Article: Thirst Trap left me parched.

Thematically, Thirst Trap is the kind of film that’s right up my alley. Dedicated to the “lost souls of Hollywood”, the film is a low-key thriller in which a failing actress, now a cam-girl, finds herself the target of a sinister stalker who has designs to murder her once the two finally meet. In terms of execution, however, Thirst Trap is a film that says the right things about the trappings of modern-day sex work but is so blunt in its message that it lacks any penetration. Film critic Stephanie Malone’s positive review of the film states that there aren’t enough films that refuse to demonise sex workers, and that films which tackle the world of online sex workers are rare. While it’s true that there isn’t a truckload of such films, the ones that concern online sex work, or have tangential themes, are executed far more substantially. 

Thirst Trap begins like a character piece. Grace Gordon plays Riley Ann, who addresses the audience head-on, breaking the fourth wall, detailing how she operates. Due to her struggles finding acting work, Riley Ann turns to camming to pay bills. She happily obtains the honest bucks from her male followers and fans. Riley's efforts to find acting jobs are highlighted in scenes with dismissive female movie executives.  Her fight to maintain a sense of balance in her work life gets lost as the film breaks off into a more conventional thriller with Riley trying to expose her anonymous stalker who watches her every move. 

While films with online sex work as the focus are perhaps not of the highest volume, that’s not to say there haven’t been entries. Numa Perrier’s Jezebel (2019) covers much of the same ground Thirst Trap touches on. However, Perrier's film uses themes of race and class to give its narrative more sensitivity. Jezebel may not be a genre piece, but it utilises the same subject matter with more earnestness, providing a richer viewing experience than Thirst Trap. King Kelly (2012) has a fame hungry teen Kelly webcamming and filming the extreme events of her life to earn c, while the chaos of her choices explodes around her. King Kelly is not a film for everyone; however, Andrew Neel's film becomes a poignant character piece once it cuts through its anarchy. However, its frantic, filmed-on-a-phone style is the perfect foil for Kelly’s fourth-wall breaking. The chaos the film inhabits quickly ensnares a viewer while also highlighting its protagonist’s troubled friendship and family dynamics. 2020s’ Sweat may not be explicitly about sex work; it accurately nails down the performative nature of social media as well as its under-researched dangers. The psychological thriller Cam (2018), mentioned by Malone in her Thirst Trap piece, is perhaps the feature which gets to grips with the issue of identity and consent around sex work. Isa Mazzei's tac-sharp script and Madeline Brewer’s kinetic performance work well in showing female intimacy and identity being dismantled via big tech and social media.  It also highlights the grind of today’s sex work: a relentless world of hyper-competitiveness and continuous one-upmanship, which gambles high reward on a fragile foundation. 

Thirst Trap wishes to be as effective as other films that have women confined within the world of modern sex work. However, director Chantal Massuh only skims the surface of the industry. While the film should be commended for its grassroots budget (with a chunk of the finance stemming from Massuh’s own cam girl work), Thirst Trap would benefit from a stronger screenplay and deeper characterisation. Massuh is smart enough not to leave Gordon’s Riley hanging out to dry as a piece of female titillation for male viewers to gorp at. Even when Riley parades around in lingerie and swimsuits, there's enough distance between audience and lead to never feel leery or exploitative. 

That said, Thirst Trap never feels strong enough in its conviction. It’s a film that name-checks the male gaze in the same way many on social media have picked up therapy speak. While the film never centres men, Massuh never really gets to grips with anything challenging to say about their supposed omnipresence. A short outdoor sequence has Riley observing a sex worker being abused by her pimp. However, the fact that the aggressor is a woman feels counterintuitive and lacks the contrast to modern cam girls who can often work independently from such men. A later scene has Renee, a stripper friend of Riley's, stay over to escape her current man troubles. The interaction between the two before Riley swiftly convinces Renee into a duo cam role is annoyingly rote. They sigh, tut and eye roll about men, but what is about the problematic men they encounter provides no real provocation. One could see both scenes mentioned being far more effective in other features, with a director like Sean Baker springing to mind. Massuh hints at a more provocative picture, with scenes of Riley fighting the validation that online clout brings, yet it never hits as hard as in the likes of Sweat or Cam. It doesn’t help that the film’s antagonist, as despicable as he soon becomes, isn’t particularly scary. The film never makes him the suffocating personification of the men Riley works to turn on.  

“I always feel disposable in this town”, an angst-ridden Riley explains, and while an obvious statement, it’s a very truthful one. The online world is a cruel and merciless beast, and Thirst Trap shows the grimness of the web melding with real life a couple of times. However, the sense of conviction seen in other examples never comes to fruition. The churn of online sex work is never truly established, with Thirst Trap never really highlighting the toll that such a line of work can take. Massuh knows the uncompromising nature of this life. The low budget has Thirst Trap constrained to one apartment block. Whether consciously or not, this is a strong decision, as it exposes one of the biggest symptoms of working from home: the inability to unplug. But despite this, Thirst Trap never really becomes the struggle that it suggests. Massuh does well not to glamourise a difficult and often misunderstood job, but she never makes it as acutely unsettling as the few other examples in its wheelhouse either. 

Thirst Trap is available to via Prime Video and Tubi

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Getting Intimate: A Look Back at 9 1/2 Weeks

In earlier viewings of 9 ½ Weeks, I didn’t consider it to be a particularly great movie. This is possibly because the film's finale falls a little flat. Watching an erotic 80s film through modern eyes can be a little jarring, because it can feel like we’re possibly no longer at this point in the conversation anymore. And yet I’ve always found Adrian Lyne’s film to be a continuing fascination. There’s something so base about the film’s concept. A man and a woman meet. They begin a courtship and soon start to explore themselves physically. One individual pushes the other's limits so far that it leads to an emotional breaking point. The explanation for this character’s willingness to degrade the other still feels cheap. Yet fast-forward to 2015 and the release of 50 Shades of Grey, and the poignancy becomes more apparent. In this recent rewatch of the film, there’s frustration at the abruptness within the 9 ½ Weeks’ final exchange. This time, I believed earnestly in what one character was doing. While an emotional immaturity with another is felt with more starkness.

9 ½ Weeks is a psychological drama that plays out in a way one would perhaps expect from an erotic feature from that decade. It’s a film in which the emotional burden is weighed upon the female lead, while the sexually aggressive male city trader seems to get off lightly. This is something that feels more explicit in Lyne's Fatal Attraction, released a year after 9 ½ Weeks. The sexual politics within the film never really allows a true sense of liberation with Kim Basinger’s carnally naive Gallery owner. With a sense of emotional punishment being felt for the character as Rourke’s John Gray ups the ante of their sexual parlour games. Lyne’s treatment of Basinger is well documented, with the director using psychological manipulation to capture the heightened emotions he demanded from his lead actress. Using tactics that no doubt would be more than frowned upon today. Lyne obtained the results he wanted from Basinger via acts of cruelty. The type of production malice that helped sow the seeds of films like this. Features seeped in sin and shame.  It’s difficult to shake off the uglier side of films like this and, of course, The Last Tango in Paris, knowing how the filmmakers pushed past the line with their female collaborators to gain results.

The book that 9 ½ Weeks is based on is a much bleaker affair in comparison to the film. Written by Austrian-American author Ingeborg Day, the book was a semi-autobiographical novel published under the rather ordinary nom de plume of Elizabeth McNeill. The memoir details a brief, sexually violent relationship between an Art Gallery owner and a Wall Street stockbroker. What starts as a passionate affair quickly descends into tragedy as the trader’s demands start to escalate into brutal aggression. Starker turns are taken in the book with scenes such as the gallery owner being painfully tied up within her lover’s extravagant home and robbing a man at knifepoint under his orders. In the novel, the story climaxes with the gallery owner enduring a nervous breakdown and being sectioned in a mental hospital, never seeing the trader again. 9 ½ Weeks is one of only two books Day wrote. The other was about her father’s Nazi past. She never spoke publicly about 9 ½ Weeks.

The film adaptation of 9 ½ Weeks may be flawed, but it’s safe to say that the rougher tone of the book would have been far harder to display on the screen. In England, the book isn’t readily accessible in print without some digging. However, reading about the novel on what could be found on the internet displays a rather affecting piece. Something that doesn’t say glossy Hollywood picture. Surprisingly, Lyne crafts something as approachable as he does.  His film is often as playful as it is deceptive. Lyne is more than happy to feature scenes of a lively, thriving, multicultural New York City. Basinger’s Elizabeth dines in Italian eateries, shops at market stalls, and Chinatown meat markets. Her bopping to Reggae music is beyond corny, but, along with her ethnic shopping, also helps imply a curator that indulges in culture outside of her norm. It helps you believe in her job, and it’s padding which builds a character with far more depth than we’d perhaps like to believe. Basinger, in a breakthrough role, sells her early scenes well, ensuring the later emotional sequences are felt with a great sense of vulnerability.  When John is introduced, a sliver of intensity is added to the proceedings. However, the stockbroker’s charm is enough to play their early encounters off like a meet-cute. This rom-com vibe reoccurs in a later scene when John and Elizabeth interact with some kids on the boardwalk.

But a sense of danger often looms on the edges of the screen. Early on, while on a date, John takes Elizabeth to a nearby friend’s house. As they stand in the bedroom, John gives the implication that Elizabeth could be in danger of sexual assault. It’s a marked moment. One that more than hints at John’s darker impulses. Another sequence featuring a fairground ride also hints at some of John’s later indulgences. John asks the ride operator to leave Elizabeth at the top of a Ferris wheel. It’s a situation that teeters between fear, excitement, and a strong sense of control being abandoned. Moments of jest or harmless pranks always feel like boundary testing in the hands of John. The film, possibly unconsciously, illustrates the palpable sense of anxiety felt by modern women. A sense that nothing is wholly playful. With every situation being tinged with risk. 

What becomes more concerning is when Elizabeth, clearly shocked by the threat, does little to distance herself from John afterwards. Already intoxicated by his allure, her attraction to him clouds her sense of judgment. It’s here where the grey area emerges. It becomes clear that Elizabeth is deeply attracted to how being with John allows her to vacate the controlled, composed real life she usually inhabits. This is what makes the film compelling. Female desire is so minimised on screen that when you see a film which toys with the unspoken social boundaries of what’s expected of “what women may want” in English-speaking films, it’s still quietly shocking. 9 ½ Weeks would join well with Jane Campion’s In the Cut (2003) or Looking for MrGoodbar (1977), with how much those films are unapologetic in their female protagonists’ attraction to danger.   

It is why the film’s most notable imitator, Fifty Shades of Grey (2015), pales in comparison to 9 ½ Weeks, even despite having near identical characteristics. The story formulated by E.L. James is explicit yet sanitised. Shade’s female protagonist is a docile and naïve cypher, for whom any true interiority is lacking. Basinger’s Elizabeth is buttoned up and repressed – she considers her friend gross for the possibility of her owning a vibrator – but as a person, she has emotional depth. Fifty Shades as a franchise enjoys the aesthetic pleasures of its simple sexual fantasies, but is uninterested in establishing any emotional resonance, while the trilogy of films wraps itself within a deeply unserious thriller plot, which removes any real idea of the series making any sort of commentary on relationships at all.

One of the cardinal sins Fifty Shades makes is in its unfun sexual sequences. It never once grasps that its protagonist is intoxicated by her potentially dangerous partner. Nor does it give its male counterpart the roughish charm which would make the relationship believable. But what’s far worse is that Fifty shades never truly indulges the idea that Anastasia enjoys any of Christian Grey’s particular interests. I won’t speak for everyone regarding whether sex scenes are titillating or necessary, but I will say the sex scenes in 9 ½ Weeks often look like a couple who are enjoying the intimacy they share. For all the sexual equipment that litter Christen Grey’s red room, for all the discussions about his sexual taste, Fifty Shades presents sex as clinical and mechanical. It’s quite cynically “packaged”. Online arguments about whether sex scenes should be in movies are appropriate here. Should we be surprised that such scenes are viewed as “cringe” when these modern sex scenes view people as superficially transactional? Sex in films like Fifty Shades is rarely presented with the intimacy or emotional connection they claim to aspire to. They mirror the viewpoints of modern dating, where people are determined by their “value”. Fifty Shades is perhaps the most egregious example of modern relationships where superficial status and value are seemingly deemed more important than emotional resonance or actual chemistry. The most playful scene in the first Fifty Shades film is a contract negotiation.

A lot of 9 ½ weeks’ eroticism is not only personable but also centred around pleasures that feel more relatable as well as tangible. They are also shot with a more convincing sense of sensuality of the activity as the focus. Lyne’s time as an ad man really makes its mark here. He is selling a good time. One of 9 ½ Weeks' most notable scenes involves a blindfolded Elizabeth being fed various items of food by John. The mischievousness of the scene is felt in its choice of shots, often framing Elizabeth’s lips as different foodstuffs are placed in her mouth. The sequence is shot mostly in close-up. The food is suggestively textured. With many of the items having an element of messiness to them. There’s also a sense that Elizabeth hasn’t a clue what might be given to her next. The Newbeats’ bouncy hit ‘Bread and Butter’ is the mood music. Whatever Elizabeth is fed could be sticky, sweet, sour, or spicy, but importantly, the scene makes simple sensory pleasure sexy. They don’t have sex, but the scene sells the game as just as enjoyable.

The other infamous scene involves Elizabeth stripping to Joe Cocker’s ‘Leave Your Hat On’. Basinger’s raunchy strutting to the song is, in no doubt, appealing to most red-blooded men. She gives it her all, and her dancing ensures the scene never rings false. However, what makes the scene is the reaction shots of Mickey Rourke. Looking like a naughty schoolboy, the scene is effective because Rourke’s John’s expression jumps from bashful to vulnerable, to impish, then back again. He doesn’t look at her like a leery drunk at a strip club. He watches her like a man truly captivated by the woman dancing in front of him. Things like these reaction shots pinpoint what so many other films of its kind miss. The sex is there with them, but not the sensitivity. There’s a sincerity here that is completely lost in other “sexy” movies.

When John’s abusiveness is shown for what it is, the film becomes problematic. While an awkward word to use, it best describes the most potent aspect of 9 ½ weeks. Once John is seen using Elizabeth as an object, the connection between the couple and the audience becomes rocky. In Fifty Shades of Grey, Christian Grey’s money elevates him. Making him more eligible despite his sexual appetites. In 9 ½ Weeks, John uses his money differently. The relationship between him and Elizabeth reaches a low rung when John, a Wall Street broker, goads Elizabeth to crawl and pick up money on all fours. Elizabeth rejects this, finding it too demeaning. This was also the scene Basinger had to perform in the audition to gain the role. Something that left her emotionally distressed. There isn’t such an explicit scene like this in Fifty Shades of Grey. However, the way the character of Anastasia is quickly wooed by Grey’s billionaire status and riches feels like a stark contrast between 1986 and where we might be from 2015 and beyond.

I had originally considered writing a piece about Rourke in a heap of his earlier films because he was so engaging to watch. However, his ousting on Celebrity Big Brother had me consider otherwise. His early work is a constant reminder of how appealing he was as a talent. Balancing roguish charm with something far darker behind the slight smile.  At first, Rourke’s velvety smooth voice is soft; you wouldn’t believe he’d say boo to a ghost. Then at times, he stares at Elizabeth with a sensitivity as though they’re the last two people on earth. Yet that same glare can also suggest that he would be ok with being the only person around. Zalaman King, the infamous producer of this film, as well as many other soft-core features, stated in an interview with film scholar Peter Lehman in 2006 (also in a 2017 article for The Telegraph): “Nobody wanted Mickey because he was a struggle. Everyone thought he was a thug. Mickey, to me, was always beautiful, always dangerous, and always charming. He also is not frightened of women, and women can sense that, and he’s got that animal instinct.

Said instinct is what makes his depiction of John so arresting. That Rourke was compared to Marlon Brando was no joke. It’s easy to see why in films like 9 ½ Weeks. A quintessential rogue of the highest order. His performance here makes it understandable why Elizabeth has trouble with him, so connected he is to her sexual awakening. The magnetism is like Brando’s Stanley Kowalski. With John, being with the bad boy can make Elizabeth feel so good.

When Elizabeth begins to reject John’s demands, it’s a sign that this is not transactional to her and that she can’t be bought. Similar tensions arise when John books a hotel room, blindfolds Elizabeth, and hires a sex worker to sleep with her. We can stand our ground on our modern, sanctimonious views about sex work another day, but what is happening here is that Elizabeth is demanding that their relationship just isn’t in this transactional arena. There is a limit to what they do. To Elizabeth, John’s actions begin to feel less about desire or boundary pushing, for the benefit of both. For her, she is seen as less of a human being and more of an object.

Where 9 ½ Weeks stumbles is when trying to convey clarity to the emotional weight that is being placed upon Elizabeth. A running subplot involving Elizabeth setting up an exhibition for an elderly painter named Farnsworth stamps the impression that someone like this artist, whose absent-mindedness appears to be teetering on the verge of senility, can see the true woman where John cannot. This all seems to come across in a muddled heap. As if the film wasn’t sure where to place it in the movie. Meanwhile, John’s controlling behaviour weighs so heavily on the film that when he finally shows Elizabeth a hint of vulnerability, the acknowledgement comes far too late for any contemplation.

Interestingly, like Fifty Shades of Grey, John is like Christian in that they try to compartmentalise their indulgence of darker sexual habits in ways that seemingly only make them appear more dismissive of their female partners. The finale of 9 ½ Weeks feels hastened and muddled. Is that all John has to say about what he’s done to Elizabeth? His final moments feel more like indifference than regret. John is an emotionally stunted individual. Never wanting to meet Elizabeth’s friends, his wish to keep Elizabeth at home and look after her is connected more to selfishness and sexual gratification than to building a healthy relationship with Elizabeth. Strangely, the ending of the book feels more honest despite its malice. Abandoning your partner in a mental institution after psychologically breaking them via sex is callous and ugly, yet leaving them and never contacting them again, while cowardly, probably works on the page rather than on the screen, where John gives little more than a shrug and a weak semi-plea for some sort of forgiveness. If we were given nothing, it would be beyond wicked. If the film moved towards a happy conclusion, it would feel cheap. But what occurs here feels abrupt and unsure. Lyne remarked in interviews that hours of footage were left on the cutting room floor. Perhaps there was something that gave its final third more shape.

Then, of course, there is Lyne’s handling of his actors on set. Doing what he could to make Basinger feel discomfort throughout the ten-week shoot. On Lyne’s most recent feature, Deep Water, he expressed frustration with having intimacy coordinators on set, suggesting that such a role displays a lack of trust between a director and his actors. However, it is doubtful that Lyne’s methods would fly today. It also begs the question: Do we still try to humiliate and destroy performers for entertainment like this? The troubling aspect is that so much of the darker material doesn’t make 9 ½ Weeks. Making the reasoning behind Basinger’s trauma even more trivial.

That said, this is what Lyne wanted.

Said Lyne at the time: “Rather than saying here are two strange people doing perverted stuff in a posh New York apartment, I wanted it to be a movie couples might see and argue about.”

I believe 9 ½ Weeks is effective in this aim. Basinger is still more impressive here than in her award-winning turn in L.A. Confidential (1997). She has stated that despite the stress of the production, the role helped her grow as an actress. Much like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, Basinger has made peace with a challenging role, partly due to the potency she gave it. Elizabeth is a complicated individual whose awakened, specific desires both excite and build conflict within her.  These desires almost override her emotional needs in a distressing way, yet still often seem plausible. She is the earnest heart of a film, which even now is still seen by most as a hot mess of titillation over anything else. One may argue about why Elizabeth would stay in such a perilous relationship, but Rourke’s performance, along with Lyne’s mining of the chemistry between the two characters, makes it understandable in a way imitators struggle with. Modern media critique seems to be having a hand-wringing moment with sexual relationships on screen. It’s troubling to see pearl clutching at even the idea of sex being simulated on screen. Rewatching 9 ½ Weeks was a clear reminder to me of grown-up, adult entertainment, which can still be stimulating if not perfect.

Article: The Pursuit of Pennies

*Spoilers are about.

The final shot of Steven Soderbergh’s The Girlfriend Experience (2009) floored me upon a recent rewatch. After spending just over an hour of it’s economical running time, observing the lifestyle of Christine; a high-end escort and her relationship with different clients as well as her boyfriend Chris, the film’s essence is boiled down to its purest moment in the film’s closing sequence.

The scene itself seems pretty innocuous. Christine (then real-time Porn Star Sasha Grey) is invited into the backroom of a Jewish Jewellers by the owner whom we identify as a client for the services that Christine provides. They talk briefly about the upcoming election, in which the client recommends Christine (or Chelsea if we go by her escort name) should vote for John McCain over Barack Obama. He dominates the conversation, she merely responds in rather basic platitudes. As they talk, they undress unceremoniously. For a film with a porn star as the lead, it only really displays Grey in any real sexual fashion briefly, although many conversations in the film highlight her attractiveness. Framed in mid-shot which captures two-thirds of Grey body in full but is set at a distance which halts the observation of her body as gratuitous or titillating, she walks towards her client, a heavy-set man and they embrace. He begins to sob.

Soderbergh’s movies often involve how people operate for the pursuit of money, yet what I found so striking with The Girlfriend Experience is how the film deals with the element of control the chase. Throughout the film, we’re supplied with a plethora of talk about the economy. It all comes from Men. Nearly every man within the film is telling Christine what she should do with her job. From how she should approach men, to trying to find out how she keeps her accounts. They all want a piece of her. They pull of ruses to try and pay less for her services or “get to know the real her”. Despite the boundaries which are set in place by people within the film, everyone is looking to break them. However, it’s in this small moment in which we realise that all the bluster and bravado. All the posturing. It all comes down to that base wish of getting an attractive woman to need you. An urge so powerful it can make a grown man weep.

One of Soderbergh’s more experimental affairs, The Girlfriend Experience came out to middling reviews, with much of the focus being fixed on Sasha Grey’s “coming out” to the mainstream. The choice of Grey here is a masterstroke from Soderbergh. Her flat portrayal of Christine is deceptive. It suggests a bad performance. However, in my eyes, having seen Grey in some of her pornography, as well as her rather limp performances in Entourage, her near unemotive turn here is a clear decision between actress and director for a character who is purposely not letting anyone into what she really feels. If the film had been given to another actress, there’s every chance that they could have overegged their performance, letting the audience know exactly what they’re thinking. Grey’s face, which at one point is covered by huge sunglasses as to hide her eyes, feels like a mirror, reflecting the emotions given by those around her.

The film seems to go on around Christine and to me, this seems to be the point. We jump from conversation to conversation which ranges from how the economic climate will affect her work, to gross clients trying to obtain freebies from her to guarantee good reviews. However, despite whatever’s being said, everything boils down to that final moment. She has what they want. Payment is negotiable, but there will still be paying. What’s fascinating is just how well Soderbergh has transferred some of the clear issues we are now seeing in the gig economy. Looking into my other hobby of Portrait and model photography, it’s more than a little concerning how it would only take a small amount of script tinkering to have it apply to the amateur photographer scene, and yes, I do mean some of the more dubious elements too.

After the release of the film, directors Lodge Kerrigan and Amy Seimetz took the material and turned the source material into a TV show, with new characters and storylines. The Girlfriend Experience TV series is far less of an experimental slice of life endeavour that Soderbergh devised and is a more familiar and explicit affair. Gone is the semi-provisional feel, and what we’re given instead is a political espionage show with a variety of different, difficult female leads which sometimes holds more in common with the erotic thriller genre than the more ponderous take of Soderbergh. 

In any case, what I found most intriguing about The Girlfriend Experience is how both the show and the film are invested in delivering agency to female characters who are hard to catalogue into simple terms. My favourite visual on the film comes around about halfway through when Christine, positioned centre framed, sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, is getting her feet massaged by a client; David, who is so low down in the shot he is almost out of it. It’s a moment which, despite some of the things which are about to occur, subtly hints at the metaphor which takes place in the aforementioned finale. The dynamics shift throughout the film, but it is within these moments that we gain a glimpse at what’s going on. Where the agency is. Why men write bad reviews of Christine when they don’t get their way and why they are sometimes so despondent when she gives them a chance to touch her. If the economy tanks, then there’s less money to go around. Less to brag about. Less to impress with. You can’t impress Christine if you can’t pay her. Maybe that’s why they cry.