To The Pyre: Female Lust is Back

In a recent conversation about Techno Feudalism by Yanis Varoufakis, the theory emerged that we are not so much advancing as we are looping back—reverting to a digital-age feudalism. The argumentation was that under the grip of capitalism, systemic power structures begin to echo medieval hierarchies, with tech-billionaires as new-age lords and women being seen as property. Under the current global swing to the right, more rights seem to be taken away, particularly those of women. Abortion laws remain legal in countries like Germany or the U.S. for now, but leading parties are already laying the groundwork for future bans. The fight for women’s rights is never truly won; it is a battle endlessly refought. As art has always been a response to the zeitgeist, cinema mirrors our cultural subconscious and is now centering something long oppressed: female desire.

The first iteration of Nosferatu in 1922 was a reflection of early 20th-century anxieties around female sexuality. Female lust could not be explained differently other than when a woman is being possessed — of course. This shameful desire took on form in a vampire that haunted Ellen (or Lucy, depending on the adaptation), a spectral embodiment that represented society’s terror of female autonomy. Sexual desire in women was something to be feared, demonized, and ironically romanticized through the monstrous.

At its core, Nosferatu has always been quietly progressive in how it engaged with female desire – even though its origins are tangled in appropriation. As the unauthorized adaptation from the novel Dracula from 1897; the book heavily drew from Emily Gerard’s lesser-known writings on Transylvanian folklore — a woman well noted — that Bram Stoker takes credit for. 

The story has been retold many times, including through Werner Herzog’s 1979 interpretation and F.W. Murnau’s original silent film. But both failed to give women true agency. Lucy or Ellen were positioned as the tragic, passive savior who is silenced by her sacrifice.

Enter Robert Eggers’ forthcoming 2025 adaptation. Here, the narrative finally shifts. Ellen takes on the role of the active part in the film’s most arresting moment, she doesn’t passively succumb; she commands the frame. In the last scene — spoiler — she locks eyes with the camera, fully conscious of her sacrifice. She is not possessed, she chooses. It is not martyrdom like portrayed in the past adaptations, it is reclamation. 

And this reclamation ripples across contemporary cinema. Female lust, once buried beneath layers of shame and censorship, is now crawling to the surface.

In Babygirl, director Halina Reijn presents a provocative exploration of power dynamics and desire. Nicole Kidman stars as Romy Mathis, a high-powered CEO who jeopardizes her career and family by engaging in an affair with her much younger intern, Samuel, portrayed by Harris Dickinson. The film delves into the psychological complexities of their relationship, emphasizing tension and control over mere eroticism. Reijn’s direction employs a female gaze that fosters intimacy without exploitation, particularly evident in the film’s nuanced portrayal of their affair. Kidman’s allure is conveyed through what remains unseen, not thriving but simmering in suggestion.

When it comes to visualizing sex, mainstream media has historically catered to the male gaze—pornography being the most obvious manifestation, where female pleasure is often secondary or silenced entirely. We have been raised to be the passive part, as the ovum that gets to be fertilized by a sperm. From a young age, girls are conditioned to be passive recipients of desire, their experiences muted by shame and societal discomfort. Meanwhile, boys discuss masturbation openly—even bond over it—while female sexuality remains a cultural taboo.

And when women monetize their own bodies—via platforms like OnlyFans—it becomes a moral panic, a new iteration of the old shame. Yet even that, as liberating as OnlyFans can appear, isn’t necessarily feminist emancipation.

Why, then, is society still so afraid of female lust? Because female desire signifies autonomy, power, and control—forces that patriarchal systems have historically sought to suppress. Authoritarian regimes have always used controlling women’s bodies as a mean of exerting dominance.

Cinema, in this context, becomes political. In a world where women’s rights are once again at stake, it feels as though we’re slipping backward. In Afghanistan, women are silenced completely not even allowed to speak. In Iran two teenage girls were recently arrested for dancing in public. And the list goes on. But it’s not just politics, social norms still dictate control, too. As indie sleaze and the UK’s 2010s aesthetic resurface in cultural nostalgia, so too does the romanticization of the manic pixie dream girl—along with the troubling reemergence of eating disorders in cultural consciousness, again commanding women’s bodies. It seems that every time the women’s movement gains momentum, the patriarchy seems to find new ways to starve women of their power.

In this landscape, lust becomes a weapon in an ongoing fight for visibility. And female lust in cinema isn’t always sexual; sometimes, it’s about obsession, ambition, or self-destruction. In The Substance, lust manifests as an obsessive pursuit of self-optimization, where sacrifice becomes a form of self-erasure. Elizabeth Sparkle, a fading starlet, finds herself cast aside after her TV show is canceled on her 50th birthday. Desperate to reclaim her youth, she undergoes an experimental treatment—the substance—splitting her existence into two versions: her older self and the younger, more desirable Sue. But desire, once awakened, spirals. As her hunger for youth consumes her, she turns to other sensations, seeking fulfillment in whatever remains—food, power and control.

Female lust is about more than pleasure—it’s resistance. It’s the fight for autonomy in a world that continually tries to snatch it away. And this conversation barely scratches the surface, leaving out how desire manifests outside binary gender roles altogether. As a response to the world, cinema begins to reclaim female desire as an act of exercising power. So, maybe we are circling back to medieval times, but this time, the witches are ready for the fire.