Which sexually frank Toronto Film Festival drama seems like the rougher sit — (a) Borderline (d: Lynne Charlebois), about a sexually active Quebec writer (Isabelle Blais) featuring “numerous scenes of full-frontal nudity by both genders, various sexual positions gay and straight, coarse language and wrist slashing” or (b) Cloud 9 (d: Andreas Dresen), which is about geezer infidelity and hot sex? The answer, of course, is the latter.
I don’t want to even begin to imagine 70- or 80-somethings doing it, much less submit to the sight of same during a film. All power to them, of course, and the life-affirming metaphor of “the act.” Sex is life, etc. I just don’t want to let it into my head to the point of visualization. Because I don’t want to see or imagine any acts of unclothed intimacy between any partners who aren’t in some kind of tolerable shape (reasonably well-toned, no Jabba bellies, no milky freckly skin, no ass blemishes, no dirty feet or untrimmed toenails). When grotesques come together and do it they certainly don’t inspect each other’s bods — they turn the lights off and pretend.
And I don’t want to see any guys in whatever kind of shape doing each other either, as long as we’re talking no-nos. Sorry, but this stuff (Salo, Sunday Bloody Sunday, Taxi Zum Klo, Dude, Where’s My Car?) makes me shift in my seat. And I’m allowed to feel and say this without anyone calling me this, that or the other thing.
I know the p.c. things I’m supposed to say. I know how to play the game and blah-blah my way through a discussion of films of this type. But if you can’t man up and say, “Well, this is how I really feel about this,” then what good are you?