(Above: A motion picture “bedroom scene” circa 1949: Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in “Adams Rib.”)
Sex sells.
That’s the time-honored adage for all entertainment offerings. Even putting it in the above headline and two-word lead sentence likely drew in more readers than usually would check out Geezer Alert.
So, I buy the precept. I’ve put it to work. But these days I find that, in our current age of censorship-free television and similarly unburdened standards throughout the rest of the media, graphic sex is being sold as a necessary ingredient to artful products when it really just amounts to lazy writing or pornographic pandering.
Now, for both my novels, I stand guilty of using sex to tease readers into checking out my fictional narratives.
But in my defense, I was following the age-old writing formula for my former profession, journalism: Grab the reader’s attention with the lead sentence or a “sexy” (meaning provocative, not necessary sexual, per se) headline. Otherwise, they’re not likely to read any further, studies show.
In my first book, “This Point in Time,” I began with a young woman (soon to be a central figure in the book) who can’t get her mind off sex. In my second, “What You Don’t Know,” the first words of the prologue are “sexual assaults,” which a police chief then stresses do not happen in his town.
What follows in both instances are stories I would say are strictly PG, the motion picture rating that urges “parental guidance” for youthful viewers.
Yet, there are one or two chapters in each novel that could receive an R rating for sexual content, meaning they should be “restricted” to adult readers.
Are they necessary? Or are they gratuitous, that is: uncalled for, unnecessary or unwarranted in order to either move the plot along or provide valuable information for understanding the characters or the story? In other words, is it just sex for sex sake, intended only to attract or titillate readers?
I, of course, would argue the sex scenes are a) very mild, in the context of what is accepted in our modern society’s entertainment offerings, and b) necessary, both for advancing the story and understanding the characters’ actions or motivations both before and after the incidents.
But at least one reviewer at Amazon, while giving the book an overall four-star rating (out of five stars), advised readers that they would enjoy it only if they can tolerate its “gratuitous sex.”
Outside of that stinging comment, a few other people also mentioned to me they were uncomfortable reading the chapters. And I can totally relate to that sentiment. Call me a geezer or a prude, but depictions of explicit sex make me squirm. I am uncomfortable sharing other people’s sexual encounters (and, likewise, do not want them involved in mine).
I was ill-at-ease writing the scenes in my books and, in fact, greatly toned down the short one in “What You Don’t Know.” I actually wrote three versions of the chapter: very graphic, mildly graphic and pretty innocent. My intent was to provide a publisher or editor with the choice of what he or she felt was most appropriate. When I was relegated to self-publishing, I went with what I was most comfortable attaching my name to: the least graphic one.
But I should point out there is a distinct “on the other hand” aspect to this approach. Certainly, the roaring success of the very racy, borderline pornographic (I’m told) “50 Shades of Gray,” particularly among female readers — who generally tend not to read such stuff — presents the most recent case for including lots of graphic sex in books.
Yes, sex sells, big time. Porn is a multi-million-dollar industry.
I’m sure — well, pretty sure — I could not be that type of writer. However, the temptation is there, when one goes up against the sheer volume of books on the market, scratches and claws to make a few bucks and then watches trashy stuff, whether it be porn or just your basic romance novel “bodice-rippers,” rake in the dough. “Hmmmm, I could do that,” one muses.
Meanwhile, as I stick to more “respectable” writing, I struggle to apply the standards mentioned above regarding what is or is not gratuitous sex. Like all things artful, subjectivity rules. One person’s flower is another person’s weed.
It’s a subject also being currently debated in the many forums that discuss television fare, primarily that found on so-called cable channels (HBO, Showtime, etc.) where total nudity and sex scenes are allowed.
I’ve watched a few — “Masters of Sex,” “Girls,” “The Affair,” “Homeland,” “The Newsroom” — and feel just about all could proceed on regular network TV, a la “The Good Wife” on CBS or “The Mindy Project” on Fox, and maintain their quality with toned down sex scenes. Their plots and characterizations would remain — maybe even be enhanced — without seeing the naked bodies or intense love-making depicted.
Often, especially with “Girls” and “The Affair,” I’m reminded of what newpaper editors tell young reporters when they are tempted to include graphic language in their articles. It comes off as childish, as “lookee, lookee — I can write dirty words.”
Likewise, the sex scenes in those two shows look like they’ve been included by middle-school boys just having fun showing what they can get away with on TV. In other words, they’re gratuitous. With just a little effort in the writing room, the entire story could move forward and make the same points, without showing all the actual bumping and grinding.
To be sure, though, the sex stuff gives the shows an air of danger, an element of sensationalism, a status of “serious, mature drama” that helps draw an audience beyond those who may otherwise skip over it based on the subject matter alone.
Really, “The Affair” might actually be mocked by critics or viewers if it told the story of a hot extra-marital affair without showing some explicit, heavy-breathing copulations. Take out those scenes and it becomes nothing more than a Lifetime Channel chic flick, not worth thoughtful critical attention or a coveted spot in Sunday night’s Showtime lineup.
Yes, sex sells.
But perhaps, you say, it really is necessary in shows like “Girls” that are striving for an accurate portrayal of a certain lifestyle — in this case 20-something women trying to grow into adulthood in the big city— as the basis for their stories.
That may justify one or two incidents, if they moved along a particular storyline or character development. But really, the show’s frequency of random sex is probably not an accurate reflection of what’s actually happening in the lives of such people (based on comments from 20-somethings I have known), so why resort to that plot device? And showing the sex acts themselves definitely is not necessary to get the plot points across.
“Wait a minute, what the heck are you doing watching that show anyway?” you may ask. “Its intended audience is primarily women one third your age.”
Okay, that may be true, but I have long had this thing about paying close attention to trends in society. I’m fascinated by what’s popular, even if it’s outside my little world. I admire just about anyone — including the creator of “Girls,” Lena Dunham — who can create something that garners mass appeal or even mass critical admiration. I appreciate true quality in entertainment even if I don’t particularly enjoy it.
So, as “Girls” drew loads of media attention three years ago, I, of course, was curious. As soon as circumstances gave me access to the show (an HBO subscription, the start of HBO-GO that makes all past shows available on demand, a summertime lull in my regular TV fare), my wife and I gave it a shot.
We found the show very hard to watch, full of annoying characters, the constant random sex choices, ugly sex scenes and awkward plotlines. About midway through season two, we just couldn’t force ourselves to continue.
Then came more boredom, this time in search of something to help me pass the time while on my recumbent (an exercise bike). So, I finished off season two and started on season three. Surprise: the writing picked up, the sex scenes slacked off and the show became watchable, even good in long stretches.
Still, the overt use of sex on the show was a prime topic when Dunham, who also is the show’s principal writer and star, was a guest last October at one of the forums of the 15th annual New Yorker Festival.
She said sex is “where we find out things about people that we wouldn’t otherwise have access to.” That’s one of the reasons for the scenes, not just because “it’s HBO and we’re allowed to show boobs,” she said.
“I think it’s a place where when people undress literally, they undress figuratively,” she said.
Also, she feels that sex, a lot of times, is where “our issues go to roost.” Whatever qualities a person may exhibit overall, they don’t have anything to hide behind when it comes to sex, so “the truth of some of what you’re struggling with comes out,” she said. It’s one of the ways she works through the incredible complexity of a character, she said.
“We don’t get to have a private relationship with sex. We have a relationship that’s mediated by our culture, our parents and our bodies, and all of these forces that we have to contend with everyday. So, to me it’s short of like the great battleground.”
Her interviewer, New Yorker writer Ariel Levy, was impressed.
“Well done, my friend, that was beautiful. That was great,” she said.
But I was unmoved.
For starters, I just think we DO get to have a VERY private relationship with sex. Its beauty and attraction are its privacy, as the classic country song stated: “No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.” In whatever ways the relationship may be affected by the outside influences that Dunham cites, the end result is still a private matter. There’s no reason to share it with strangers.
Further countering her position, I separate the fact of sex from the act of sex.
The fact of sex — the interest, attractions, orientations, motives, initiatives, follow-throughs, etc., that involve the characters — is a basic element of fiction. No argument there. But the act of sex — the passions, positions, enjoyment, individuals’ conduct — is a private world all to itself, rarely pertinent to the story that comes before or after it. Showing the act serves strictly prurient interests. It’s gratuitous.
Put another way: Once you portray a sexual encounter, then that part of the story is just about that sexual encounter. It shows how the people involved have sex. It does not show much of anything about that character outside the sex act. If your narrative concerns the sexuality of these people, it is pertinent. If not, it is extraneous, a side story, gratuitous (once again) to the overall piece.
If Ms. Dunham’s wants her show to be about how young people copulate — the “great battleground” being their actual sexual relations — then fine, that’s what her show is about: the sex act. But if she feels that act somehow demonstrates or reveals a vital aspect of their characters, then I think she is mistaken.
As I noted above, the first two seasons of “Girls” actually were a little hard to take in both the fact and the act of sex. First off, the leads’ constant resorting to sex, in addition to straining credulity, was almost cartoonish and borderline sick. And, oh yeah, have I mentioned the depiction of the sex was unnecessary to the narrative?
In particular, the kinky, rough sex favored by her boyfriend on the show had no apparent relation to his actual non-sexual personality. By contrast, we are learning a lot about him as a person in season three, without any sex scenes (at least up until the penultimate segment).
If the point of seeing the couple’s sex scenes was to show how much Hannah (Dunham’s character) would debase herself in exchange for his (or anyone’s) affection, I think the point could have been made without the explicit, squirm-inducing images.
We all know of outstanding, classic pieces of fiction (books, movies, television shows, plays) that developed rich, fascinating, full portraits of characters without including sex acts.
Just one example: Would showing Anne Sullivan’s sexual proclivities add to the narrative of “The Miracle Worker”? It’s a classic, without any sex.
Or how about the classic comedies of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn?
Would the steamy kissing scene between Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe aboard the yacht in “Some Like It Hot” be improved if they got naked so Sugar (Monroe) could really attempt to get Junior (Curtis) hot and bothered?
I can’t imagine anyone making that film today without going that far. It would be considered prudish.
But my point is that character development in pieces of fiction may use sexual attraction as a device but most often do not need sex scenes to forge the narrative.
Guess that makes me a geezer but, hey, that’s what this is all about.
(For the complete segment of Dunham’s New Yorker interview, go to:
http://video.newyorker.com/watch/the-new-yorker-festival-lena-dunham-on-sex-and-girls)
Sex sells.
That’s the time-honored adage for all entertainment offerings. Even putting it in the above headline and two-word lead sentence likely drew in more readers than usually would check out Geezer Alert.
So, I buy the precept. I’ve put it to work. But these days I find that, in our current age of censorship-free television and similarly unburdened standards throughout the rest of the media, graphic sex is being sold as a necessary ingredient to artful products when it really just amounts to lazy writing or pornographic pandering.
Now, for both my novels, I stand guilty of using sex to tease readers into checking out my fictional narratives.
But in my defense, I was following the age-old writing formula for my former profession, journalism: Grab the reader’s attention with the lead sentence or a “sexy” (meaning provocative, not necessary sexual, per se) headline. Otherwise, they’re not likely to read any further, studies show.
In my first book, “This Point in Time,” I began with a young woman (soon to be a central figure in the book) who can’t get her mind off sex. In my second, “What You Don’t Know,” the first words of the prologue are “sexual assaults,” which a police chief then stresses do not happen in his town.
What follows in both instances are stories I would say are strictly PG, the motion picture rating that urges “parental guidance” for youthful viewers.
Yet, there are one or two chapters in each novel that could receive an R rating for sexual content, meaning they should be “restricted” to adult readers.
Are they necessary? Or are they gratuitous, that is: uncalled for, unnecessary or unwarranted in order to either move the plot along or provide valuable information for understanding the characters or the story? In other words, is it just sex for sex sake, intended only to attract or titillate readers?
I, of course, would argue the sex scenes are a) very mild, in the context of what is accepted in our modern society’s entertainment offerings, and b) necessary, both for advancing the story and understanding the characters’ actions or motivations both before and after the incidents.
But at least one reviewer at Amazon, while giving the book an overall four-star rating (out of five stars), advised readers that they would enjoy it only if they can tolerate its “gratuitous sex.”
Outside of that stinging comment, a few other people also mentioned to me they were uncomfortable reading the chapters. And I can totally relate to that sentiment. Call me a geezer or a prude, but depictions of explicit sex make me squirm. I am uncomfortable sharing other people’s sexual encounters (and, likewise, do not want them involved in mine).
I was ill-at-ease writing the scenes in my books and, in fact, greatly toned down the short one in “What You Don’t Know.” I actually wrote three versions of the chapter: very graphic, mildly graphic and pretty innocent. My intent was to provide a publisher or editor with the choice of what he or she felt was most appropriate. When I was relegated to self-publishing, I went with what I was most comfortable attaching my name to: the least graphic one.
But I should point out there is a distinct “on the other hand” aspect to this approach. Certainly, the roaring success of the very racy, borderline pornographic (I’m told) “50 Shades of Gray,” particularly among female readers — who generally tend not to read such stuff — presents the most recent case for including lots of graphic sex in books.
Yes, sex sells, big time. Porn is a multi-million-dollar industry.
I’m sure — well, pretty sure — I could not be that type of writer. However, the temptation is there, when one goes up against the sheer volume of books on the market, scratches and claws to make a few bucks and then watches trashy stuff, whether it be porn or just your basic romance novel “bodice-rippers,” rake in the dough. “Hmmmm, I could do that,” one muses.
Meanwhile, as I stick to more “respectable” writing, I struggle to apply the standards mentioned above regarding what is or is not gratuitous sex. Like all things artful, subjectivity rules. One person’s flower is another person’s weed.
It’s a subject also being currently debated in the many forums that discuss television fare, primarily that found on so-called cable channels (HBO, Showtime, etc.) where total nudity and sex scenes are allowed.
I’ve watched a few — “Masters of Sex,” “Girls,” “The Affair,” “Homeland,” “The Newsroom” — and feel just about all could proceed on regular network TV, a la “The Good Wife” on CBS or “The Mindy Project” on Fox, and maintain their quality with toned down sex scenes. Their plots and characterizations would remain — maybe even be enhanced — without seeing the naked bodies or intense love-making depicted.
Often, especially with “Girls” and “The Affair,” I’m reminded of what newpaper editors tell young reporters when they are tempted to include graphic language in their articles. It comes off as childish, as “lookee, lookee — I can write dirty words.”
Likewise, the sex scenes in those two shows look like they’ve been included by middle-school boys just having fun showing what they can get away with on TV. In other words, they’re gratuitous. With just a little effort in the writing room, the entire story could move forward and make the same points, without showing all the actual bumping and grinding.
To be sure, though, the sex stuff gives the shows an air of danger, an element of sensationalism, a status of “serious, mature drama” that helps draw an audience beyond those who may otherwise skip over it based on the subject matter alone.
Really, “The Affair” might actually be mocked by critics or viewers if it told the story of a hot extra-marital affair without showing some explicit, heavy-breathing copulations. Take out those scenes and it becomes nothing more than a Lifetime Channel chic flick, not worth thoughtful critical attention or a coveted spot in Sunday night’s Showtime lineup.
Yes, sex sells.
But perhaps, you say, it really is necessary in shows like “Girls” that are striving for an accurate portrayal of a certain lifestyle — in this case 20-something women trying to grow into adulthood in the big city— as the basis for their stories.
That may justify one or two incidents, if they moved along a particular storyline or character development. But really, the show’s frequency of random sex is probably not an accurate reflection of what’s actually happening in the lives of such people (based on comments from 20-somethings I have known), so why resort to that plot device? And showing the sex acts themselves definitely is not necessary to get the plot points across.
“Wait a minute, what the heck are you doing watching that show anyway?” you may ask. “Its intended audience is primarily women one third your age.”
Okay, that may be true, but I have long had this thing about paying close attention to trends in society. I’m fascinated by what’s popular, even if it’s outside my little world. I admire just about anyone — including the creator of “Girls,” Lena Dunham — who can create something that garners mass appeal or even mass critical admiration. I appreciate true quality in entertainment even if I don’t particularly enjoy it.
So, as “Girls” drew loads of media attention three years ago, I, of course, was curious. As soon as circumstances gave me access to the show (an HBO subscription, the start of HBO-GO that makes all past shows available on demand, a summertime lull in my regular TV fare), my wife and I gave it a shot.
We found the show very hard to watch, full of annoying characters, the constant random sex choices, ugly sex scenes and awkward plotlines. About midway through season two, we just couldn’t force ourselves to continue.
Then came more boredom, this time in search of something to help me pass the time while on my recumbent (an exercise bike). So, I finished off season two and started on season three. Surprise: the writing picked up, the sex scenes slacked off and the show became watchable, even good in long stretches.
Still, the overt use of sex on the show was a prime topic when Dunham, who also is the show’s principal writer and star, was a guest last October at one of the forums of the 15th annual New Yorker Festival.
She said sex is “where we find out things about people that we wouldn’t otherwise have access to.” That’s one of the reasons for the scenes, not just because “it’s HBO and we’re allowed to show boobs,” she said.
“I think it’s a place where when people undress literally, they undress figuratively,” she said.
Also, she feels that sex, a lot of times, is where “our issues go to roost.” Whatever qualities a person may exhibit overall, they don’t have anything to hide behind when it comes to sex, so “the truth of some of what you’re struggling with comes out,” she said. It’s one of the ways she works through the incredible complexity of a character, she said.
“We don’t get to have a private relationship with sex. We have a relationship that’s mediated by our culture, our parents and our bodies, and all of these forces that we have to contend with everyday. So, to me it’s short of like the great battleground.”
Her interviewer, New Yorker writer Ariel Levy, was impressed.
“Well done, my friend, that was beautiful. That was great,” she said.
But I was unmoved.
For starters, I just think we DO get to have a VERY private relationship with sex. Its beauty and attraction are its privacy, as the classic country song stated: “No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.” In whatever ways the relationship may be affected by the outside influences that Dunham cites, the end result is still a private matter. There’s no reason to share it with strangers.
Further countering her position, I separate the fact of sex from the act of sex.
The fact of sex — the interest, attractions, orientations, motives, initiatives, follow-throughs, etc., that involve the characters — is a basic element of fiction. No argument there. But the act of sex — the passions, positions, enjoyment, individuals’ conduct — is a private world all to itself, rarely pertinent to the story that comes before or after it. Showing the act serves strictly prurient interests. It’s gratuitous.
Put another way: Once you portray a sexual encounter, then that part of the story is just about that sexual encounter. It shows how the people involved have sex. It does not show much of anything about that character outside the sex act. If your narrative concerns the sexuality of these people, it is pertinent. If not, it is extraneous, a side story, gratuitous (once again) to the overall piece.
If Ms. Dunham’s wants her show to be about how young people copulate — the “great battleground” being their actual sexual relations — then fine, that’s what her show is about: the sex act. But if she feels that act somehow demonstrates or reveals a vital aspect of their characters, then I think she is mistaken.
As I noted above, the first two seasons of “Girls” actually were a little hard to take in both the fact and the act of sex. First off, the leads’ constant resorting to sex, in addition to straining credulity, was almost cartoonish and borderline sick. And, oh yeah, have I mentioned the depiction of the sex was unnecessary to the narrative?
In particular, the kinky, rough sex favored by her boyfriend on the show had no apparent relation to his actual non-sexual personality. By contrast, we are learning a lot about him as a person in season three, without any sex scenes (at least up until the penultimate segment).
If the point of seeing the couple’s sex scenes was to show how much Hannah (Dunham’s character) would debase herself in exchange for his (or anyone’s) affection, I think the point could have been made without the explicit, squirm-inducing images.
We all know of outstanding, classic pieces of fiction (books, movies, television shows, plays) that developed rich, fascinating, full portraits of characters without including sex acts.
Just one example: Would showing Anne Sullivan’s sexual proclivities add to the narrative of “The Miracle Worker”? It’s a classic, without any sex.
Or how about the classic comedies of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn?
Would the steamy kissing scene between Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe aboard the yacht in “Some Like It Hot” be improved if they got naked so Sugar (Monroe) could really attempt to get Junior (Curtis) hot and bothered?
I can’t imagine anyone making that film today without going that far. It would be considered prudish.
But my point is that character development in pieces of fiction may use sexual attraction as a device but most often do not need sex scenes to forge the narrative.
Guess that makes me a geezer but, hey, that’s what this is all about.
(For the complete segment of Dunham’s New Yorker interview, go to:
http://video.newyorker.com/watch/the-new-yorker-festival-lena-dunham-on-sex-and-girls)