Any rank amateur can instruct two people to bump uglies in a manner that passes for porn. But when it comes to making the act appealing for mainstream cinema in a way that is meant to move the plot instead of the viewers' nether regions, things suddenly get seven kinds of complicated. From the director's view, you want that shit to look good and advance the movie. From the producer's standpoint, things should be sexy enough to draw in the kind of audience that is fascinated by the prospect of two A-listers wrestling in their underwear, but not so hot that it attracts the dreaded R-rating. As for the performers, they generally prefer if they don't have to indulge in too much wiener-related interaction at this point in their careers, thank you so very much. The result of this hodgepodge of mixed interests is generally the sex scene you see in every movie: people awkwardly frenemy-hugging under the sheets, maybe with their backs arched if things get really steamy.
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And that's just the beginning of the great heap of trouble that is depicting marital arts in movies. As anyone who has ever made the mistake of looking in the mirror during boning can attest, it's damn difficult to make sex look appealing, and whenever movies try to break the mold and create something more ... novel, it's all too easy to stray into ludicrous horror territory.