In 2012, sex all but disappeared from the movies. Perhaps because it was an election year, perhaps because America has been absorbed by a longing for heroes, the films this year were largely devoid of physical passion. Even James Bond, notorious for his tantalizing, exotic affairs, was nearly chaste in Skyfall. The Bond girl in the latest chapter was his boss and maternal figure, M, who stands for England in all its historic glory. Similarly, the runaway hit of the holiday season was Lincoln, in which Daniel Day-Lewis brilliantly gives voice and humanity to the greatness of what government can do: pass a law that ends a war and frees the oppressed. And while the creation of the Amendment that abolished slavery in America represents a kind of sexy happy-ending history lesson, the couplings in the film are mostly legislative. Zero Dark Thirty is another, more contemporary, slice of American-history-in-action, and though the war still rages, it also ends with a victory—the death of Osama bin Laden. The movie follows a CIA analyst named Maya, portrayed with intensity and steel by Jessica Chastain, who believes she has found the arch-terrorist’s lair and will not rest until he is killed. Although Maya works with a team of men and some women, she seems to exist as an island. It’s entirely possible that her goals could be pursued even with human interaction, but that might compromise her hero status in the viewer’s eyes.
When a movie did explore messier territory—as in Silver Linings Playbook, in which Jennifer Lawrence is riveting as an unbalanced and very sexy widow, or Rust and Bone, a French film starring Matthias Schoenaerts and Marion Cotillard as mismatched and emotionally damaged lovers—it seemed to be harder for audiences in 2012 to embrace. A film as chilly and complex as The Master, despite a thrilling performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman as a charismatic cult leader, failed at the box office; and The Deep Blue Sea, in which Rachel Weisz compellingly plays a woman who sacrifices her status and sanity for a love affair with an unworthy man, barely received notice when it was released. Even the wonderfully libidinous Matthew McConaughey, who had a banner year playing a hit man in Killer Joe, a secretive journalist in The Paperboy, and a sleazy male stripper in Magic Mike, was curiously chaste in all those movies. He may have taken his clothes off, but he never had a love scene. In fact, Magic Mike, which was a box office smash, was weirdly devoid of sex: The movie bumped and grinded, but it was, at heart, a tale of American commerce and entrepreneurship.
Perversely, the most romantic film of the year may have been Bernie, the true story of a gay man, played with affection by Jack Black, who became involved with an older, rich harridan and, in a moment of insanity, killed her. Nobody missed the wealthy widow for months, and Bernie spent her money enriching the small Texas town in which he lived. Eventually he was found guilty and is currently serving time in prison, but the movie makes a case for his actions: Bernie loved her, as much as it was possible, and he put her fortune to excellent use. Like Lincoln and the heroine of Zero Dark Thirty, he fought for the greater good.
