Screenwriting is a weirdly specific art form. You have to balance dialogue, pacing, and visual cues, but nothing creates more tension in a production office than the "intimacy" pages. Honestly, most people think great sex scenes are just about titillation or filler to boost a movie's rating. That’s a massive misconception. When you look at the history of film, the moments that actually stick with us aren't the ones that are just graphic; they’re the ones that move the plot forward or tell us something about the characters that words simply can't capture.
Think about it.
If a scene doesn't change the dynamic between two people, it’s probably unnecessary. It’s "gratuitous," as the critics love to say. But when it works? It’s transformative.
The Mechanics of Chemistry
Chemistry is hard to fake. You can put two of the most beautiful people on earth in a room—think The Tourist with Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp—and if the spark isn't there, the audience feels like they’re watching two mannequins bump heads. It’s awkward.
Then you have something like Normal People.
The 2020 adaptation of Sally Rooney’s novel became a cultural touchstone specifically because of its intimacy. It didn't feel like "movie sex." It felt like two young people navigating the terrifying landscape of vulnerability. Director Lenny Abrahamson and intimacy coordinator Ita O'Brien—who basically revolutionized how these scenes are filmed—focused on the fumbling, the breathing, and the consent. It wasn't polished. It was real. That's why it resonated. It used the physical act to explain how Marianne and Connell were communicating when they didn't have the vocabulary to talk about their feelings.
Sometimes, the best moments are the ones that lean into the discomfort.
In Blue Valentine, the "future" scenes in the motel room are devastating. They aren't "great" in the sense of being erotic; they’re great because they show the death of a relationship in real-time. You see the effort, the rejection, and the sadness. It’s painful to watch, which is exactly the point. The film uses sex as a metric for the decay of Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams' marriage.
Why Technical Precision Beats Flashiness
We need to talk about the "Intimacy Coordinator."
Ten years ago, this job barely existed. Now, it's a mandatory requirement on high-level sets like Succession or Euphoria. Some old-school actors complained it would "kill the spontaneity," but the results prove the opposite. When actors feel safe and know exactly where the boundaries are, they actually perform better. They can take risks.
Take Portrait of a Lady on Fire.
Céline Sciamma’s masterpiece is a masterclass in the "female gaze." There is very little explicit content, yet it is arguably one of the most sensual films of the last decade. Why? Because the tension is built through looking. By the time the characters actually touch, the audience is practically vibrating. It proves that great sex scenes are often more about the anticipation than the act itself. It’s the buildup. The lingering glance over a canvas. The sound of a dress hitting the floor.
Contrast that with the high-octane, choreographed sequences in something like Basic Instinct. That film was a product of its time—the 90s erotic thriller boom. It was meant to be a spectacle. It worked for that genre, but it lacks the soul of the quieter, character-driven moments we see in indie cinema today.
Breaking Down the "Plot-Driven" Argument
If you can cut a sex scene and the movie still makes perfect sense, the scene failed.
Consider Oppenheimer. Christopher Nolan isn't exactly known for his romantic flair. Usually, his characters are too busy explaining physics or dreaming within dreams to have a personal life. But the scenes between Cillian Murphy and Florence Pugh were vital. They established Jean Tatlock’s hold over Robert Oppenheimer. They showed his vulnerability and the political liabilities that would later destroy his career. Without that physical connection, the stakes of his later interrogation would have felt hollow. We needed to see what he was willing to risk.
Then there’s the "subversion" tactic.
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- Moonlight: The beach scene is one of the most beautiful instances of intimacy in cinema. It’s not about heat; it’s about discovery and the terrifying realization of self.
- Lust, Caution: Ang Lee pushed the limits here. The scenes are intense, bordering on violent, because the characters are in a high-stakes espionage game where power is the only currency. The sex is a battlefield.
- Mulholland Drive: David Lynch uses a love scene to pivot the entire reality of the film. It’s the moment the dream starts to sour.
The Evolution of the Lens
We’ve moved past the "Saxophone Solo" era of the 80s. You know the one—blue lighting, rain on the window, lots of hairspray.
Modern audiences are savvier. We want authenticity. We want to see the awkwardness of Lady Bird, where the first time is just... underwhelming. That’s a "great" scene because it’s honest. It debunks the Hollywood myth that every encounter is a life-changing, pyrotechnic event.
There's also a growing recognition of queer intimacy that isn't just for the "straight gaze." Films like God's Own Country use physical touch to show the breaking down of a stoic, repressed character. It’s rugged. It’s muddy. It’s tactile. It feels like the earth itself is moving, which mirrors the protagonist's internal shift.
Common Misconceptions About "Graphic" Content
More skin does not equal a better scene.
In fact, some of the most memorable moments in film history are remarkably chaste. It’s a psychological game. The human brain is a powerful engine for filling in the gaps. When a director like Alfred Hitchcock or Sofia Coppola focuses on a hand clasp or a whisper, they’re triggering the viewer's imagination. That’s often more effective than showing everything in 4K resolution.
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How to Spot Quality in Storytelling
When you're watching a film or a prestige TV show, ask yourself these three things to determine if you're watching one of the truly great sex scenes:
- Does the power dynamic shift? If one person starts the scene in control and ends it vulnerable (or vice versa), the scene has a narrative arc.
- Is it specific to these characters? Could you swap these actors for any other two people and have it feel the same? If yes, it’s a generic scene. If the movements, words, and reactions feel unique to their specific traumas or joys, it’s high-quality writing.
- What is the "aftermath"? The way characters behave after intimacy tells you more than the act itself. Do they turn away? Do they talk? Do they look terrified?
Moving Toward Actionable Insights
If you’re a creator, a writer, or just a film buff trying to understand why some media feels "prestige" and other stuff feels "trashy," it comes down to intentionality.
For Writers and Filmmakers:
Stop writing "they make love." That’s a placeholder. Write the subtext. Is it a desperate attempt to feel something? Is it a weapon? Is it a peace treaty? Define the emotional goal before you worry about the choreography. Work with intimacy coordinators from the jump—they aren't "censors," they are specialized movement directors who help translate your vision into something safe and believable.
For the Audience:
Pay attention to the lighting and the sound design. In Call Me By Your Name, the sound of the cicadas and the heat of the Italian summer are just as important as the actors. The environment should be a character.
Ultimately, the goal of any great piece of art is to make us feel less alone. By portraying intimacy with honesty—including the messiness, the humor, and the occasional heartbreak—filmmakers give us a mirror. We don't need more "perfect" scenes. We need more "real" ones.
Next time you see a scene that feels out of place, ask what the director was trying to say. If the answer is "nothing," then you've spotted the difference between a cheap thrill and a cinematic milestone. Look for the stories that use the body to tell what the heart is too afraid to say out loud.