Quiet at the back, it's time for a talk about sex scenes.
My first gripe is that sex scenes are pointless. If you are old enough to be watching a film that has a graphic sex scene in it, it's reasonable to assume you've got some idea about the general features of the horizontal shoe shuffle, and don't need to be shown it in all it's sweaty, heaving, thrusting, cheesclothed glory. The only time sex scenes are even slightly justifiable is in films like, say Boogie Nights, where we might have some questions about how a seventies porn scene would have been shot (or, indeed, what Mark Whalberg's penis looks like with comedically large attachment presumably fashioned from some kind of sandwich filling). Similairly, anyone old enough to know the logistics of it probably also knows that it's never, ever as good as it is onscreen either. Condoms don't appear from nowhere. Women don't launch into positively operatic orgasm after four seconds of stimulation. You forget to lock doors and roommates (or parents) stop by. You bump into people from your history class as you leave, and they never let you forget it (just me?).
I was watching the Ellen Page movie Whip It last night, in which she loses her virginity in a swimming pool, in a tender and loving fashion, with the boy of her dreams, to a sweet indie soundtrack. As a teenage girl with several teenage girl compatriots, I can safely say that the only thing I've done to a sweet indie soundtrack is eat crisps, and that virginities are rarely lost in any sort of semblance of romantic situations. It's all tents and everyone knowing about it and the whole situation stinking of an uncomfortable regularity. Like A Virgin? Like an uncomfortable and vaguely non-consensual, more like. Movies don't feel the need to have the heroes bleeding rainbows, or guns firing little pebbles of wisdom. Why try and romanticise the one thing that almost everyone has in common?
What get me most about these films is that they never actually show the sex act due to censoring, leaving sour-minded spinsters like me to assume that it's because of some x-rated fetish. Think of the grimmest sexual fetish you've ever heard of. Now add some vegetable matter. Next time a wishy-washy teen flick stops as soon as his shirt comes off, assume it's because that's what happens next. I'll tell you this for free: the image of Micheal Cera doing that with a handful of vine tomatoes in Scott Pilgrim vs The World will stay with me till the day I die.