Hearing Gwyneth Paltrow’s take on intimacy coordinators is certainly intriguing. These are the folks brought in to oversee intimate scenes in films and television. In her recent chat with Vanity Fair about her return to the big screen in Josh Safdie’s ping pong movie, “Marty Supreme,” she playfully quipped about her intimate scenes with the much younger Timothée Chalamet, saying, “I’m 109 years old. You’re 14.”
Paltrow remarked, “There’s this role now called an intimacy coordinator, something I wasn’t aware of.” When approached by the coordinator, she humorously responded, “I’m from an era where you just get undressed, get in bed, and let the camera roll.” She added, “For these younger actors starting out, I’d feel pretty constrained if told ‘put your hand here’ as an artist.”
I can’t exactly say how it is for newcomers, but I imagine it’s tougher for them to navigate these situations especially when high-profile figures like Paltrow seem to undermine the work of intimacy coordinators, who play a crucial role in ensuring everyone on set feels safe and respected, not just the stars.
I wish I could dive deeper into Paltrow’s feature in Vanity Fair, detailing her stealth wealth, raw milk obsession, perimenopause musings, and even her shearling clogs. Not to mention, the financial nitty-gritty of her wellness brand, Goop.
The real concern here, though, revolves around the #MeToo movement. Specifically, the subtle sidelining of intimacy coordinators, whose role was an essential achievement of the movement. It’s becoming somewhat of a status move to claim you don’t need one, now seen as fashionable to forego their services. But what are the broader implications of this privilege for others in the industry?
It’s a bit baffling hearing this from Paltrow. After all, she was at the forefront of #MeToo, courageously speaking out against Miramax’s Harvey Weinstein. She shared how early in her career, she had a distressing episode with Weinstein, who was then confronted by her then-boyfriend, Brad Pitt. “[Pitt] used his influence to protect me when I was just starting out,” she recounted. Despite having powerful connections, her experiences highlighted how vulnerable she was.
Years later, Paltrow seemed surprised on the set of “Marty Supreme” by the concept of intimacy coordinators. And no, she doesn’t reside in a remote hidden spot, but rather in affluent Montecito, near Los Angeles. This trend, however, is more widespread than one might think.
While actors like Emma Thompson and Ewan McGregor have spoken in favor of intimacy coordinators, others like Michael Douglas have expressed reservations, claiming they limit filmmakers’ control. They argue it’s the responsibility of the male actors to ensure their female counterparts are comfortable. Mikey Madison, fresh from her Oscar win for “Anora,” didn’t rely on an IC, with director Sean Baker stating his ease with directing intimate scenes.
Jennifer Aniston, too, revealed she was unfamiliar with intimacy coordinators during a scene with Jon Hamm, commenting, “I’m from the old days, so I was like, ‘What does that mean?’” This skepticism persists, portraying those who waive an IC as daring and authentic. Rejecting them becomes a power statement, neglecting the crucial purpose they serve. It’s great that some feel safe and self-assured, but what about everyone else in that environment?
Intimacy coordinators aren’t just for the leading actors or directors; they advocate for everyone involved in the production, including those who might not have a voice or feel powerless. Of course, there’s been some missteps: SAG-AFTRA revised their regulations after too many details about “Miller’s Girl,” featuring Jenna Ortega and Martin Freeman, were leaked.
Effectively, these coordinators act as a democratic safeguard. Downplaying their role as redundant or unnecessary undercuts their intent and shifts pressure onto those without influence to conform. The result? A disparity where the influential claim they don’t need ICs, while the less powerful can’t voice the need for them. It echoes patterns we hoped were gone for good.
This was at the heart of #MeToo. Beyond tackling abuse, it aimed to address pervasive power disparities. With claims that Weinstein-style misconduct is history and that rules are inconveniently stringent, that dark illusion gains ground.
Consider this: specialized roles in Hollywood are commonplace—for stunts, for fight scenes, for dialect coaching. It’s only with intimate scenes that resistance emerges. It appears to be a rollback of #MeToo’s advancements. How soon before people trivialize fears surrounding meetings in hotel rooms with producers?
Perhaps it stings a bit more when such narratives are propagated by women, especially one who played a pivotal role in #MeToo. Perhaps next time Gwyneth encounters an intimacy coordinator, she might reflect on the many individuals around her who don’t have her fame or power for protection. Sometimes, it’s not about you.
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