Blame the pollen (that powdery substance flowers release in the name of sexual reproduction), the bees or the birds, either way, this May 1st for us isn’t about flower wreaths. It’s about films. Specifically, erotically charged ones. Some might raise the (still stubbornly low) temperature, others might make you think a little too hard, and a few might just straight-up shock you. But they all have one thing in common.
But before you start reading, press play on this playlist:
Alexandra’s picks
Tokyo Decadence (1992)
Directed by Ryû Murakami (the Audition Murakami), it’s a slippery, provocative fever dream of a film. It follows a young submissive hooker navigating a series of increasingly surreal and dehumanizing encounters with Tokyo's corporate and criminal elite, salarymen, Yakuza, and the emotionally unavailable alike. She’s unhappy about her work, and is apparently trying to find some sort of appeasement for the fact that her lover has married.
The plot isn’t super clear, it kind of drifts from one surreal, intense moment to the next. It’s about sadness. Disconnection. The quiet, slow kind that sets in when love leaves and the world just keeps going. Visually, it’s peak ’90s Japanese cinema, with cold, towering cityscapes, sterile interiors, and that neon loneliness. Not for everyone. But for the emotionally masochistic and chronically introspective.
Bonus points: Ryuichi Sakamoto did the soundtrack, and Yayoi Kusama shows up as a fortune teller, which is both random and perfect.
A New Love in Tokyo (1994)
A film that’s both a celebration of friendship and a subtle takedown of male ego. It’s the unofficial follow-up to Tokyo Decadence. Directed by Banmei Takahashi, the film follows two women navigating sex work in Tokyo: Rei, an amateur actress by day and whip-smart dominatrix by night, and Ayumi, a call girl with marriage on her mind (maybe). They meet, become friends, and basically live life out loud in a city that often tries to silence people like them. Together, they run, they laugh, they bathe nude on the beach.
The script was co-written by Nobuyoshi Araki (always controversial, brilliant, and one of my all-time favourites). He even pops in for a cameo as himself and lends some of his photographs to the film. The whole thing feels freewheeling and off-the-cuff, a little Godard, a little punk, and a lot of full-frontal nudity. But beneath that is something really soft: a portrait of women who are fully in charge, doing what they want, how they want.
Amateur (1994)
"How can you be a nymphomaniac & never had sex?"
"I'm choosy."
This is one of those weird little '90s gems that shouldn’t work, but somehow it does. It opens with a virgin ex-nun who writes pornographic short stories (you read that right) and ends up entangled with an amnesiac man wandering the streets of New York. He’s forgotten who he is. She’s trying to figure out who she wants to be. Together, they spiral into a noir-ish maze of sleazy publishers, bitter porn stars, and corporate assassins. As one does.
Isabelle Huppert plays the nun, and she’s completely iconic. There’s a scene where she shows up in black patent leather, holding an electric drill like she means it… Directed by Hal Hartley, Amateur has all the trappings of '90s indie cinema: philosophical criminals, chain-smoking in public spaces, deadpan delivery, huge cellphones, and a soundtrack featuring PJ Harvey and Liz Phair. And yes, the film does keep you wondering: will the ex-nun lose her virginity? You’ll have to watch and see.
This Transient Life (1970)
An art-piece by Akio Jissoji. Set near a remote Buddhist monastery, Masao falls in love with his older sister, Yuri, and gets her pregnant. When a monk finds out, Masao tries to keep it a secret from his parents and moves away to become an assistant to a master sculptor, but things spiral out of control.
This Transient Life is intense. It tackles taboo subjects and doesn’t hold back in critiquing society and religion. Sex drive is the key theme. It’s portrayed as one of the most powerful forces behind human action, reflecting on human nature itself. The women often instigate these extreme sexual behaviours, but the men can’t resist their primal urges.
Smartly written and experimental, it makes you think with every minute of its 143-minute run time. The incest between Masao and Yuri sparks a deeper conversation about desire, morality, and what makes life meaningful. What’s expected, what’s normal, and why we do what we do.
The Piano Teacher (2001)
A cold film, directed by Michael Haneke, that manages, in a way, to be deeply erotic and deeply unsexy at the same time. Isabelle Huppert plays Erika Kohut (to me, in her most iconic role), a piano teacher at the elite Vienna Conservatory, whose life is split between rigid control and repressed chaos. By day, she teaches music with a mix of disinterest and low-key sabotage. By night, she returns home to a suffocating apartment she shares with her domineering mother, who infantilizes her with a mix of cruelty and codependency. When a confident young student arrives, Erika’s carefully constructed life starts to unravel.
Her inner world, built on masochistic fantasies and voyeurism, begins to leak into reality, sometimes quite literally. And what’s fascinating is that despite the film’s themes, there’s almost no sex. Erika doesn’t necessarily want touch; she wants control. She wants the fantasy more than the feeling. She wants to watch. This is a disturbing film, but an incredibly smart one. And by the time the final scene hits, you’re left untangling a mess of desire, pain, repulsion, repression, and power.
The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988)
This screen version of Milan Kundera’s novel, directed by Philip Kaufman, is a quiet storm of love, infidelity, and existential confusion. Tomas is a successful surgeon and a compulsive womanizer. He meets Tereza, a young photographer, brings her back to Prague, and despite loving her, continues to cheat. After getting fired for writing a politically critical letter, Tomas ends up working as a window-cleaner, still sleeping with other women along the way. Tereza knows, and though it hurts, she stays. It's love, but also insecurity and emotional dependence. Tomas is already involved with Sabina, a bohemian artist. When the Soviet invasion hits, all three flee to Switzerland.
In my opinion, the film is longer than it needs to be. It lingers, sometimes without purpose. But even so, it captures emotional struggles that feel incredibly current; how we love, betray, stay, and leave. Kundera’s point is that life happens once, and that gives it a strange weightlessness. The characters are chasing connection, drifting apart, and searching for something solid in a world that isn’t.
Stella’s picks
Y tu mamá también (2001)
Two horny adolescents Tenoch (Diego Luna), the privileged son of the country’s rich, corrupt secretary of state, and his friend Julio (Gael García Bernal), the lower-middle-class son of a single mother, decide to escape their native Mexico City. Along the way they pick up a mysterious married woman, Lucia (Maribel Verdú), who they meet at a wedding, in a search for an unknown beach called La Boca del Cielo. Y tu mamá también is a road movie, and it’s on that road, and in the freedom it gives its protagonists, where the magic of the film lies. They drive through the countryside, eat fast food, ride with their bare feet on the dashboard, while they remain intoxicated by the sun and the freedom their youth affords them. They are overexcited by every beer, every cigarette, and every chance at sex. We are drawn to watch them, not just having sex, but even more by their overconfidence, their bragging, and their attempts to seduce Lucia. After all, it is through her that we see the boys, clueless and sweet at the same time.
In the Realm of the Senses (1976)
A huge spoiler alert, but I don’t believe there are many who haven’t seen In the Realm of the Senses and its notorious final scene.
Still censored in its own country, the film tells the hedonistic, all-consuming, and ultimately destructive (and true!) story of Kichizo (Tatsuya Fuji) and Sada (Eiko Matsuda). The two lovers isolate themselves from the rest of the world, taking their time to explore each other. The only moments they interact with others are to draw them into their pursuit of absolute pleasure.
They experiment extensively in their search for erotic intensity, only to conclude that death is the ultimate climax. What drew Nagisa Oshima’s attention was that the two lovers didn’t opt for shinju (double suicide); instead, Sada’s complete possession of her lover allowed her to go on living—keeping Kichizo’s genitals as a chilling assertion of their undying passion.
Secretary (2002)
Secretary could easily have become a parody, but thanks to the sharp execution by both Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader, it quickly became iconic. What makes the film particularly enjoyable is its humor—it never takes itself too seriously, as it shouldn't. One of my favorite touches is the office building’s exterior sign that reads 'Secretary Wanted,' which lights up or goes dark depending on need, like the 'Vacancies' signs outside cheap motels. I love how Gyllenhaal is never portrayed as a victim, nor Spader as a perpetrator; instead, there’s a perfect balance between them that draws them closer and closer together.
Murmur of the Heart (1971)
Murmur of the heart leaves you with a sense of tenderness more than anything else and that’s Lea Massari’s doing and of course Loui Malle’s. I can’t describe it better than Roger Ebert did in 1971:
“They take adjoining rooms at the resort hotel, and then Malle sets us up for the final scenes so skillfully that the moment of incest, when it occurs, seems almost natural, more fond than carnal, and not terribly significant. How he achieves this effect is beyond me; he takes the most highly charged subject matter you can imagine, and mutes it into simple affection.
Crash (1996)
I’m not entirely sure why I have two James Spader films on my list, but I suspect that his role in Crash may have led to his casting in Secretary.
An adaptation of J.G. Ballard’s 1970s future-shock novel, Crash is one of David Cronenberg’s most controversial films—an 'existential romance,' as he calls it.
A traffic collision involving a commercial producer, James (James Spader), and an enigmatic doctor, Helen (Holly Hunter), draws them—along with James’s wife, Catherine (Deborah Kara Unger)—into a sadomasochistic world of car-crash survivors. They become immersed in a death-obsessed kink, aroused by the thrill of reliving and recreating the details of their collisions. The film simultaneously provokes disgust and exhilaration, pushing boundaries with its cold eroticism and clinical detachment. At its Cannes screening, the audience was so divided that Francis Ford Coppola, award jury chair at the time, reportedly refused to personally present the Special Jury Prize that the film was awarded to David Cronenberg.
The Last Seduction (1994)
Linda Fiorentino in The Last Seduction strongly reminds me of Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not—a clear nod to the 1940s film noir femme fatales. But the difference is that Bridget Gregory (one of the many names she uses throughout the film) is unapologetically diabolical. She never reforms, never compromises her moral code, and the film never bends toward a conservative resolution. She's brilliant, capable of orchestrating a complex scheme, and treats men like disposable handkerchiefs. I won’t spoil the plot—this is a film best experienced unspoiled.
I consider it a hidden gem among 1990s erotic thrillers, one of my favorite genres. I haven’t seen Linda Fiorentino in many other films (aside from another favorite of mine, After Hours), but based on her performance here, I’ll definitely be following her work more closely.
Valisia’s picks
Body Double (1984)
Of course I’m starting with Body Double —how could I not? A film so dripping with 80s sleaze and voyeuristic flair it might as well come spritzed with Giorgio Beverly Hills perfume. I’m a devout Brian De Palma worshipper—especially his 80s period, where the colours are lurid, the women impossibly glamorous, and every shadow is plotting something. Body Double is pure erotic pulp: part Rear Window, part softcore fever dream, with that rotating bed scene seared into my adolescent brain forever. It’s sexy because it knows it’s decadent—and leans in with red lipstick, wind machines, and a synth score that purrs.
The Hunger (1983)
The Hunger is the ultimate stylish descent into sensual darkness. Vampires, Bauhaus, and 80s elegance —this is my ultimate soft spot. I know it’s not a good movie in the traditional sense, but aesthetically, it’s what I live for. Catherine Deneuve as Miriam Blaylock is the definition of seductive immortality, all satin gloves and cold detachment. I have to admit proudly that I’ve dressed as her for Halloween. Twice. It’s erotic in that slow, hypnotic way: all about glances, shadows, blood, and desire that refuses to die. And then there’s Susan Sarandon and that scene—awkward, tender, and devastating. It’s sexy because it’s tragic, beautiful, and just a little bit cruel.
Gia (1998)
Then there’s Gia —the tragic siren of the fashion world, self-destructive and impossibly magnetic. I don’t know why, but I’m always drawn to people who burn too fast, too bright, and then vanish. Maybe it’s the drama, maybe it’s the sadness, maybe it’s the doomed glamour. Add 80s fashion and a very young Angelina Jolie radiating raw, feral sensuality—and it’s impossible to look away. It’s sexy not just because of the nudity (though there’s plenty), but because of the vulnerability, the chaos, the hunger for connection that never quite lands.
Wild Things (1998)
After watching Scream and becoming completely obsessed, I made it my mission to see every Neve Campbell movie in existence—and that’s how I landed on Wild Things. On the surface, it’s all wet T-shirts, poolside seduction, and a plot twist every five minutes—like a pulpy airport paperback with a tan. But there’s more to it. It’s film noir in flip-flops: calculated, mischievous, and fully aware of its own sleaze. Neve plays against type with delicious control, and the whole thing has this humid, Florida-laced eroticism that makes you feel like you need a cold shower and a lawyer.
9 Songs (2004)
9 Songs is exactly what it says on the label: nine tracks, nine sex scenes, no plot, no apologies. Michael Winterbottom —the same man behind 24 Hour Party People- ditches the backstage chaos and cuts straight to the bed (and the floor, and the tub). It’s all desire, sweat, and soundwaves. Back then, I was a schoolgirl obsessed with The Von Bondies, and watching them crash through “C’mon C’mon” before the couple crashes into each other was—let’s be honest—life goals. It’s sexy because it’s honest, stripped of movie magic, and lets the music do half the seducing. What better thing than sensual sex after a feral, post-concert high?
Damage (1992)
Damage is clearly a tale of sexual obsession walking that fascinating line between high-gloss melodrama and modern-day Greek tragedy. It’s pure electric tension, all dressed up in crisp 90s tailoring. Jeremy Irons is magnetic—haunted, hollow, and completely undone by desire. Every glance feels like it could shatter glass. Juliette Binoche? Icy fire. Totally unreadable, totally irresistible. And please, take a moment for the “oh, so 90s” interiors: clean lines, muted tones, emotional repression at its finest. It’s the kind of film where silence speaks louder than words, and every room looks like it was designed for secrets. Shhh!
Happy watching x
Alexandra, Valisia and Stella