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From: marker
Category: Films
Date: 01 August 2001
Intimacy a film in 2001
The debate drones on: they did(n’t) it!, the British are bad at sex, probably true I wouldn’t know, how alienated we are, just ships in the afternoon climaxing, this is the beginning of the end, what next after real sex, pretend sex etc, we are all voyeurs or voyeured now.
As far as I could see, no penis entered a vagina, the most we got was a semi-erect condomed cock. So when actors really have sex we must see more next time. Pornography, despite its problematic misogynist and sexist nature, as least shows us things, the money shot being the come shot, a real marriage of futility and utility.
In terms of titillation what was missing was the build-up (for obvious alienation reasons). Real sex would be better with all the real preamble, glances, banal conversation, phone numbers, dating, eating, the kiss, clothes removal, sex, what to do afterwards. This is what is fascinating, as evidenced by reality television which we love though they never even kiss, we want to know what it is like for everyone else, not just to see the banging of meat together.
Intimacy is as mediocre as a Hanif Kureshi or Milan Kundera story. Superficially philosophical, but not all that clever or well written. The main man is your classic quiet Northern type just waiting to burst, I wish they would all just fuck off and learn to express their feelings. The main woman, Madame Bovary 2001, or the like, she doesn’t say much either but has good blue eyes. Her husband Timothy Spall is his usual convincing vulgar ugly self, he must get tired of playing these oafs. So they do it for a while , then they stop, he gets obsessed, then they do it one more time and say goodbye. Nothing exceptional, really.
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