Intimacy co-ordinators on film sets are wrecking sex scenes but they’re never there when actresses need them

Warning: This piece describes alleged incidents of sexual assault and harassment.

When I tell people I’m an actor, I often get asked: what’s it like to do a sex scene?

Considering I appear mostly in horror movies — where I more often fight monsters, perform blood sacrifices or meet a gruesome death — this tends to amuse me. Sex scenes are usually the least shocking elements of my scripts.

Until recently, I would even have described them as empowering. I’m happy filming naked and the cameras start to roll only after I’ve discussed each move with the director and my on-screen lover.

I am in control. Or at least I used to be.

There’s now a much louder voice on set than mine; one that shows zero respect for how far I want to go.

These days, it’s the intimacy co-ordinator (IC) who gets to call the shots during intimate scenes. And, if my recent experience is anything to go by, their meddling can end up wrecking the shoot.

The IC is a fairly new role — the film and TV industry’s answer to some of the shocking abuses uncovered by the #MeToo movement. Equity policy now advises that all actors have a right to request a trained IC oversees proceedings, as per guidelines introduced in 2020.

This is meant to protect vulnerable actors, which — on the face of it — sounds like a good thing.

Former Bond girl Gemma Arterton, 38, recently spoke of refusing to cave into pressure from a director who wanted her to perform an explicit sex scene that was introduced at the last minute. She said a younger, less experienced actor might have felt forced to do the scene or risk losing work without an IC to support them.

So overbearing it was impossible to speak for myself.

She has a point, but that’s presuming the intimacy co-ordinator is intuitive enough to know when to step forward, but also when to back off, leaving the actors and director to get on with their jobs.

I recently worked with an IC for the first time. She was well-meaning, but so overbearing she made it impossible for me to speak for myself — something that surely flies in the face of what the #MeToo movement strives to achieve.

In fact, if you want to know what female actors like me really need to feel safe in our job, it wouldn’t be an IC on set — it would be one who sticks by our side when we are running the gauntlet of older men in the industry who still think it’s entirely normal to kiss, grope or seduce women over whom they hold certain power.

As I will describe, that has already happened to me several times — and frankly it makes a mockery of the prissy and sanctimonious guidelines that now rule on film sets, but do so little to protect women when they need it most.

I’m 28, and have been working since I graduated from drama school in Manchester seven years ago. Sex scenes are nothing new for me; apart from the fact I sometimes do them nude, I don’t distinguish them from any other acting scene.

They’re far less titillating than people might imagine: there’s zero genuine sexual energy when you’ve got someone holding a boom over you, a director shouting “cut”, “move your hand” and “do it again”, and a make-up artist spraying fake sweat on your face between takes.

My first screen role was in the horror genre, which quickly became a passion of mine. I discovered there’s something visceral about a horror movie that takes us back to our primal selves, when we were afraid of the dark; it taps into the more disturbing elements of the human psyche in a way no period drama ever can.

It’s challenging too. A scene where I was murdered by a monster stabbing a tentacle through my throat felt far more testing than rolling around, pretending to have sex.

Trying to perform a sex scene with an IC micromanaging my every move — at times verging on the comical, as she tried to foist breath-freshening mints and soothing essential oils on me during key moments — created an anxiety I’ve never experienced before.

Her efforts to protect my modesty ended up stifling our creativity. I knew the scene wasn’t as good as it could have been without her there.

People have raised their eyebrows in astonishment when I’ve shared these observations; I’ve been told — rather patronisingly — that sex scenes are exploitative by nature, and that having an IC on set must be non-negotiable if women in film are ever to be safe.

Of course, I appreciate that, when they get it right, ICs can and do provide an important voice on set, where exploitation of actresses has been a problem.

The infamous rape scene in Last Tango In Paris is a prime example — the late Maria Schneider said she cried real tears during filming which wasn’t in the script; she was told about it by her on-screen rapist, actor Marlon Brando, moments before. At the age of just 19, she said the experience left her feeling humiliated.

Meanwhile, Lea Seydoux said she was made to feel like a prostitute by director Abdellatif Kechiche’s handling of some of the lesbian sex scenes while shooting the 2013 erotic drama Blue Is The Warmest Colour.

Box-ticking rather than a robust response

But, to me, the deployment of ICs feels more like a box-ticking exercise than a robust response to the behaviour of powerful men within my industry who are still a danger to female actors — though usually not on set.

After all, male predators — whether they’re studio executives or men from any other walk of life — don’t tend to strike in crowded rooms.

I have been assaulted several times, by older, powerful men, all dangling the prospect of work in front of me, assuming that makes me fair game — but never with the cameras rolling and a crew around bearing witness.

Aged 22, I was propositioned in a hotel room by a film producer after I arrived expecting an audition. Around the same time, I escaped the home of a director who had tricked me into going there to read a new script.

I thought we were meeting at his office. This man, who was at least 60, sat next to me on the sofa and kept putting his hands on my legs and running his fingers through my hair.

I’m convinced he planned to rape me. I got away while he used the bathroom, finding the key to his locked front door by frantically rummaging in a hallway drawer.

Most recently, I was chased down the staircase at Soho House — a London members’ club — by a male producer, after a meeting to discuss a script turned into him showing me pictures of his aroused genitals on his phone.

He caught up with me, forcibly kissing me before someone else appeared and I was able to get away. Where was the intimacy coordinator on any of these occasions — when I genuinely needed to be protected?

At one meeting, a producer forcibly kissed me

As is so typical of situations where there is an imbalance of power, I didn’t report any of these awful encounters because, without witnesses, it would always be my word against his. Most young actresses I speak to share similar stories. It is a depressing norm.

Men like these are no doubt hiring ICs as a sop to the new rules — but carry on regardless once the cameras stop rolling.

My own, recent encounter with an IC was on a horror movie featuring various Satanic practices. I would be appearing nude, while seducing the male lead. Given that the storyline included children being sacrificed to the full moon, my part seemed pretty tame.

I’d read the script, felt satisfied it was a good project and, having worked with the director before, knew I could trust him. Contracts were signed and then I received an email informing me that I would be working with an IC. I needed to complete an online questionnaire to help with establishing boundaries.

The questions seemed harmless enough. Are there any areas where you don’t want to be touched? No. Any areas you don’t want to reveal on camera? No.

Then it asked how I would like to have the IC check on me during filming. There were multiple choices for this one, ranging from after every take, every 15 minutes, to “I prefer to be left alone”.

I consider myself an experienced actress who has made multiple films involving sex scenes before, so I felt confident enough to ask to be left to it.

That ought really to have been the end of it. But a day later, the IC called me, chattily bombarding me with a list of similar questions.

Again, I reassured her that I was fine, I understood the scene and had agreed to it. And thanks, but no — I definitely didn’t think that constant checks during filming were going to be necessary.

Once I arrived on set, I was taken aside for a further interview, this time in person. Exasperated, but trying not to show it, again I insisted I was comfortable with everything I was being asked to do.

She also showed me a range of intimacy garments — different shapes and sizes, all of them a nude colour to match my skin tone, meant to preserve my dignity. It didn’t matter that I’m comfortable being nude.

I headed to my dressing room — positioned about six feet away from the set we’d be filming on — relieved I could now, finally, get on with my job.

I’m amazed I didn’t tell her the only person grating on my nerves was her.

My costume consisted of a cape, which I would remove during the scene, revealing my naked body.

I took off my clothes, put on the cape, and waited to be called to set. But when the call came, the IC quickly stepped in my path.

The cape I was wearing was insufficient, she explained. I would need to wear a dressing gown to walk the six feet to the set, then change back into the cape again as the cameras started rolling.

“But I feel comfortable in the cape,” I told her. An outfit change for six feet seemed excessive.

“Even if you feel comfortable,” she told me, “a member of the crew might see more of you in the cape than they are comfortable with and feel distressed.”

It occurred to me that this same, theoretical crew member would be seeing me naked during the scene in a few minutes’ time and would somehow have to cope. But I was trying to get into the mindset of my character — a sexy, sassy seductress — and arguing with this IC wouldn’t help with that.

Once safely on set, and back in the cape, the male actor and I began to rehearse the scene.

Hang on, the IC interrupted, handing us each a mint so we’d both have fresh breath. The rehearsal resumed, but after a few seconds, she was back, handing me a bottle of lavender oil to dab on my wrists to help soothe my nerves.

I’m amazed I didn’t snap at that point and tell her the only person grating on my nerves was her. But I had to stay focused on my acting, so I held my tongue.

During the climax of the scene, I was meant to walk across the room seductively and kiss the male actor. The IC instructed me to begin the walk wearing one intimacy garment, covering my genitals, and then stop about a foot away from my on-screen lover, change into a slightly different garment, and then continue with the scene.

Needless to say, I found this impossible. It robbed the scene of any kind of flow or spontaneity: what confident seductress would mince half-heartedly across a room before stopping for an outfit change?

Honestly, it all seemed as ridiculous then as it must seem for anyone reading this now.

I had wanted to improvise a bit, but found myself holding back in case I got told off for wearing the wrong thing.

The IC’s voice was the loudest voice in the room when the only voices that should have mattered were mine and the male actor’s.

How does any of this faffing about help address the real problem?

One woman who follows me on Instagram — a middle-aged lady singer — recently commented online that “sometimes young girls don’t even realise they are being taken advantage of”, without crediting us with the intelligence to have looked at the script and decided whether or not we agree to be naked on set.

It’s naive to think ICs will protect anyone against sexual predators working within the film industry. Men who want to exploit female actors continue to do so. And an intimacy co-ordinator handing out mints isn’t ever going to be able to fix that.

As told to Rachel Halliwell

If you or someone you know is affected by sexual assault or harassment, family or domestic violence, call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732).

If you think you have been sexually harassed at work, you can make a complaint to the Australian Human Rights Commission.

Men who are concerned about their own behaviour can contact the Men’s Referral Service on 1300 766 491.

In an emergency, call 000.