FILM REVIEW: AUTOEROTIC

A scene from Autoerotic.

Own is the loneliest number

By Don Simpson

Havelock Ellis, a British sexologist, defined autoeroticism as “the phenomena of spontaneous sexual emotion generated in the absence of an external stimulus proceeding, directly or indirectly, from another person.” Joe Swanberg and Adam Wingard’s film Autoerotic focuses on four heterosexual couples as they contend with relationship-crippling sexual arousal issues; however, Autoerotic is not always about self-arousal. Structured in four mostly autonomous vignettes (all with unnamed thespians): the first and fourth chapters reveal perverse men who are grasping at straws to achieve sexual satisfaction, whether it be the desire for a significantly larger penis or a penetrable mold of an ex-girlfriend’s vagina; the second and third chapters portray women whose sexual desires are insatiable, one cannot have enough orgasms while the other is unable to enjoy a complete orgasm (their male partners are little to no help in quenching their thirst).

Commencing with a good old fashioned iPhone-recorded spanking session, Autoerotic is just as much about watching others as it is about sexual gratification. (The male character in the first chapter is the only one who seems more satisfied while looking at himself in the mirror than at others.) Swanberg and Wingard’s focus on voyeurism places the audience in a somewhat awkward position. As we observe the questionable ways in which the characters observe each other in order to obtain arousal, we are forced to question what we are achieving from the footage. Are we becoming aroused? Is that okay?

Swanberg (Hannah Takes the Stairs, Uncle Kent, Silver Bullets) has never been one to abide by the overwhelmingly puritanical view of sex in Hollywood; and with Autoerotic, he and Wingard effectively comment on many cinematically taboo issues: male body issues, fetishes, the desire for orgasms, and the importance of communicating your sexual needs and desires to your partner. For Swanberg and Wingard, sex remains utterly confounding despite the openly frank conversation between partners and friends. Just as the characters are often not judgmental about their partners’ sexual idiosyncrasies, Swanberg and Wingard’s perspective is also quite open-minded. They merely seem interested in posing questions for their audience to ponder and discuss: Is autoerotic asphyxiation okay (what about erotic asphyxiation)? Is masturbation acceptable behavior (if so, how much is too much)? How do fetishes figure into romantic relationships? Is is acceptable to recruit a same-sex friend to help a pregnant woman enjoy a successful orgasm? How much kinkiness is okay before it becomes perverse?

TRIBECA 2011: TURN ME ON, GODDAMMIT

Alma (Helene Bergsholm) in Turn Me On, Goddammit.

Talk to the hand

By Don Simpson

Alma (Helene Bergsholm) is a 15-year-old virgin...well, except by her own hand; but what else is a teenage girl supposed to do when she is trapped in a secluded Norwegian town that has nothing to offer except empty roads, sheep, tractors and hay? Alma wants to get all hey, hey in the hayloft with Artur (Matias Myren), but until that time comes, Alma must rely on a friendly phone sex operator at "Wet and Wild Dreams" to get her rocks off. 

A relatively normal teenager with an overactive imagination that has been hijacked by hyperactive hormones, Alma daydreams incessantly about a variety of sexual encounters. Her fantasies begin to get so confused with reality that neither Alma nor the audience know which is which. It is important to note that despite the unquenchable itch in her crotch, Alma never reduces herself to trying to do the deed with just anyone; she is the master of her own domain and is perfectly content racking up her mother's telephone bill with calls to "Wet and Wild Dreams." That is, until her mother (Henriette Steenstrup) sees the bill.

One fantastical (?) encounter with Artur seems so real that it leaves Alma totally convinced that he actually "poked" her, but after she recounts the absurd-yet-innocent event to her friends, Alma becomes an instant freak, earning herself the nickname of "Dick-Alma" (a moniker that most 15-year-old girls would not aspire to possess). Even Alma's friends, Ingrid (Beate Støfring) and Saralou (Malin Bjørhovde), stay clear of her. Trudging onward in an even more isolated haze of high school, Alma rides her misfit status like a roll of coins into a not-so-wild world of booze, hash and nicked porn mags.

Adapted from Olaug Nilssen's novel of the same name, writer-director Jannicke Systad Jacobsen shows us how the repressive tendencies of small rural towns can really screw with the adolescent minds of its inhabitants. The kids of Turn Me On, Goddammit feel locked up and oppressed and hormonal tension is boiling inside them.

The cast is played primarily by teenage actors, lending Turn Me On, Goddammit the aura of an authentically awkward adolescent world that is saturated with overwhelming sexuality. In Hollywood, these kids would have been total horn-dogs, talking raunchily about wanting to get into each other's pants; but Jacobsen's film is incredibly subtle, approaching teenage sexuality naturally rather than exaggeratedly. The high schoolers in Turn Me On, Goddammit are way too shy and timid to discuss sex with each other, thus causing their brains to become overloaded with closeted thoughts and desires.

Another interesting aspect of Turn Me On, Goddammit is the character of Saralou. She gives Jacobsen the opportunity to attack the use of capital punishment in the United States, specifically Texas. Saralou's sole desire is to travel to Texas in order to protest the death penalty. In the meantime, she has become pen pals with several death row inmates in Texas, using the prisoners as sounding boards for all of her pent up adolescent frustrations.