In the Lion-City of polite propriety—where even a tofu dish can cause a stir—the idea of a movie “love scene” becoming a production stress-point might sound like a plot twist. Yet here we are, in Singapore, where the role of an intimacy coordinator has stepped into the spotlight. Enter Rayann Condy, Singapore’s only certified intimacy coordinator, whose mission is to turn awkward kisses (“尴尬之吻 ／ gān gà zhī wěn”) and risky nudity into set-scenes that feel safe, scripted and sane. As the article puts it, “Under the watchful eye of Ms Condy, steamy scenes don’t get messy.”
According to a recent piece by Channel News Asia, Condy recalls early stage productions where “what one might call pedestrian or low-key intimacy” – kisses, menu-dismissals of clothes – were navigated with the unspoken awkwardness that actors and directors know too well. She is certified by Intimacy Directors & Coordinators (USA) (IDC) and now helps production teams align on what “They kiss” really means—does it mean “a peck on the cheek” or “a twirl into bed”? Without clarity, confusion reigns.
This might feel novel in Singapore, but across the Asia-Pacific region the profession is gaining traction. In South Korea, the role of intimacy coordinators was spotlighted at the 26th Jeonju International Film Festival where a forum titled “Intimacy Coordinators Are Not Intruders but Partners” stressed their growing necessity in Korean productions. In Japan too, while the #MeToo movement may not have hit full stride, the demand for on-set intimacy oversight is rising after multiple abuse scandals.
Why does this matter in Asia? Because the cinematic and cultural context is different. Singapore’s Infocomm Media Development Authority (IMDA) classification guidelines specify that “sexual activity may be implied, and should be infrequent and brief” for PG and PG13 ratings; full nudity or explicit sex is only allowed under the R21 rating and then only if “justified by context”. Local filmmakers therefore tread a fine line: balancing artistic realism and community values (社群价值 ／ shè qún jià zhí) in a market where even heterosexual intimacy can raise eyebrows.
In this sense, Condy’s work is not just about handheld-camera choreography: it’s about navigating a socio-cultural tightrope. She tells how, for example, one scene of “flirtatious disrobing” needed careful negotiation because the actors were strangers, the scene only tangentially erotic, yet every micro-move could trigger discomfort. The Chinese concept of “面子” (miàn zi) or face, matters—both on and off-set. Actors don’t want to feel vulnerable, crews don’t want loose ends, and production companies don’t want classification trouble.
In Singapore’s vernacular, one could say she creates an “intimacy SOP” (标准操作程序 ／ biāo zhǔn cāo zuò chéng xù) that helps align director intent, actor boundaries and regulatory realities. Her presence offers what many veteran Western actors now view as essential: a liaison, a movement coach, a consent-champion. Indeed, globally the rise of intimacy coordinators followed the MeToo movement in 2017 and the adoption of guidelines by organisations such as SAG‑AFTRA.
Yet it’s not without push-back. Some actors argue that a third party on set inhibits spontaneity: “I think the natural way lovers behave would be ruined by someone bringing it right down to a technical exercise,” one veteran told reporters. In Asia, where hierarchy (等级 ／ děng jí) and direction (导演 ／ dǎo yǎn) are far more pronounced than in Hollywood, the balance between structure and freedom becomes even more delicate.
The Singapore story is therefore part cultural-shift, part production upgrade. Condy is not just safeguarding actors; she’s helping to professionalise a “kissing-and-tight embrace” economy that has often been done ad hoc. As she puts it, her mission is “no awkward kisses, no risky nudity.” And in a film-ecosystem where “a kiss” could mean anything from a mild peck to a full sheets-scene (床戏 ／ chuáng xì), that is indeed a welcome span of clarity.
For anyone working in Asia’s film industry—or any storyteller setting scenes of intimacy—this story underscores a larger point: that in culturally diverse markets, even love can require choreography, consent-protocols and a small behind-the-scenes hero making sure the camera doesn’t pick up the awkwardness. Or as Singapore-style: one carefully directed, modest embrace at a time.
Ah, my dears, Spicy Auntie is delighted—finally the Asian film industry is waking up and smelling the chili oil. After decades of pretending that awkward kissing scenes would magically “work themselves out,” we now have intimacy coordinators, those brave souls who step onto set and politely tell everyone where to put their lips, hands, hips and dignity. About time! And yes, let’s all take a bow to #MeToo, which arrived in Asia like a shy cousin at a wedding—late, hesitant, and unsure where to sit—but eventually found its voice and started flipping tables.
We must also thank the downfall of those notorious “couch producers,” the ones who thought audition was a synonym for opportunity and consent was a foreign concept imported only by Western NGOs. Those days, I hope, are numbered. No more producers who insist, “Can you look sexier? No, sexier. No, even sexier.” No more directors who treat actresses like props and actors like gym equipment. Today we have professionals—certified, trained, and armed with clipboards—who ensure that when two performers get intimate, all the touching is scripted, safe, and agreed upon in advance.
But hold on, my spicy dumplings—Auntie must also whisper a gentle caution. Let’s not wrap our actors so tightly in bubble wrap that they can’t breathe, blink, or flirt just a little. Humans are messy, hormonal, unpredictable creatures. Cinema, at its best, captures that shimmering, awkward, giddy chemistry. And while consent is sacred—engrave it on gold tablets, laminate it, tattoo it on the forearms of every producer—we must not sterilize the spontaneity out of romance.
Actors are not robots from a Seoul tech fair; they are performers, artists, sometimes even glorious chaos machines. When two adults, both fully consenting, feel a little spark on set—a playful wink, an improvised hand gesture, a heat that wasn’t in the script—darling, don’t clamp down like an overprotective chaperone from a 1950s Singapore household. Let them explore within safe boundaries. Let scenes breathe. Let chemistry happen. Staged passion should not look like two mannequins gently bumping into each other.
So yes, hooray for intimacy coordinators! They are essential, long overdue, and downright heroic. But dear industry, remember: consent is the rule, creativity is the spice, and cinema—good, messy, emotional cinema—needs both. As Spicy Auntie always says: if everyone’s safe, respected, and joyful… let the kissing begin!