Vince Mancini’s recent GQ article, “The Decline and Fall of the Prestige-TV Nude Scene,” (you can see the article HERE) offers a sharp, well-observed account of the shifting role of nudity in television. He’s right: there was a time when nudity was a signal, a kind of cinematic shorthand that said, “This isn’t regular TV.” He’s also right to note that something has changed.

What’s really at stake is understanding the shift, and divining what comes next.

Mancini and his interviewees make several points I deeply agree with. It’s true that some scenes from prestige TV’s heyday, Game of Thrones, The Sopranos, Californication, leaned on nudity as background noise or visual punctuation, not necessarily to reveal character, deepen emotion, or drive story. That kind of gratuitous exposure is increasingly rare now, and maybe that’s a good thing. Not because bodies shouldn’t be seen, but because the question we’re now asking, finally, is how they’re seen, why, and on whose terms.

Mancini also surfaces an important tension: the industry’s current contraction. When shows are being trimmed for cost, anything time-intensive gets put under the microscope. Intimacy scenes, which now often include rehearsal, closed sets, choreography, actor consultation, modesty garments, and safety protocols, are expensive. So were stunts, once. So was VFX. So is anything worth doing well. If our standard for inclusion becomes cheap and fast, we lose more than just nudity. We lose depth.

I also appreciate that the article doesn't place blame solely on younger audiences, who are often accused of being “too sensitive” or “not into sex.” Mancini is right to question whether that’s really true, or just a convenient narrative. Gen Z lives in a world saturated with images of sexuality, but often starved for authentic, emotionally resonant representations of intimacy. Nudity isn’t going extinct. But it’s being asked to grow up.

Here’s where I’d like to expand the conversation. When people point to intimacy coordinators or #MeToo as reasons why nudity is vanishing, what they often mean is: accountability is here, and it has a budget line. They’re not wrong. Coordinating intimacy safely and ethically takes time, preparation, rehearsal, trust-building, paperwork, and creative collaboration. In a contracting industry obsessed with cutting costs, these elements are sometimes dismissed as burdens. But rather than barriers to artistry, they’re conditions that make artistry possible.

The work of the intimacy coordinator is not to eliminate sex or nudity, but to help filmmakers tell those stories with precision, clarity, and integrity. A well-supported actor gives a better performance. A scene grounded in consent and preparation offers more than titillation, it offers truth.

We are not in a post-sex era. We’re in an era of reframing. What’s fading is not eroticism, but spectacle. We’re seeing a move away from decontextualized nudity designed to provoke, and toward more integrated depictions of intimacy that actually say something. The creative risk is no longer in how much skin can be shown, but in whether that skin means anything. That’s a higher bar. That’s progress.

This doesn’t mean all nudity must be subtle or quiet or politically correct. Euphoria’s wild, raw, neon-lit sexuality is choreography of another kind, provocative, yes, but grounded in intention. The White Lotus and The Righteous Gemstones each deploy nudity with a different flavor, sometimes sensual, sometimes absurd, but almost always in service of story and tone. That’s a more exciting evolution than the repetition of a bare breast to remind us we’re on HBO.

Mancini writes that what’s disappearing is the “naughtiness” that used to feel transgressive. He may be right. But I’d argue something more interesting is replacing it: vulnerability. Intimacy. Discomfort. Power dynamics. Shame. Longing. These are the new terrains of erotic storytelling. They require more than skin. They require craft. And they’re far more dangerous , in the best sense of the word.

GQ asks why Gen Z might not care about nudity anymore. Perhaps the better question is: what kind of nudity do they care about? This generation has grown up with unlimited access to explicit content, but very little modeling of what real, vulnerable, emotionally intelligent intimacy looks like. When they turn to television, they’re not looking for porn, they’re looking for meaning. They want to see themselves, their complexities, their awkwardness, their longing, reflected with nuance.

Of course, there will always be a place for eroticism in storytelling. The human body, in all its power and vulnerability, remains one of our richest narrative tools. But we’re finally beginning to treat it with the same intentionality we give to stunts, fights, choreography, and special effects. That’s not a decline. That’s a maturation of the medium.

The real danger isn’t that we’re losing nudity, it’s that we’re losing patience. Budgets are tightening, development slates are shrinking, and the industry’s appetite for “middle of the road” content threatens to flatten risk-taking altogether. But blaming intimacy coordination for the disappearance of on-screen sex is like blaming cinematographers for the rise of green screen. Craft doesn’t kill cinema. A lack of vision does.

Nudity doesn’t make a show prestigious. But the willingness to explore desire, vulnerability, shame, and longing, in all their nakedness, still can.