Erotic Films About Teen Young Girls

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Erotic Films About Teen Young Girls

My Beautiful Laundrette (Stephen Frears, 1985)
Carry On Camping (Gerald Thomas, 1969)
Intimacy (Patrice Chéreau, 2001)
Black Narcissus (Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1947)
Deep End (Jerzy Skolimowski, 1970)
9 Songs (Michael Winterbottom, 2004)
Confessions of a Window Cleaner (Val Guest, 1974)
Sunday Bloody Sunday (John Schlesinger, 1971)
The Draughtsman’s Contract (Peter Greenaway, 1982)
Red Road (Andrea Arnold, 2006)

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Named after a rare butterfly, the extraordinary new film by Peter Strickland is also that lesser-spotted creature: a genuinely erotic British film. We survey 10 more titillating titles from these shores.
When Peter Strickland was asked about his influences on The Duke of Burgundy , he unsurprisingly trotted out a parade of what used to be called “continental” filmmakers: Walerian Borowczyk, Tinto Brass, Luis Buñuel, Claude Chabrol, Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Jesús Franco. Anything from Britain? Yes, the 1980s sitcom Terry and June, although decidedly not for its (nonexistent) erotic content.
François Truffaut notoriously suggested to Alfred Hitchcock that there is a certain incompatibility between the terms ‘British’ and ‘cinema’. This was obvious nonsense, but if you add the word ‘erotic’ to ‘cinema’ you create a proposition that’s harder to deny. Despite two of the stronger commercial genres in British cinema history being the 1950s naturist ‘documentary’ and the 1970s softcore sex comedy, it says much about the cultural repression of the time that anyone ever found them especially erotic.
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There are certainly major British filmmakers with unashamedly sensual imaginations, but can we describe the likes of Black Narcissus (1947), If…. (1968) and “Don’t Look Now” (1973) as ‘erotic films’ in themselves? And although they’re more overtly erotic, can we call the likes of Deep End (1970), Bitter Moon (1992), Breaking the Waves (1996) and Intimacy (2001) ‘British’ given complex co-production funding, multinational casts and directors hailing from Poland, France and Denmark? 
Should we define an ‘erotic film’ purely in terms of sexual explicitness, or something subtler and more sensual? Or indeed by the effect that it had on its audience? After all, it’s arguable that the appeal of 1940s Gainsborough melodramas was far more genuinely erotic than that of the inexplicably long-running Come Play with Me (1977) and its fusion of ancient music-hall routines with only very mildly titillating nudity.
There are no direct equivalents of Borowczyk, Brass, Franco or Radley Metzger in British cinema (the hardcore pornographer Ben Dover has different priorities), and serious British films about eroticism remain as rare as the more exotic butterflies on display in Strickland’s film, despite the considerable relaxation in censorship post-2000 – Michael Winterbottom ’s 9 Songs (2004) being the British film most notorious for taking full advantage of this. So the following 10 films are at least as much illustrations of social and historical trends as they are defining examples of cinematic eroticism in their own right. It’s safe to say that a French, Italian or Spanish list would be very different!
Lasting only a minute or so, this late Victorian film was also catalogued under the title Woman Undressing, which provides evidence that its primary purpose was to titillate, although (presumed) director Esmé Collings only lets his unidentified star strip down to her voluminous petticoat.
Given the lack of reliable background information, it’s impossible to say whether this coyness was intended to be erotic or whether a beady eye was being kept on obscenity laws so strict that the philosopher Bertrand Russell once complained that it was impossible to campaign against them without breaching them. It may of course have been a little of both.
British cinema’s oldest direct precursor to the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomenon was the Gainsborough studio’s 1943-47 cycle of costume melodramas, which were more or less explicitly marketed on the strength of their erotic appeal – specifically that of James Mason (often complete with riding crop and tight britches) treating Phyllis Calvert and Margaret Lockwood appallingly badly, but in such an irresistibly smouldering way that the films’ largely female audiences secretly longed for him to do the same to them. A contractually-tied Mason loathed the films, but this all too evident on-screen disdain only increased his fans’ ardour.
When the British Board of Film Censors (as was) agreed to pass a serious documentary about naturism in the mid-1950s, this gave an immediate green light to numerous similar “documentaries’ by shamelessly opportunist producers who took care to adhere to BBFC guidelines (“Breasts and buttocks, but not genitalia [would be accepted] provided that the setting was recognisable as a nudist camp or nature reserve”).  
This effort by photographer-turned-filmmaker George Harrison Marks came relatively late in the cycle, but retains a fond following thanks to its catchy title and a genuinely charming performance by model-turned-actor Pamela Green .
Two D.H. Lawrence creations bookended the 1960s: the obscenity trial of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in 1963 (the year in which Philip Larkin alleged that sexual intercourse began) and the international hit that Ken Russell made of Women in Love , thanks not least to one of the most notorious scenes in all British cinema, in which Alan Bates and Oliver Reed engage in full-frontally naked wrestling on a rug in front of an open fire to underscore their characters’ latent homoeroticism. But there was also a powerful sensuality emanating from Glenda Jackson ’s Oscar-winning performance as the wayward Gudrun.
A (slight) relaxation of censorship at the turn of the 1970s triggered a decade where the softcore sex comedy was one of the few surefire commercial bets for British cinema. Most were neither sexy nor funny, and this one isn’t particularly erotic either, but it does cast a keenly satirical eye on how the sex-film business was run at the time, with wide-eyed ingénues on both sides of the camera and a plot that contrives multiple adaptations of the notoriously filthy poem to please different backers: hardcore porn, a gay western, a kung-fu musical and a family-friendly compromise.
The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian had been a key erotic symbol in western art for many centuries before Derek Jarman and Paul Humfress ’s cinematic take. One of the most sexually explicit films then made in Britain, it begins with an aggressively symbolic dance performed by Lindsay Kemp’s troupe wearing giant phalluses before decamping to a remote garrison where various Roman soldiers either suppress or give in to their various homosexual urges. The amount of frontal male nudity was unprecedented in British cinema for the time: a blatant erection slipped past the BBFC thanks to cunning framing subterfuge during the official inspection.
Nicolas Roeg has consistently demonstrated one of the most powerfully erotic imaginations in all British cinema: Performance, Walkabout (both 1970), “Don’t Look Now” (1973) and The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976) all provide ample evidence, as does the more recent Puffball (2006), with its show-stopping glimpse inside the protagonist’s vagina at the moment of orgasm. But the Roeg film most completely bound up in the erotic is this often intensely disturbing psychological drama about the obsessive affair between Art Garfunkel ’s psychiatrist and Theresa Russell ’s married client. As a by-product of an unusually intense shoot, Roeg married his leading lady.
“I’m obviously interested in pornography”, Peter Greenaway admitted in 1985, and 10 years later he made his most overtly erotic film, loosely inspired by the famous ‘pillow book’ by 10th/11th-century Japanese lady-in-waiting Sei Shōnagon.
Thanks to her unusual upbringing, Nagiko ( Vivian Wu ) fetishises not just the elegance of calligraphy in general but the process of writing directly on her own skin, ideally at the hands of a potential lover – a notion that allows Greenaway to explore verbal as well as visual eroticism. Ewan McGregor is the translator who turns out to be ideally equipped (in every sense) to fulfil Nagiko’s desires.
In the early 2000s, Hanif Kureishi wrote two British films that paid unusually close attention to the distinction between straightforward physical intimacy and its knottier emotional component. If Intimacy (2001) garnered most of the column inches for its unsimulated fellatio scene, it was The Mother that offered the most complex take on its subject, as its middle-aged grandmother May ( Anne Reid in a memorably fearless performance) tries to conquer bereavement-triggered grief through an affair with her daughter’s boyfriend ( Daniel Craig ).
Three years later, a Speedo-clad Craig would be globally promoted as an image of erotic allure via the publicity for Casino Royale (2006).
Ashley Horner ’s celebration of erotic obsession sees young lovers Noon (Nancy Trotter Landry) and Manchester (Liam Browne) not only indulging in a great deal of graphic sex but also trying to preserve their sexual feelings through photography and a recorded ‘orgasm diary’, scenes depicted with an unselfconscious spontaneity that’s unusual for a low-budget British film.
But when Manchester exhibits Noon’s nude self-portraits in a gallery without her knowledge, the film explores thornier questions about exploitation and objectification that apply to almost anyone tackling similar subject matter, at least if they do it as a collaborative enterprise.
To our list above, you voted to add these great erotic British films…
Lots of interesting additions came in this week, with the Hanif Kureishi-scripted gay love story My Beautiful Laundrette topping the votes. With the cheeky antics of Carry On Camping, the boundary-pushing explicitness of 9 Songs, and Black Narcissus’s nuns in the Himalayas all vying for space in the top 10 this week, it goes to show that the erotic British film comes in many different forms. There were, however, dissenting voices, with @SteveHills among them…
BFI list the best 10 British erotic films. Let's face it, we're crap at erotic films. http://t.co/tvT2HgCdzu
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Watch and discover Features and reviews Lists From girlhood to adulthood: 6 French films about sexual awakening < Lists
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With our Teenage Kicks season celebrating movies about the joys and pains of adolescence, let’s talk about sexual awakening on screen... French-style.
As part of BFI ’s Teenage Kicks season, we teamed up with I am Dora to present a special screening of Maurice Pialat’s À nos amours (To Our Loves) on Sunday 10 August. After the screening, we held a salon in the Teenage Kicks teen bedroom installation at BFI Southbank and discussed the idea of the young femme fatale in French cinema as a construct of male directors’ fantasies, and how these depictions affect the female viewer’s sense of self.
Pialat’s film centres on 15-year-old Suzanne (a stunning performance by a very young Sandrine Bonnaire ) who – on a mission to escape her overbearing father, histrionic mother and brutish brother – embarks on a rampage of sexual adventure, working her way through partners with apparent cool abandon. As Suzanne’s transformation unfolds, audiences and those closest to her are left wondering what it is that she seeks: affection, freedom, pleasure, or a man just like her father? Maurice Pialat (who himself plays in the film as Suzanne’s father) directs a fresh-faced and inscrutable Bonnaire to give us few easy answers; here is a girl who seems to have the power of youth and beauty, but never quite finds what she’s looking for.
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In her essay to mark the Criterion DVD release of the film in 2005, critic Molly Haskell posits À nos amours as settling comfortably into a collection of iconic films exploring “the teenage girl on the cusp of sexual awakening”:
Part child, part femme fatale, innocent and dangerous in equal proportions, these schoolgirl seductresses, born to blossom under the eye of the camera, have exerted a fatal fascination for Pygmalion auteurs who seek to capture and unveil this drama of unfolding. But over the years, as one transfixing newcomer after another, barely out of braces and backpacks, embarks on the vita sexualis, we have to wonder, whose sexuality is it, exactly? Is this the way they see themselves, are these their yearnings, or is this precocious sensuality a projection of the guilty desires and fears of directors old enough to be their fathers?
To mark the occasion we’ve put together a list of six French films that play with and subtly subvert this idea of female ‘sexual awakening’ in cinema, from girlhood to adulthood.
Carl Theodor Dreyer ’s silent masterpiece focuses not on the unsteady steps into womanhood, but on the last moments of our 19-year-old heroine’s brief life. Here is a girl who eschews the pressures of gender conformity, refusing to wear women’s clothes and vowing her faith and obedience to no earthly man – only to God – and is punished severely.
While the film’s focus is firmly on Joan’s trial and persecution, critic Pauline Kael saw something else in Dreyer’s austere direction that combined stark close-ups and rapid editing to build the atmosphere of fervent oppression that leads to Joan’s torture and eventual death. For her, there was a subtle double meaning in the ‘passion’ of the title, referring both to its spiritual and subversively erotic dimension: “In [his] enlargement Joan and her persecutors are shockingly fleshly – isolated with their sweat, warts, spittle, and tears, and (as no one used makeup) with startlingly individual contours, features, and skin. No other film has so subtly linked eroticism with religious persecution.”
Séverine ( Catherine Deneuve ) is a 23-year-old woman languishing in the boredom of her bourgeois marriage. Having never been allowed to indulge in any sort of sexual experimentation in her youth, she has instead followed convention and married a handsome doctor who keeps her dripping in Yves Saint Laurent but cannot pique her sexual interest. Being unable to have a healthy sexual relationship within her marriage, she indulges in perverse fantasies of rape and sexual domination, eventually attempting to realise them by becoming a madame at a high-class brothel.
Luis Buñuel ’s exploration of Séverine’s sexuality is played out with characteristic surrealist flourish, and her true motivations remain always obscured. Critic Melissa Anderson has observed that, for Deneuve, this ultimate mystery became a calling card and the basis of the rest of her filmic output: “ Belle de Jour , more than any other film from the first decade of her career, defined what would become one of the actress’s most notorious personae: the exquisite blank slate lost in her own masochistic fantasies and onto whom all sorts of perversions could be projected.”
In Chantal Akerman ’s magnificent exploration of one woman’s need to contain her emotions in a fortress of control, she gives us a female protagonist who is a single mother, devoted housewife and afternoon prostitute. Steadfastly refusing to reduce Jeanne to an object that is the product of a seedy profession, Akerman lingers not on her afternoon visits with her male clients but instead gives meticulous detail to the time it takes for the dressing, the cooking and the cleaning that make up Jeanne’s day.
Akerman’s direction is almost reverent in its distanced respect for her heroine; she chose not to use close-ups or point-of-view shots, stating that she refused to cut “this woman in pieces”. Over three days (three hours and 21 minutes for the viewer), things start to unravel: a button is lost, the potatoes are over cooked and the coffee doesn’t taste right. As each small disaster disturbs the delicate equilibrium of 23, quai du Commerce, the film’s structure changes and the viewer is led for the first time into an encounter with a paying client during which Jeanne unexpectedly experiences an orgasm. In Jeanne’s world though, this sexual ‘awakening’ is not proof of a long dormant longing, but an unwelcome intrusion that induces a coolly murderous impulse.
In what could be a scene out of any teen movie, Catherine Breillat’s À ma sœur ! begins with two girls walking arm-in-arm talking about losing their virginity, but it soon becomes apparent that this is no American Pie . The girls could not be more different. Elena is the very epitome of youth and French beauty; her young, slim body is a site of reverence and she longs for the chase of romantic love. Anais’s body is a fortress, overweight and unkempt, and she has no such fantasies about this rite of passage. “My first time should be with nobody,” she says, “Guys are sick”.
Directing her film more like a horror than a coming-of-age drama, Breillat concerns herself with the violent and often humiliating reality of a girl’s loss of virginity. Employing real-time direction (the first scene in which Elena’s holiday love interest convinces her to have sex is 25 minutes long), she dethrones the idea that sexual awakening as a teenager is any sort of liberation. As the fallout from Elena’s loss of virginity plays out within their family, the film’s ferocious climax reveals Breillat’s preoccupation with the idea that any the ‘shame’ associated with a young woman’s sexual activity is not inherent in the act itself, but a result of the constructed lie of romantic love.
Michael Haneke’s Erika, the protagonist of The Piano Teacher , is hardly a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Instead she is a woman who has masochistically resisted the painful transition from girlhood. In her 40s, Erika ( Isabelle Huppert ) lives at home with her domineering mother, a relationship marked with dysfunctional co-dependence and embattled suffocation. From the outside she is a picture of bourgeois respectability, a well-paid and well-respected classical music teacher, whose every movement demonstrates precision and discipline. In private, Erika indulges in seedy voyeurism, visiting pornographic bookshops, spying on people having sex at drive-ins and then indulging in masochistic self-harm.
But this is not a tale of a kinky schoolteacher. Setting his film in Vienna, the birthplace of Freud, Haneke is as much interested in our fascination with Erika’s sexual deviations as he is in the deviations themselves. As Erika’s pursuit of control through sexual domination gains momentum, Haneke’s orchestration of his grim denouement leaves no one left unscathed.
Céline Sciamma ’s first two films ( Water Lilies , 2007; Tomboy , 2011) explored the myriad effects that societal conventions have on delicately forming female identities. In her third film, which opened the Director’s Fortnight at Cannes this year, 16-year-old Marieme (Karidja Touré) must navigate not only the disruptive onset of womanhood, but also the inequalities, prejudices and disadvantages of being black and living in the underprivileged ‘banlieues’ of north-western Paris. Marieme lives in a man’s world, with an abusive brother governing her unhappy home life. Her developing sexual autonomy is compromised by this patriarchal hold, as her love interest, Ishmael, initially rebuffs her advances for fear of reprisal from h
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