Understanding the Significance of Full Frontal Male Nudity on Television
When it comes to the portrayal of full frontal male nudity on television, it is never without purpose. A penis on screen is not merely an incidental detail; it is a focal point that commands attention. Our initial response often leans toward shock—not just because such imagery is infrequent, but because the presence of male nudity serves a specific narrative function. It provides insight into the scene, the character, and their relationships. The revelation of genitals is rarely the sole aspect of exposure; it usually unfolds layers of meaning.
My thoughts have been particularly drawn to the depiction of prosthetic penises since the latest episode of The White Lotus, which aired on Monday night. In this episode, Jason Isaacs’ character, Jason Ratliff, half-asleep in a hotel-branded robe, crawled to a breakfast bar stool, spread his legs, and exposed himself. This act left his younger children mortified and elicited an unsettling approval from his eldest child. The moment quickly went viral, yet it transcended mere shock value. Without uttering a single word, this transgression and the family’s reaction conveyed profound insights into their dynamics, as well as the unraveling of a man—a financier teetering on the brink of ruin, self-exiling in a Thai paradise while grappling with addiction to his wife’s lorazepam. In essence, his exposed penis symbolized his descent into chaos.
The White Lotus has adeptly utilized this narrative device multiple times. In the inaugural episode of its first season, we saw Steve Zahn’s character, Mark, request his wife to examine his alarmingly swollen testicles. This moment was not a trivial marital obligation; it laid the groundwork for Mark’s character, revealing his inferiority complex, health anxieties, desperation for validation, and fears of being emasculated by his more dominant wife. In the opening episode of the second season, Theo James’s finance bro, Cameron, brazenly flashed his penis to his friend’s wife. This fleeting glimpse (of a prosthetic James described as “ginormous” and possibly “stolen off a donkey in the field”) encapsulated everything we needed to know about him and his lack of respect for women, his own spouse, and his friend. While Isaacs’ character’s accidental exposure highlighted his personal crisis, James’s deliberate display was an emblem of arrogance and virility.
The satire inherent in The White Lotus means that creator Mike White’s choice to incorporate these explicit moments serves to critique each man’s character. Yet, unlike the “naked tennis” scene from last year’s Rivals, which has been nominated for Bafta’s “Memorable Moment” award, the intentionality behind these scenes elicits no laughter. Penises remain one of television’s few enduring taboos; in a landscape where audiences are increasingly desensitized, their presence can evoke visceral reactions. Often, these depictions force viewers to confront uncomfortable truths.
A particularly disturbing scene featuring male nudity that has lingered in my memory occurred in the 2017 episode titled “American Bitch,” one of the most provocative and thought-provoking installments of Lena Dunham’s Girls. This masterful two-hander between Dunham and guest-star Matthew Rhys showcased protagonist Hannah Horvath as she visited the home of a well-known author accused of sexual misconduct after she publicly supported his victims. Their lengthy conversation touched upon various themes—work, gender dynamics, privilege, and cancel culture—prompting both Hannah and the audience to grapple with the complexities of these issues. As trust developed between them, and he charmed her, he suddenly exposed himself, leading to a heart-stopping moment of violation. Hannah’s instinctive recoil mirrored the audience’s shock, revealing her complicity and his predatory manipulation. (Rhys, when given the chance to select his own prosthetic, opted to leave it to the props department, concerned about the implications of his choice of size.)
Horror also enveloped me during a scene from last year’s third season of HBO’s high-tension investment banking drama, Industry. In this episode, heiress Yasmin (Marisa Abela) unknowingly walked in on her father having sex with a pregnant employee on his yacht, in her own bed. This dynamic was not merely dysfunctional; it was abusive, with the implication that he desired her to witness this act as a reflection of an unsettling power dynamic and years of Freudian trauma. The BBC deemed it too explicit for British audiences, opting to cut the scene due to the erect penis.
However, not all representations of male nudity are intended to convey dominance or power. Paul Mescal’s portrayal in 2020’s Normal People followed a tender sex scene, after which his character, Connell, awkwardly suggested Marianne send him a naked photo. Under different circumstances, this could have come across as the plea of a typical adolescent. Instead, Mescal’s performance radiated uncertainty, gentleness, and respect, transforming his nudity into a symbol of vulnerability rather than coercion. Like the aforementioned examples, this moment could have been conveyed without explicit imagery, yet the decision to include it demands that we reflect on what the narrative conveys about masculinity.
Unlike male nudity, the frequent exposure of female bodies on screen has led to a desensitization that diminishes their impact; they are often relegated to the background, stripped off, or dead, leading to a tragic imbalance. The reality is that a naked body can communicate so much more when it is portrayed with nuance and without objectification. Even in a televised context, male bodies often wield a greater narrative power than their female counterparts.
The White Lotus is streaming now on NOW.
