Ah, what would be a film without its traditional love scene, this always very fast ride of magnified pleasure on the screen by two lovers in love with each other? Aren’t they beautiful these two, when all stretching cases, in the privacy of a bedroom or more prosaically on the kitchen sink, they manage in record time to mate, with the same disconcerting ease as a car, in the same film, will later find a place where to park?
It is the miracle of penetration. We are going straight to the point, without fuss. No preliminaries, no lubricant to get, no enamored languor that ends up. The member barely revealed, in his wonderful and ardent flowering, remote -controlled by the drunkenness of desire, finds at a suddenly the opening, he is immediately that runs like the stem of a drill is to dig a hole, without frills, but with a prodigious speed. Soon, barely a few seconds, it will be the first warning signs of the coming orgasm, the bodies that no longer respond to anything, the rise of the groans in unison, the lightning, before the last effusion.
Cut!
In the end, the scene will have lasted a minute. Delighted, the spectator will have had plenty of time to contemplate the smallest contours of the actress, her legs, her breasts, who knows, with a little luck, her admirable buttocks. The whole panoply of a body so meticulously filmed that nothing will have escaped his sagacious eye, nor the tiny grain of beauty nestled in the hollow of his kidneys, any more than the delicious and delicate withdrawal of his navel.
Question likely, we will go back. The sex scenes in the cinema are like these advertising clips in which, by the magic of the image, we manage to make the most sad hamburgers appetite, a kind of fraud that sells dreams to better deceive reality. No one ever fucks like in the cinema. Even at the top of its form, the most intrepid of lovers will put more application to conquer his partner than the slightest actor in the same circumstances.
It is not cinema, but outright exploitation, a play of power by which the director is freed from any measure to better enjoy the situation.
The degree of authenticity of these scenes is, so to speak, null. Their contribution to the scenario, nonexistent. Their justification, grotesque. We suspect that when two actors meet in a bed, it is not to start a scrabble game or play bones. As for the referred image, it is pitiful, a kind of performative and repetitive sexuality where we fuck as we take the metro, in a kind of fake ease in total contradiction with reality and the attentions claimed to carry out his small business.
The environmental deputy Sandrine Rousseau, as president of the commission of inquiry into sexual violence committed in the cultural sector, was moved by their omnipresence on the set sets, demanding the presence of an intimacy coordinator during the filming of sex scenes. Wouldn’t it have been more judicious and daring to wonder about their merits and to encourage to delete them when they bring nothing to the film, if not a very questionable voyeurism exercise?
Because that’s what it is, a pure voyeurism exercise. Voyeurism of the spectator, especially voyeurism of the director who reappears to have under his orders an actress perfectly bare to whom he can ask about anything without the latter being able to refuse. What need to see this chest, to admire her ass, except to satisfy a poorly placed lubricity, an unhealthy desire to expose to all the anatomy of an actress reduced to a simple object of desire?
It is not cinema, but outright exploitation, a play of power by which the director is freed from any measure to better enjoy the situation. We rightly complain about pornography, his deleterious influence on young adolescents. But what about these consumer films that exhibit actresses such as marketing products and show them in grotesque scenes where sexuality is never embodied, but reduced to a mechanical body of bodies delivered to sloppy and overlayed couplings?
Except for rare exceptions, the camera should always stop at the bedroom threshold. The rest, everyone knows it, as we know what a pair of breasts or buttocks looks like. To show them is already to take a first step, that of entering into the intimacy of an actress or an actor, which we mostly counterfut to know the contours of her attires.
I do not have the prudent soul, I have my part of perversity. Like everyone, I sometimes consume pornography and sometimes get some pleasure from it. No, what I abhor is this commodification of the body present in the films for all audiences, this obligation to film love scenes in a false and perfectly truncated light, this mania to show all the time of field and unrelated to the story story, the anatomy of an actress who serves as a bait here, an obscure object of desire, pornographic diversion of low -end eroticism thrills.
In short, make love instead of seeing it on the big screen!
