The film that made Tom Cruise a star and one of the best movies about sex ever made (and that’s no easy task), Risky Business has quite the memorable sex scene set on a subway train, a dreamy and heartfelt sequence featuring Cruise utterly in awe of the gorgeous Rebecca DeMornay. DeMornay’s prostitute character takes on an otherworldly quality as she convinces Cruise to engage in a public act of sexual abandon — indeed, quite the risky bit of business. The use of Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” is surprisingly effective in the first half of the scene as Cruise’s fear of being seen by other passengers almost overwhelms his desire for this earth angel, but once he escorts the staring drunk off the train at the next station, we kick into a Tangerine Dream piece as the two lovers are finally alone. Cruise explores DeMornay’s amazing body not with the crude lust of a teenager but with the reverent passion and respect that any mortal man should when he’s given the honor of enjoying a night’s pleasure with such a goddess.
The sex scene in Barry Levinson‘s delightfully tasteless B-movie treatment of Michael Crichton‘s even more tasteless dime-novel thriller might inspire more eye-rolling than anything else, as Michael Douglas, following Fatal Attraction and Basic Instinct, had by this point played a character who engages in forbidden passion with a beautiful cuckoo-bird woman at least one too many times. However, both he and Demi Moore deserve points for just going for it with such ridiculous material… and yeah, Moore is crazy hot as a powerful and highly manipulative businesswoman who decides to make a night of working late a bit more interesting with her subordinate — and former lover. Douglas sounds like an idiot with his protests of “No, no, no, no, no!” as Moore goes down on him, but he sounds even more foolish when he decides to return the favor, and yet seems angry about it (it’s kind of of a complicated scene). Anyway, it ends with Douglas storming out and Moore chasing after him with her giant breasts hanging out (uh, she didn’t have those in About Last Night, did she?), screaming “You get back here and finish what you started!” — much to the stoic confusion (or is it quiet judgment?) of the office cleaning lady.
It’s a girl-on-girl sex scene… but one of the girls doesn’t realize it! Director Kimberly Peirce’s harrowing portrait of Brandon Teena (Hilary Swank), a teenager who was brutally murdered by a bunch of confused homophobic redneck assholes upon discovering that “he” was actually a “she,” has a set of balls the size of Texas (even if its tragic hero doesn’t)… and it certainly doesn’t skimp on the details when it comes time for pretty Lana (Chloe Sevigny) to have sex with her new “boyfriend.” Their physical intimacy is tender, mad hot and deeply suspenseful in equal measures — you keep waiting for Lana to discover that the thing Brandon is using to pleasure her isn’t exactly, well, attached to him (her). Brandon’s lovemaking technique employs both distraction and bait-and-switch tactics, making him always concentrated on pleasing his lover rather than himself. Swank has never topped the Oscar-winning performance that made her one of the most sought-after talents in Hollywood, but really, how in the hell can she be expected to? Ever?
You know why the sex is great in this movie? Because it’s real. Yeah. No, it’s not a porn — it’s art, man! Director Michael Winterbottom‘s oh so indulgent (and eventually kind of boring) piece of experimental erotica chronicles the brief yet passionate love affair between Lisa (Margo Stilley), an American student in London, and Matt (Kieran O’Brien), a British (and uncircumcised, we might add) glaciologist. They do seemingingly nothing for a few months but attend rock concerts and have lots and lots of hot sex. And that’s about it. It’s never quite clear where Winterbottom is going with all of this (though, as always, he seems to know exactly what he’s doing every step of the way, even if we don’t), but it’s good for some kinky, voyeuristic thrills at least for a little while; and, admittedly, both Stilley and O’Brien seem really into their roles — and each other. Ultimately, you’ll wonder why everyone involved even bothered — though the fact that you watched might be part of the point.
Director Louis Malle’s tale of Euro-hot sexual obsession chronicles what happens when a stuffy member of Parliament (Jeremy Irons) starts banging his son’s cold-fish French fiancee (Juliette Binoche), which is mostly a series of secret rendezvouses involving a lot of complicated sexual positions, most of which Mr. Irons looks pretty silly doing (though Binoche seems rather, uh, familiar with). Damage, with all its repressed British-ness exploding in an orgasmic ball of adulterous fury, is a delicious scorcher sizzling with art-film tension and danger — you just know these two fools are going to get caught, and the consequences are going to be dire (oh, you can’t even imagine), but away they go, writhing and sweating and groaning away, two horny passengers on the freak out sex bus headed straight to the gates of hell. Binoche apparently walked off the set at one point because Irons couldn’t control his erections while filming the sex scenes, which is actually pretty damn funny.