguise. It's part of the charm. Y Tu Mama Tambien is no different in that its purest romance is clearly between Bernal and Luna, but it does enter territory that those movies don't by asking the question: just how platonic is this friendship really?
It's a bold move and it is to the film's credit that it offers no simple answers to the question, and the coda, in which the two meet up some months later, remains one of the most quietly emotive scenes of recent decades.
Brokeback Mountain was hardly the first ‘forbidden love’ story told by Hollywood. Nor was it the first gay love story. But it was arguably the first mainstream movie that forced America to confront its own ruinous homophobia.
Until Ang Lee’s film, homosexuality had been approached by mainstream film rarely and clumsily. When it wasn’t confined to outlandish comedy (The Birdcage) or quirky subplots (Dog Day Afternoon), it was looked at via a “big-issue” lens, and generally with a heartwarming conclusion (Philadelphia, The Color Purple). Brokeback Mountain took a different slant, casting Hollywood’s two best and most cherished young actors as a pair of on-off lovers forced by society into various states of repression, self-loathing and soul-destroying frustration. It also won establishment approval, with Lee taking home the best director gongs at the Oscars.
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Crucially, the film made no bones about the fact that it was American society forcing this on them. Brokeback Mountain was set in the past, but not a past distant enough to be divorced from the present day. And besides, it wore its period setting lightly: bar the odd instance of disco-era fashion and dodgy décor, its frontiers setting meant it could easily be set in the contemporary US. As such, the gut-wrenching finale hit home doubly hard – likewise the scene in which Ledger’s character recalls the childhood memory being shown, by his dad, the mutilated body of a man killed in a homophobic attack.
It is ironic that Brokeback Mountain uses the frontier-land setting made famous by Hollywood movies, because the film’s heart couldn’t be any less Hollywood if it tried. Rather than delivering a love-conquers-all message (All That Heaven Allows), or a tale of noble sacrifice (Romeo and Juliet), or one where social taboos are conquered by goodwill and charisma (Shakespeare in Love, Dallas Buyers Club), Lee’s story had no redeeming sense of uplift, no cathartic payoff.
The ‘gay cowboys’ tag was always a red herring; Brokeback Mountain is clearly not a western. But in telling this particular story through the classic iconography of Hollywood’s favourite genre – horses, wide-brimmed hats, the sprawling plains of the Midwest – Lee pulled a neat trick: he made it clear that this was, unambiguously, a story about America.
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In 1997, at roughly the same time pornographers were starting to wonder if this “internet” thing might affect their industry, Paul Thomas Anderson made a film about a similarly pivotal point in the sex-movie business. A film, aptly enough, that would help transform Hollywood.
Boogie Nights follows the porn business at the time when the films in question were moving from cinema to video: there is hope at the outset that a porno movie could be "artistic''; at the end, not so much. (If only it’s characters had lived to see the online age.) But beyond chronicling porn’s disco-era history, Boogie Nights achieved the seemingly impossible: it was a film about an X-rated industry – replete with corruption, drugs and semi-explicit sex – whose overriding tone was a kind of effervescent innocence. It also announced Anderson as part of the impossibly talented cool-kid crowd (along with David Fincher, Steven Soderbergh, David O Russell and Quentin Tarantino) that would go on to make the defining works of the next decade and beyond.
The instinct in making a film about porn would be to expose the misery and passionlessness behind the facade. Boogie Nights resisted the easy narrative in favour of a story about everyday people who meet at work, form bonds and surf the waves of a fast-changing industry with youthful cheer. Anderson’s film took us behind the scenes of the seediest industry possible, and showed us the innocence and humanity of the people in the middle of it and their commitment ­– like any filmmaker – to making a worthwhile movie.
Boogie Nights laid the groundwork for films and TV shows Lovelace or The Deuce, which both examined the porn industry of that era with an unsentime
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