When you spend $20 on a movie ticket, you’re probably not expecting two hours of unfiltered, borderline porn.
Yet, that’s becoming increasingly common in modern cinema. Close-up shots of breasts and backends are no longer rare artistic choices—they’re practically default. But despite what some filmmakers might argue, explicit nudity doesn’t automatically elevate a film. More often than not, it distracts from the story rather than supporting it.
Take A24 films, for example. The indie studio is known for pushing creative boundaries, which has earned it a loyal following. Many viewers admire the raw, edgy storytelling. But with that edge often comes excessive nudity—scenes that seem less about storytelling and more about testing audience limits. The fine line between artistic expression and shock value gets blurry fast. And when audiences spend half the movie shielding their eyes instead of watching the screen, the message is already lost.
Some might say, “But that’s just realism. It’s life.” Sure—but so is going to the bathroom, and we don’t need a three-minute toilet scene to prove it. Nudity can serve a purpose when it’s tied to a character’s vulnerability, trauma, intimacy, or power. But too often, it’s inserted without thought—more for controversy than clarity. If a film’s takeaway is “Wow, I didn’t expect to see that much of him or her,” then something important has been missed. When nudity becomes the most memorable part of a movie, it’s not art. It’s marketing.
Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer is a prime example. The film is visually stunning, emotionally powerful, and historically significant. But even a movie of that importance wasn’t immune to the sudden, jumpscare nude scenes. These moments didn’t deepen the story or offer insight into the characters. Instead, they disrupted the tone, pulling viewers out of the experience and into an uncomfortable headspace. For many, it was a distraction—a detour from an otherwise masterful narrative.
Historically, nudity has been used to launch careers, provoke conversation, or add an illusion of depth. But lately, especially in the name of gender equity, we’ve seen a rise in male nudity as well. While it’s fair to critique the objectification of women, adding more male exposure doesn’t necessarily balance the scale—it just increases the shock factor. Full frontal scenes, often dropped without warning or context, rarely feel organic. They feel like filmmakers daring the audience to look away.
While some argue nudity adds realism or artistic depth, it’s often just a tool for publicity, controversy, or commercial gain. When it supports the narrative, it can be effective. But when it’s just a wow factor—especially involving male genitalia—it cheapens the art. Real artistic value comes from storytelling and visual creativity, not shock tactics.
In the recent award-winning The Substance, the film dives into themes of women’s bodily expectations and self-image. Given its thriller-horror category, you enter expecting some level of body gore and discomfort. That part’s built into the genre. However, even in a film with horror themes, the nudity often goes beyond what’s necessary to convey its message. At times, it feels more like visual exploitation than a tool to underscore the emotional weight of the story. When even a film centered around the physicality of womanhood risks objectifying its subject, it raises the question: is nudity being used as commentary—or as a crutch?
So the next time you walk out of a theater with an actor’s bare parts burnt into your memory, ask yourself: did that nudity really serve the story? Or was it just there to cover up a weak script?
In an era where everything is instant, clickable, and shareable, filmmakers face pressure to stand out. But shock shouldn’t replace substance.
