Dramatic kisses in the rain. A hand disappearing subtly out of frame. Characters undressing, back to the audience, the camera deftly positioned to not show anything — or maybe to purposefully show something, as seen in Heated Rivalry’s famous cottage sequence.
If you’ve noticed these in movies, TV shows or theatre, there’s a chance you’ve seen the work of an intimacy coordinator. Serving as an advocate or liaison, they choreograph scenes of physical intimacy, nudity or simulated sex, depending on what a production requires. Rather than leaving actors to their own devices, intimacy coordinators serve as intermediaries between directors and actors to navigate these vulnerable and intimate scenes. Their work could be seen as comparable to that of stunt, fight or even dance choreographers.
Intimacy direction first gained public traction following the rise of the #MeToo movement in 2017, but the profession existed in a less formal sense long before, stemming from Tonia Sina’s “Intimacy for the Stage” method developed in 2006. Following the popularity of the hashtag, there was a call for more regulation and protections for actors and crew members working on intimate scenes. HBO became one of the first networks to start doing this on a wider scale in shows like The Deuce. HBO’s Alicia Rodis and Amanda Blumenthal, founder of the Intimacy Professionals Association, were both key figures in creating the role of intimacy coordinators. In 2019, Claire Warden did the same on Broadway, co-ordinating Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune.
The profession is now certifiable through organizations like Intimacy Directors International or the Intimacy Professionals Agency, but before they were a solidified position, choreographing intimacy in theatre and film was largely left to the actors, which coordinator Natasha Martina recalls as a “daunting” task.
“First of all, actors need to be informed [prior] to even auditioning,” said Martina, “so that they can make an informed decision.” To ensure that actors are not pressured into scenes they haven’t agreed to, “the intimacy coordinator is there in a relationship with, and advocating for, the actor.” Acting as a mediator between actors, directors and crew, an intimacy professional aims to achieve the director’s vision without making actors feel unsafe. By facilitating clear conversations between all parties, intimate moments become clearly framed to make sure that everyone involved is comfortable and that boundaries during scenes of intimacy, like sharing a kiss, for instance, are maintained. When choreographing intimacy, it’s important that it’s “always being witnessed” by others, to make clear that it’s a performance — a simulation that remains completely separated from the real thing.
Now, they are more commonplace in film, television and theatre. Each medium provides unique experiences for intimacy professionals to navigate. Intimacy directors focus on live performances, like theatre, whereas intimacy coordinators work within the realm of recorded media, such as film and television.
An intimacy coordinator’s work with film and television mainly happens before they arrive on set. “Most of my work is actively having a conversation with the director and showrunners about what they imagine, the degree of nudity, the degree of simulated sex, and then having private discussions with the actors and going through the specificity of what the director is envisioning,” said Martina. Then, after discussing with production, legal and makeup, the intimacy coordinator and actors usually have around 20 minutes to talk about choreography before going in front of the camera.
“In theatre, it's much more of a staggered layout, because they have to repeat that night after night after night after night. In film, you do it all in those couple of hours, and then you let it go,” Martina said. The first day of working on an intimate scene for the stage may include discussions about what consent and boundaries are, the second is for focusing on the choreography and the third is for making tweaks and adjustments. “In theatre, I’m really part of the conversation in the room, and we’re actively doing it, and we have time.”
At UBC, Martina has worked with the theatre and film department on productions like The Arsonists. Last fall, she worked with amateur actors in the UBC Players Club to assist them with their production of Shakespeare in Love. Intimacy coordination is Incorporated into UBC’s theatre and film department practice in many second-year studio courses. Often working alongside coordinator Ariana Barer, the department employs an intimacy coordinator to conduct a three-hour workshop at the beginning of the year to give second-year students a foundation in the subject. Covering topics like consent, boundaries, emotional intelligence and crafting scenes of intimacy, these workshops lay the groundwork in considering what questions to ask and how to respectfully work with a scene partner.
UBC MFA directing student, director and dramaturge Larisse Campbell says that every intimacy director is different, but that she has always enjoyed working with them thanks to the way they help her keep her actors — and herself — safe.
“It allows me to have a hands-off approach. It’s not like actors are worried that I ‘need’ them to do this thing. The intimacy director is able to help facilitate and choreograph it so that I can get what I need out of a piece and help build the world, but that everybody remains protected and consenting,” said Campbell.
While working in Vancouver, Campbell has collaborated with Martina on three different plays: Metamorphoses, Away Uniform and most recently, on her thesis production, Mr. Burns, a post-electric play. While the latter production had no scenes with kissing or physical intimacy of that nature, Campbell said Martina helped her choreograph several moments to avoid physical discomfort between actors, modifying them where needed to ensure comfort and safety. There were two specific moments Campbell noted as benefiting from Martina’s insight — one was an expression of affection, where the actors were supposed to tickle and cuddle each other. The other involved an actor putting their thumb in another actor’s mouth, which was changed so that instead of going inside, the actor would rub their thumb across the other’s lips.
According to Campbell, the role of an intimacy professional is largely production-dependent, and comes down to individual actors’ comfort and needs. To her end, she would always prefer to work and engage with a qualified professional when choreographing scenes of intimacy. For student productions, the role of an intimacy coordinator is more “hands-on,” since student actors may need more assistance in choreographing intimate scenes to find what feels natural and comfortable. “I'm always going to ask actors what their first instincts are,” said Martina, “because ultimately, you want it to come from the actor.” From this conversation, intimacy coordinators aid student actors in understanding their own instinctual boundaries when navigating the complexities of performing intimate moments. For instance, if a student’s instinct is to place their hand on their partner, the coordinator may suggest performing the motion on an inhale or gazing into their partner’s eyes to build on their initial instinct and build an authentic performance.
A new development in theatre is mental health coordination, which Campbell got the opportunity to observe. Aryn Mott, also an intimacy coordinator, is Canada’s first mental health coordinator. Recently Campbell observed their work on a production of Meeting at Pacific Theatre, where they were on-call to assist with resources and tools for mental health, as well as helping to develop a company agreement, or a set of guidelines and ways of working established by the group putting together a production.
“I know that [Mott’s] expertise and their offerings to that specific ensemble [were] very pertinent and helpful,” said Campbell. “I did think, and I’ve spoken to that production team, that they really did find it helpful to have someone to give them specific techniques that they could take with them in their tool kit, to help release the material that was activating.”
From an intimacy coordinator’s perspective, being able to maintain proper mental health is key to their role and work around emotional intelligence. “In order to take care of the other, [as an intimacy coordinator], we’ve got to take care of ourselves,” said Martina.
“In regards to my own mental health, I think it’s really being proactive to know what the material is about and to be able to process that first for myself,” she said. “When you’re dealing with material of nudity and intimacy and simulated sex, you need to be recognizing how you’re feeling so you can recognize it in others.” Knowing how to self-regulate, practice self-awareness and understand how to read and respond to a performer’s body language is crucial in practising the level of emotional intelligence that’s necessary for an intimacy coordinator.
While intimacy coordinators operate entirely behind the scenes, their work is starting to gain more recognition, as evidenced by candid interviews with Heated Rivalry’s intimacy coordinator Chala Hunter. Your favourite actors may have good chemistry, but it’s more likely they have a great coordinator — someone who knows how to make things steamy without sacrificing the safety of everyone involved.
