The Horror and Humanity of Sex: How Thirst and Titane Perform Intimacy

In horror cinema, representations of sex and sexuality are archetypal, if not outright preconditioned by tropes. The genre has likewise been stereotyped as relying on sex as much as fear, making horror and sex synonymous. What does this say about sex’s power in the horror film? While its narrative purpose or effect may differ, sex in horror should be recognized as a legitimate element of technique. Through cinematic analysis, we have the ability to read sex as an intentionally included component of creating not just a film, but a horror film. Sex in horror films is used as a tool to put the character’s humanity at odds through the social connotations of “deviant” sexuality. Both the films Thirst and Titane use sex as a narrative tool with their main characters who are likewise the main antagonists. In both films, sex occurs as a way to advance the decline of the antagonist’s morality. As they stray further from social conventions, they devolve into a subhuman version of themselves, which is best exemplified through the vicious-yet-vulnerable way these characters approach sex.

This essay defines sex as the host of sexual situations, actions and behaviors that exist. Here, I aim to explore sexuality’s representations, allusions and implications within the horror film. As an all-encompassing (albeit generalizing term) for socio-cultural norms, I will be using the idea of  “humanity” as a way to describe what makes us socially and physically acceptable. I will define traditional humanity as thus: behaviors, attitudes and lifestyles seen as socially acceptable, upholding principles of universal goodness. Conversely, for the purposes of this argument anything socially immoral is deemed inhuman. Acting in a way that does not benefit humanity aims to destroy it; by destroying this morality (and therefore also this humanity), an antagonist becomes a monster, a being that is no longer a complete person or a normal human.

These characters reside in an uncanny space, somewhere between socially acceptable person and someone inacceptable animal, and the presence of sex complicates matters. Sex is uncanny, human and animalistic, and through it, through a physical intercourse made out of desire, the villain and victim themselves become uncanny beings. As Jade Budowski writes, “the vulnerability that sex requires touches on an inherent fear that lies in all of us and perfectly lends itself to creating terror in narrative form. Sexual desire drives people to do crazy things, sexual anticipation creates anxiety, sex itself spawns change.” This anticipation, anxiety and change lends sex not just important, but a necessary tool in horror narratives.

Horror, much like sex, is used cinematically as an extension of body and mind. Whether it be explicit biological terror or the grueling battle of sanity against insanity, horror likes to imagine us at our most primal and instinctual, to see how a human decays or metamorphosizes into something nonhuman. This process of becoming inhuman does not require a physical transformation, but it is the most notable way of exploring this. Philosopher J. Martin Strafford sets a designation between our views on sexual matters in relation to romantic ones, saying “love is a special affection, involves acts of prolonged care and nonconcern, and includes wanting to spend quality time with (and only with) the beloved, whereas sexual desire is merely an appetite that demands satisfaction, at any place and time, and implies nothing about good will toward other people” (Soble).

A history of sex in horror cinema reveals much the same. By giving into passions and desires, these characters lean away from traditional sexual behavior and expectations. These traditional  sexual expectations are often defined as consensual, heterosexual sex used as a means to an end in terms of reproduction or socially acceptable pleasure. Sex that does not adhere to these unwritten rules in a horror setting are displays of such notions of deviance. Through their sexual action, the characters change what their humanity is and means. Sex manifests as an undoing of the humanity these characters are expected to follow and reveals the monster underneath. Using horror as a genre to explore sexuality in society reveals that at the core of deviance is fear. As communications professor Dr. Cardoso writes, “in horror films, there is this direct connection made between the moral wrongness of whatever is being represented and the moral wrongness of non-normal sexualities” (Duggins). However, beyond the existence of sex in the genre is a further discussion of horror’s modes of enhancing character building and how it is indicative of a character’s performance of self.

Sex is a performance in its enactment and the process of having it, a performance that makes us question how and why it exists and to what end. It builds character(s) by revealing them in one of the most vulnerable ways possible. Sex is not limited to any one specific act, and even if there is no explicit representation of sex, there is much we can take away from how the film uses sexual situations to appeal to our pathos. Nowhere is this more clear than horror. Here, sexuality is the core of the psyche. Through sex we see a broader view of the character’s performance of self. It allows an audience to uncover their identities and personhood, both human and monster.

Thirst

The 2009 film Thirst, written and directed by Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook pulls its source of horror from vampires, priests, lust for power and of course, sexual deviance. The reserved priest Sang-Hyun (played by Song Kang-ho) undergoes a sort of martyrdom by giving his living body to science, only to have it ravaged by vampirism. He is moved by the faith he witnesses from patients on the verge of death; in the shadow of his theological doubts, he wishes to feel the same as them. With the help of the superior at the monastery, Sang-Hyun is able to do just this by volunteering to be experimented on in hopes of finding a cure to the aptly named Emmanuel Virus. It becomes clear Sang-Hyun is suffering from the virus in a grotesque and debilitating manner. This bodily degeneration leads to Sang-Hyun being given a blood transfusion to save his life, only for him to flatline and be pronounced dead. However, as he recites a personal prayer, he awakes, appearing miraculously alive, though not cured. Months later, he is hailed a living saint and returns to his monastery, though noticeably changed. Carrying the disease and its effects with him, Sang-Hyun hides his skin (covered in boils) with bandages. In this way, he tries to hide his state at the risk of uncovering the true nature of this illness. This attitude stays with him even as he realizes how to heal himself: through blood.

His condition morphs into symptoms not associated with those of the disease, like heightened taste and smell. He is invited to aid in the healing of an old friend Kang-Woo, where he is met with Kang-Woo’s wife (Sang-Hyun’s future mistress), Tae-Ju (played by Kim Ok-bin). She lives under the control of her husband and domineering mother-in-law, who treat her to a life of servitude. Her anger is sharp and noticed by the priest, although she refuses to let herself actually enact violence against her own aggressors. He becomes infatuated with her, but refuses to let himself entertain the thought, going so far to whack his thighs whenever he thinks of her sexually (Thirst, 00:25:10). This act in and of itself shows a thread connecting violence and desire, and reveals how sexuality is condemned through violence.

Sang-Hyun’s remission is short-lived as he realizes he requires human blood and starts to drain from the transfusion tubes in patients at the hospital. He confides in his superior, saying “you know I went there to do good. Now I thirst after all sinful pleasures,” which is followed by his superior cutting himself and allowing his priest to drink from the wound (00:36:09). At this point, Tae-Ju reciprocates Sang-Hyun’s feelings and they begin an affair. As they meet to have sex, she asks how the disease is transmitted, to which he replies, “not through a kiss for sure” (00:36:53). In this simple remark, he assures her that their having sex cannot hurt her, which is painfully incorrect.

Sang-Hyun feels remorse, and looking for guidance his superior tells him that “sin of the heart is okay…but you must not taint your body with sin,” alluding to how sex with Tae-Ju will bond them more intimately and unveil both of their desires (00:45:58). As their relationship progresses, we see them both change, from inexperienced to unconventional styles of sex. Their unorthodox approach to intimacy, which includes attention to areas like feet and armpits, signals how they want every part of the other, how through sex, they attempt to consume and be consumed. Tae-Ju’s perspective is interesting, as she realizes this type of sex is extremely pleasurable to her and that she desires his sickness as well, going so far as to ask herself, “am I a pervert?” (00:50:50). Here lies a direct connection between deviant or unconventional modes of sex and a shift away from humanity towards monstrosity.

Later, the two plan to kill Kang-Woo and his mother. They eventually kill Kang-Woo but are unable to hide his body, which comes back to haunt them, and due to grief the mother-in-law is left in a catatonic state and they leave her alive (01:29:50). Tae-Ju becomes restless and admits to Sang-hyun that she lied about Kang-Woo abusing her (which Sang-Hyun used as a just reason to murder). Tae-Ju begs him to kill her amid his fury, which he does, only to feed her his own blood to revive her as a monster (1:44:55). This scene in particular is purposefully erotic, with the pair drinking from each other’s bodies in a way that mimics their sex scenes. It is representative of the violence and sex associated with their vampiric tendencies, and how both the brutality and the sexuality increase as their humanity withers.

Tae-Ju’s transformation results in her growing increasingly bloodthirsty and against Sang-Hyun’s wishes, she murders unsuspecting victims, enjoying the hunt as much as the prey. Their vampiric bliss is short-lived, however, as Tae-Ju’s mother-in-law reveals their secret to a group of family friends (02:04:04). After killing these friends and kidnapping the mother-in-law, the vampire couple runs away. On the way to their destination, Sang-Hyun goes to the camp of his religious followers and pretends to rape a young girl to lose their respect and idolization. In the ultimate culmination of sexual violence and de-humanization, this choice shows Sang-Hyun does whatever is required for other people to see him as the monster he feels he is. This is possible through the insinuation of sexual violence, showing again how the two are intertwined as a basis of inhumanity. Sang-Hyun then takes Tae-Ju to a coastal cliff where he announces he is going to let the sunrise kill them. Tae-Ju protests and they begin to fight, but eventually she gives in and they embrace as they turn to dust with her mother-in-law in the backseat of the car watching.

This film makes the parallels between vampirism and sexuality apparent, but what sets it apart is that this comparison finds a monster in both. Upon discovering one, they discover the other and it leads to their destruction. Sang-Hyun finds his religious beliefs and sexual desires at odds, and his vampirism, which arises as he tries to be pious, is ironically indicative of this internal struggle. As he gives into his need for blood to survive, he likewise gives into Tae-Ju and their sexual relationship. His transformation into a vampire coincides with his transformation into a sexual being, and by the end, both are the death of him. Tae-Ju, in the same vein, feels her own life is in the power of others, so as she experiences sexual freedom with Sang-Hyun, she also gives herself the freedom to seek power. To her, the monstrosity of killing (as sport as opposed to mere survival), is both freedom and power. Like her lover, her descent into this deviant nature also coincides with her growing infatuation. Their need to consume humanity deprives them of their own.

Titane

Similar to Thirst, the narrative of Titane intertwines the dynamics of sex, power, and loss of human life. French filmmaker Julia Ducournau’s 2021 film follows Alexia (Agathe Rousselle), who after a near-fatal car crash, is left with a titanium plate in her head, and a psycho-sexual connection to cars. Alexia is attracted to cars and their possible carnage – she seeks what could have killed her because this carnage that could have destroyed her has instead given her a second life. This second chance at life is tainted by the fact that she has a plate in her head, a reminder of not only her proximity to death but also her proximity to machines. Her lust for a death-drive turns sexual as she feels increasingly separated from humanity. As Ducournau herself stated, “metal is the antithesis to flesh. It’s cold. It’s dead. Flesh is warm and alive. Having this kind of collision in one person is, for me, talking about how our relationship to humanity, as far as it is capable of mutating or evolving—is it a doomed thing because of mortality, because of the death in us?” (Zuckerman). In this alone, we can see how her story is similar to Thirst in terms of how sexuality and inhumanity are connected.

Alexia is a showgirl at automobile clubs, where we first see her sexuality in action as she dances around and on top of the car. She appears alive and in control, going so far as to look at the audience as she moves her body on the automobile. Soon after, it is revealed that Alexia has violent tendencies when she stabs and kills a man after he follows her, but not before she feigns seduction to get closer to him (Titane, 00:11:42). In this instance, her apathy towards death and conventional sexuality bleed into one another. Further, it shows that her attitude towards enacting death, towards destroying humanity, is also something immoral and alien. After this, she takes a shower and walks out to find the same car she was performing on earlier. The scene is set to make the car seductive, sleek and alluring. She caresses the car, gets inside, and seems to have sex with it from the inside (00:15:00). Sex within this context shows her vulnerability is only accessible through the non-human. Severed from traditional notions of humanity and sex, she is left desiring what makes her a monster through a traditional  lens. As Tyler Malone puts it, “the car crash as form of sexual intercourse points to one of the more disturbing questions underlying sex in horror: How does trauma, violence, power, and pain shape our sexual desires?” Here, Alexia’s source of trauma becomes her source of attraction.

Alexia returns home and the news station on the television reveals there has been a string of murders, which we are led to believe are caused by her. She looks on without emotion and complains instead about pain in her stomach (00:19:38). This then cuts to her trying to have sex with her coworker, which results in Alexia acting aggressive, running away in embarrassment and then excreting motor oil from her vagina (00:22:28). It is beyond apparent now that she is pregnant after having sex with the car, which she confirms with a pregnancy test. Her pregnancy proves that she lives between machine and person, that her body is a vessel able to host the monstrosity that results from her sexuality. Alexia, in a confused and scared rage, then kills her coworker and parents, running away from everything that defined her before (00:31:00).

Here, Alexia makes the most drastic change thus far by stealing the identity of a missing person, a boy named Adrien. Frantically, she cuts off her hair, binds her breasts and breaks her own nose to disguise her appearance (00:33:52). Vincent (played by Vincent Lindon), is the father of Adrien and a firefighter chief. He comes to pick Adrien up, convinced that even years after the disappearance that this is truly him. He takes issue with the police asking to do a DNA test, saying “think I can’t recognize my own son?” (00:37:38). Both Alexia and the father are searching for something to fulfill them, no matter who it hurts, and find it within each other. Vincent looks for a way to heal from loss, seeking comfort in whoever offers it. When he finds “Adrien,” he does not question if it is really him because he is willing to sacrifice truth for comfort. Likewise, Alexia is at first willing to take advantage of this man’s delusions and grief, prioritizing her own safety. However, as they discover more of each other, they realize that they both lack a sense of humanity and find it through their unorthodox relationship.

From here on out (until the last scene), Alexia is referred to as Adrien and seen as Vincent’s son, so I will follow suit and refer to the character as Adrien. This is important not only because it shows a complete transformation of the character but because it speaks to a larger theme of evolving identity. Alexia’s becoming Adrien is how Adrien is able to simultaneously become the most and least human version of the character, most by his regained sense of intimacy and least because of his physical transition into something machine. Adrien is where we truly see the effects of immorality on a person’s physical identity, and for ease of understanding, I will refer to the character as Adrien for the length he lives as him.

Adrien is intimidated by Vincent’s devotion, refusing to speak and trying to run away multiple times, which the man responds to with further devotion. He tells Adrien, “if anyone tries to hurt you, I will kill them. Even if it’s me, I’ll kill myself, I swear” (00:40:16). Adrien continues to conceal the truth of his identity and pregnancy from Vincent, who likewise is hiding the fact that he is taking steroids. His attitude towards his inability to gain physical strength is indicative of his desire to regain a sense of humanity. Years of grief followed by his grand delusion about his son’s return have weakened him. In a way, the two share a sense of bodily degeneration and live in a state of survival. It is through this skewed way of life that they eventually come to care for each other.

Vincent is much more open about showing care than Adrien is. He sticks up for Adrien when the firefighters are confused by his appearance and later asks Adrien to dance, which within the context of the film has been used to signal a precursor to sex. While intimate, it is representative of a found family connection rather than a typical sexual relationship Adrien has experienced. In this way, by making the audience believe there is going to be sex, only to instead reveal otherwise, the audience’s implicit expectations are deconstructed.Vincent later has a near-death experience from steroids, which Adrien walks in on (00:59:09). Adrien thinks about killing Vincent, but is overcome with emotion and instead tries to revive him. Embracing him, Adrien speaks to Vincent for the first time, calling him “dad” (01:00:42).

Adrien eventually goes so far as to help Vincent take his steroids, holding his hand after he does so (01:21:15). While not as monstrous or dangerous as Adrien’s condition, Vincent’s body is in some fashion also altered in a way that Adrien understands as vulnerability. Especially after seeing Vincent nearly die, he begins to see that this man holds the same desire for what has the power to kill him. Their dual attraction to what may seem dangerous is the basis for their dehumanization; it is also the basis of their relationship. Not fitting the traditional mold of father-son relations, or the traditional  mold for a person, their performance of character is an extension of their performances as people, and as men. It proves that their intimacy is intensified because they’ve been made subhuman with synthetic materials that make them feel separated from traditional masculinity, which dehumanizes them as men.

Later, we see a disconnect between Adrien’s expression of masculinity and sexuality as Adrien begins to assimilate with the firefighters. At a party the young men dance into each other chaotically, pushing each other as a means of closeness. Adrian begins to dance, taking inspiration from his past as a showgirl. Eventually, he makes eye contact with Vincent and continues to dance even more provocatively. The sexual manner of this dancing is confusing and awkward, and Vincent walks away. Adrien retaliates by having sex with a firetruck, clearly upset from making Vincent uncomfortable and not knowing how else to get attention but sexually (01:33:11).

Later, Adrien goes into labor as he crawls his way back to Vincent’s house. Laying down on Vincent he says, “I love you too,” finally able to speak honestly (01:36:55). Adrien reveals that Alexia is her real name and identity, returning to the initial form of humanity she was given and understood. In this moment, Alexia sheds the artifice of humanity and masculinity that Adrien allowed her to project. In her most vulnerable state, she is able to be honest about who she was as a person. Vincent, at first hesitant, helps her give birth and despite everything, sees Alexia as family with the same adoration he had before. As Alexia goes into labor, her head splits at the seam of the metal implant. She dies as Vincent reveals a small child with a metal spine (01:42:02).

In going to Vincent in her last moments, it shows the two know each other more clearly than ever. It proves that Alexia shares a sacred relationship to Vincent that is powerful enough for her to leave behind her mechanical type of intimacy, her nonhuman sexuality, in search of something more real. They both abandon their monsters, their inhumanity, in search for something else. They end up as something not subhuman, but complexly human. Unlike Thirst, they find humanity within each other and create it out of their real monsters: their traumas. With a sad irony, this happens as Alexia, and the role of Adrien, both die. As soon as she is willing to desire and accept human closeness, her life ends. She was ambivalent to murder and hurt, but through Vincent, understood the gravity of life. She gives up and her body is taken by death in order to sustain another’s life as she gives birth. Vincent, amid this, is forced to finally let go of two sons, to accept death and his own mortality.

Both of these films show a correlation between the roles of sex, power, inhumanity and identity for the characters. Thirst does this with vampiric consumption of human bodies for purposes of achieving life and love. However, it also shows that this cannot be sought through consumption, and that acting on desires only increases the need for desire. Though seeming to grow closer as they grow in supernatural power, the couple instead begins to lose the love they had and resent each other for how becoming powerful has changed them. In the end, they are aware they live on borrowed time and find some peace in a joint death. Titane holds similar ideals, but there is a more hopeful resolution. Alexia seems to have changed for the better, although it is at the cost of her life, and so does Vincent. With each other, they conquer their apathy and warped views of the world and life. Although at first viewed as misguided or even perverted, their relationship is symbolic of the power that true understanding provides. Titane, unlike Thirst, gives an example of being able to restore a sense of humanity when it is lost to deviance, sexual or otherwise. Thirst instead shows the dissolve into further deviance despite searching for human connection. These themes are evident within the genre of horror for a reason; questions of morality and mortality, and our hopes to evade or deny both, can be terrifying. Still, these subjects are alluring, and these films redefine what it means to be sexual, moral, and even human.

Works Cited

Bukowski, Jade. “Sex & Horror: How Sexuality Shapes the Genre.” Decider, 26 Oct. 2017, decider.com/2017/10/26/sex-horror-how-sexuality-shapes-the-genre/. ‌

Duggins, Tom. “A Brief History of Horror’s Obsession with Group Sex.” I-D, i-d.vice.com/en/article/epzj8z/a-brief-history-of-horrors-obsession-with-group-sex.

Malone, Tyler. “Must Sex Always Mean Death When It Comes to Horror Movies?” Literary Hub, 31 Oct. 2022, lithub.com/must-sex-always-mean-death-when-it-comes-to-horror-movies/.

Soble, Alan. “A History of Erotic Philosophy.” The Journal of Sex Research, vol. 46, no. 2/3, 2009, pp. 104–20. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20620409.

Thirst, dir. Chan-Wook, Park, 2009, Moho Film.

Titane, dir. Julia Ducournau, 2021, Kazak Productions.

Zuckerman, Esther. “How Exactly Did the Sex Scene in “Titane” between a Human Woman and a Car Get Made?” Thrillist, 1 Oct. 2021, www.thrillist.com/entertainment/nation/titane-movie-filmmaker-julia-ducournau-interview.

Dex Veitch is a junior majoring in CompLit and Film Studies, with hopes to go into screenwriting or the general film production field after college. He enjoys anything related to the disciplines of cinema, writing, and art history, with a particular focus on gender, sexuality and queer studies.