How to Have Sex

If you’ve ever been to a Mediterranean party town in July, you can smell this movie before the first frame even flickers to life. It’s the scent of SPF 30, stale tequila, and the salt-crusted air of a Greek island that has seen far too many British teenagers behave far too badly. Molly Manning Walker’s How to Have Sex arrives with a title that sounds like a cheeky instructional or a Raunchy Com™ throwback, but don’t let the bright colors and the thumping Euro-pop fool you. This isn’t The Inbetweeners Movie for a new generation; it’s a quietly devastating autopsy of the social pressures that turn a "dream holiday" into a gauntlet of quiet trauma.

I watched this on my laptop while my radiator was making a rhythmic clanking sound that weirdly synced up with the film’s club scenes, and honestly, the added mechanical noise only amplified the feeling of being trapped in a machine designed to manufacture "fun" at any cost.

The Malia Mirage

The setup is classic British rite-of-passage stuff. Three girls—Tara, Skye, and Em—land in Malia, Crete, for that post-exams blowout. They have a checklist: get drunk, get laid, and make sure every moment is documented for the digital archives of their social feeds. Mia McKenna-Bruce plays Tara, the one who hasn’t "done it" yet, and the film leans heavily on her face to tell the story that the script—wisely—leaves unsaid.

The first act is a dizzying blur of neon and sweat. Manning Walker, who has a background in cinematography, captures the chaotic energy of the strip with a handheld intimacy that feels less like a movie and more like a memory you’d rather forget. It’s loud, it’s abrasive, and Malia is essentially a sensory deprivation tank where the only thing you can feel is a hangover. You see the girls navigating a world of "shag tags," drinking games, and the constant, thrumming demand to be on. It’s a performance of girlhood that feels exhausted before the sun even goes down.

The Silence of Tara

While the marketing might suggest a group ensemble, this is entirely Mia McKenna-Bruce’s show. She is a revelation. I remember her from smaller roles in things like Persuasion, but here she carries the weight of the entire Gen Z experience on her shoulders. Her performance isn’t about big monologues; it’s about the way her smile slowly curdles when she realizes she’s lost control of the night.

When she meets Paddy (Samuel Bottomley) and Badger (Shaun Thomas), the film shifts gears. It stops being a party movie and starts being a horror movie where the monster is just "misunderstanding." The way the film handles the central encounter is the reason it’s one of the most important dramas of the decade so far. It explores the "grey area" of consent—not the stuff of headlines, but the confusing, pressured, "I guess I should say yes" moments that happen in the shadows of a loud club. It’s uncomfortable to watch, but it’s incredibly honest. If you find yourself shouting at the screen for her to just leave, the movie has done its job.

Consenting to the Conversation

In this current era of cinema, we’ve seen a lot of films try to tackle the post-#MeToo landscape with a sledgehammer. What I love about How to Have Sex is that it uses a scalpel. It doesn’t turn the boys into cartoon villains; they are just products of the same toxic, hyper-sexualized culture as the girls. It looks at how friends—specifically Lara Peake’s Skye—can accidentally become part of the problem by demanding their friends "have a good time" as a matter of social obligation.

The film won the Un Certain Regard prize at Cannes, and it’s easy to see why. It feels like a definitive statement on the way we communicate (or fail to) in the age of instant connectivity. Despite all the phones and the constant texting, these characters are profoundly alone. The production, backed by Film4, feels grounded and real, avoiding the glossy "Euphoria" aesthetic for something grittier and more recognizable to anyone who has ever woken up on a sandy mattress with a dry mouth and a sense of dread.

How to Have Sex is a tough sit, but an essential one. It’s a drama that earns every ounce of its discomfort through a career-making performance by Mia McKenna-Bruce and a director who knows exactly when to keep the camera rolling and when to cut away. It’s a film that stays with you long after the club lights have dimmed and the sun has come up over the Mediterranean. You won't exactly have "fun" watching it, but you'll be glad you did.