This Australian-made film opens by explaining that in
French, “the little death” is slang for orgasm. It then takes us on a
light-hearted romp through the bedrooms, garages, parking lots and a few other
places of a suburban neighbourhood, scratching its head, so to speak, at the
lengths to which some straight, white, monogamous people will go in their quest for sexual satisfaction.
It’s a comedy. Though allusion is repeatedly made to sexual
predation (in the shape of the new neighbour who offers home-made biscuits as a
gesture to soften the disclosure he is obliged to make that he’s a convicted
sex offender), the film never gets too dark.
And as a comedy, I guess it’s asking too much for it to have
delved deeply into the community of kink, in its survey of fetishes from
somnophilia (getting turned on by watching someone sleep) to role-playing to
rape fantasy. Instead, it hovers around the edge of mocking without engaging,
though maybe it’s what the audience brings that is decisive. Scenes I saw as
poignant had others laughing aloud. How much is that the film’s invitation to
ridicule and how much, the audience’s expectation that watching anything to do
with kink will be funny? I’m not sure.
[Of course, from a certain perspective, just about anything
to do with human sexuality – from the straightest of straight vanilla sex to
the most latex-covered group rope or needle play dreamt up by any voyeur – has
its ridiculous side. Here we are, hurtling through space on a planet that’s become
more and more hostile to life as it’s currently evolved – and people put vast
amounts of effort into all sorts of things for sexual gratification. And making
and watching films about it, for that matter.]
And yet, there is
the poignant side.
There’s Phil, the man threatened with the sack for sleeping
at work – staying awake nights turned on by watching his wife Maureen sleep: a
wife who, awake, has only criticism of him, seems to be unhappy because of him,
never listens to him; a wife who accidentally drinks the tea he made for
himself with a dose of the sedative drug given to him by his boss to ensure he gets a decent night's sleep. Finding he can tell her how much he loves her, he takes to
deliberately drugging her – violating her trust not for sex, as such, but for a
strange kind of sad, illusory companionship.
Or Rowena and Richard, having lots of sex to try to get
pregnant – lots of incredibly boring, joyless sex, at least to judge by
Rowena’s face. Told that the doctor has advised conception is more likely to
happen if the she has orgasms, Richard objects dismissively, “but you
have lots of orgasms,” leaving Rowena crestfallen, agreeing, “yeah… so I guess
we’ll just keep on doing what we’re doing.” When she discovers she has a
tear fetish – sexually aroused by her partner’s tears – how can she begin to
explain?
She can’t.
And if there’s a recurring theme, it seems to be the
hopelessness of imagining anything positive can come out of exploring kink.
While not every scenario is pursued without consent, even where there’s consent
(Maeve indulges Paul’s foot fetish; Paul attempts to indulge her rape fantasy…
did I mention it’s a comedy? The results are pretty funny), only the strength
of the relationship makes the disappointment of the unfulfilled fantasy
bearable.
The closest the film comes to hope is in the midst of the
absurd situation of Sam, a deaf man unable to sleep, making a call to a phone
sex line answered by a worker who needs the money to look after her nan who’s
had a stroke – with Monica, an Auslan interpreter, in between. The hope is not
about the phone sex – which of course is pretty funny and kind of fizzles out –
but for the warm connection made by Sam and Monica despite, or perhaps because
of, the absurdity.
But kinky sex? Look, it was never going to be a substitute
for Dan and Evie learning to communicate, no matter how hot their role-playing
scenarios got. But really? No-one was able to negotiate their way to something
consensual, intense, pleasurable and connecting?
I guess I’m still waiting for that film.
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