Film sets are stressful, but when the crew is made up of exhausted students, they run the risk of being panic-inducing.

Visual media arts students learn that professionalism is paramount on film sets, especially while shooting projects with mature themes that often explore adult subject matter. These projects may include more intimate, sometimes sexual, scenes, and because of that, intimacy coordinators have recently become a more coveted position on Emerson crew calls. 

The role of the intimacy coordinator remains an emerging position in the film industry, becoming popularized in the late 2010s in the wake of the #MeToo movement as studios began cracking down on severely unprofessional workplace behavior. With this in mind, studios began hiring experts in movement and mental health to assist in the preparation and choreography of sexually intimate scenes. The goal, ultimately, is to ensure legal and emotional advocacy for all parties involved, though there are still no industry-wide requirements about the role. 

Recently, Sean Baker, the director of Best Picture winner “Anora,” did not have an intimacy coordinator on set during production. Mikey Madison, who also took home an Academy Award for her performance in the film, declined the offer to have an intimacy coordinator, spawning a renewed discourse on their necessity.

As the film industry grapples with that necessity, Emerson productions with intimate scenes are becoming more reliant on intimacy coordinators.

Intimacy coordinating isn’t a position that is explored in classes as regularly as other, more traditionally known production positions, but some VMA students have found ways to gain experience for the emerging profession.

When Jesse Hudgens, a visual and media arts first-year student, arrived at Emerson, she quickly signed up for a four-hour-long intimacy coordinating workshop facilitated by Emerson senior artist-in-residence Ted Hewlett.

“That’s what really taught me what I do now,” said Hudgens. “I’ve just been following that and using that on multiple productions. I did a simulated sex scene with the knowledge from the professor who was teaching us intimacy coordination.”

Hudgens had wanted to work in film since she was in high school, so independent artists and filmmakers inundated her TikTok feed. She describes coming across the videos of Jessica Steinrock, a licensed intimacy coordinator and trainer who educates new intimacy professionals. Steinrock’s videos, which offer glimpses at the day-to-day routine of intimacy coordination, stuck to Hudgens’s mind.

While working on student productions as an intimacy coordinator, Hudgens made use of what she had learned in Hewlett’s workshop, seeing a need for intimacy coordinators at Emerson. 

When working on a production, intimacy preparation begins before the actors arrive on set. Hudgens likes to request an early intimacy meeting where the actors will establish their physical boundaries: “I teach them how to ask for touch, and then how to accept touch,” she said. 

Hudgens feels that a large part of her job is not just helping actors get comfortable, but helping actors stand up for themselves if they are asked by a director or their scene partner to do something that makes them uneasy. She believes actors need to understand their boundaries and question if a script calls for something that crosses them.

“It’s so important to say no. Obviously, you know what you’re signing up for, so don’t sign up for a role you can’t commit to,” she said. “If you know you’re not comfortable kissing somebody on camera, don’t go for that role.”

To Hudgens, a lot of her work can only come after building a firm but cordial workplace relationship with the actors she’s working with. She and the actors discuss the more intimate scenes they will be performing in the upcoming shooting days.

Hudgens remembers one instance where she worked with two actors on a scene where a woman lies on a man’s chest while he plays with her hair. In one take, the man might want to touch the woman’s arm, or in another, the woman might want to caress the man’s face. In Hudgen’s mind, this performance variation can be difficult to achieve respectfully if the actors haven’t established what kinds of physical touch they would allow in this scene.

“The whole point is to do all the asking during these private intimacy coordinating sessions so that on set, you can do a practice and then roll, and not have to ask each other directly, because you know each others’ boundaries,” said Hudgens.

Actors don’t just rely on intimacy coordinators for scenes with sexual activity. She describes that the need for an intimacy coordinator strictly comes from an actor’s needs and where they might lie. “Intimacy coordinating isn’t only sex, but it’s not that intimacy coordinators need to be called for every hug that happens on set either,” she said.

“Getting comfortable touching another actor in an appropriate way is a foundation of an actor’s job. You don’t need an intimacy coordinator for a hug because between actors, you should be able to communicate,” Hudgens added. 

However, this is often decided on a case-by-case basis, as actors may need various degrees of communicative assistance from intimacy coordinators.

Hudgens believes that the role is something that requires proper preparation, as going in blind can result in dangerous emotional consequences.

“This is something where you cannot take on more than you can chew,” said Hudgens. “If you’re like, ‘I really have no idea how I can do this,’ or ‘I hope this goes well,’ then maybe try and do more research, maybe practice with friends or in a more comfortable space.”

Erin Stotts, a junior visual and media arts major, initially stepped into intimacy coordinating almost on a whim. Back home, she was the script supervisor on a local short film about gay Mormon vampires when someone asked, “Who feels comfortable intimacy coordinating?”

This whim, as Stotts explained, came from a need to rationalize situations that might be seen as uncomfortable. 

“I love normalizing the things that people feel uncomfortable about,” she said. “I think intimacy and sex and romance is something that everyone does, yet it’s so stigmatized.”

After putting her gay Mormon vampire coordinating on her resume, she found herself getting attention from Emerson productions, which needed intimacy coordinators. After working in the role on various sets and doing her own research of the profession, she fell in love with it. She hopes to get SAG-AFTRA certified after graduating to continue working as an intimacy coordinator.

Stotts recognizes that actors need to give natural performances, but she insists that intimacy coordinators aren’t there to stifle that creativity.

“Depending on how complex the intimate scene is when we’re rehearsing it, I usually don’t like things to be over-rehearsed,” said Stotts. She suggests “one rehearsal, so we can get boundaries down between the two actors.”

Because the role of intimacy coordinator is relatively new to the film industry, student directors aren’t always aware of whether a production will need an intimacy coordinator.

“[Most student directors] don’t really know what they’re looking for. Generally, they’ve never worked with an intimacy coordinator before, so they don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing,” said Stotts. “I really have to be my own advocate to actually do my job. And they don’t really know when I should be there and when I shouldn’t be.”

Because of this, Stotts would encourage the idea of having the position be explored more in the VMA curriculum. 

“It would be really influential to have these programs just so people know what they’re doing when they get into it, and not just for intimacy coordinators, but also just for filmmakers,” said Stotts. “I think a lot of directors and producers could use more general knowledge on intimacy coordinating so they know what to look for.” 

Leah Chazdon, a sophomore visual and media arts major, knew she wanted to get into film production but wasn’t sure where her place was. 

Fortunately, intimacy coordinating presented itself to her this past fall semester when she worked on a film called “This is Where the Marigolds Grow,” directed by Kylie Gifis. Chazdon explains how Gifis had hired a SAG-AFTRA-certified intimacy coordinator for the film, which Chazdon describes as having some “some pretty intense scenes.” 

Chazdon began intimacy coordinating this semester, emulating what she witnessed on “Marigolds” and utilizing the research she has done since then. Most recently, she was an intimacy coordinator alongside Isabella Siebold on EIV’s Spilled Milk, directed by Sofia Nanji. 

“With ‘Spilled Milk,’ it was less intimacy and more just intense scenes, and I think it was a good foot in the door for me to get into [intimacy coordinating],” she said.

Since then, Chazdon has heard from two other productions that need intimacy coordinating: “I guess it really shows how much people need [intimacy coordinators] around here.”

Although she has only been introduced to the job recently, Chazdon is already very passionate about what it entails and why it’s important. 

“Actor safety and crew safety is the most important thing when it comes to film production,” Chazdon said. “I don’t care if you get the perfect shot without a coordinator—someone’s boundaries are bound to get crossed, and if they’re not, that’s some sort of miracle.”