Intimacy coordination is still a relatively new role in film, and one that’s been under a lot of scrutiny. Because it has expanded so quickly, it’s natural that there are misconceptions and questions, especially given the nature of the role. We’ve seen actors publicly opting out or others joking about it as an unnecessary presence on set, but the role exists because of a very real history of blurred boundaries, pressured performances, and power being misused within creative spaces.

So what does it mean, then, to have come on board as an intimacy coordinator on The Intimacy Coordinator? Where the abuse of power is turned around and placed directly inside the very thing that’s supposed to be preventing it? It is these very tensions that drew me to working on the film, as well as the fact that it’s written and directed by Louisa Connolly-Burnham – with the quality of her writing, directing and acting, the team that she manages to build, and the vibe on set, you know you’re part of something truly special. 

My role on set was to ensure the actors and crew felt supported and safe throughout, but I was grateful that Louisa also asked me to give input on initial drafts of the script. It’s rare for an intimacy coordinator to be involved at such an early stage, but I believe that the work is always stronger for it, especially on a piece that looks so directly at the role itself. Louisa and I worked closely to make sure the technical detail felt accurate, looking at the language used on set, the rhythms of a shoot and small intimacy coordinator specifics – keep your eyes peeled for Louisa’s character’s props including the iconic mint selection, a solid staple in an intimacy coordinator’s kit. 

A question that often came up in our discussions was, given that intimacy coordination is still evolving in the film industry, whether it was wise to be making something that pushes this twisted portrayal? For me, the answer is, absolutely! In fact, that’s the point. 

The film isn’t really about intimacy coordination; it’s about power and what happens when the person in the room who is there to hold boundaries is the one who crosses them. And in real life, that’s ultimately what a good intimacy coordinator is there to prevent. We’re not on set to police or dilute the work, but to create a structure of communication where consent is clear, and where everyone knows exactly what they’re agreeing to. It’s about giving actors agency and autonomy in spaces where, historically, they haven’t always had it. Using storytelling to shape moments of intimacy in a way where people feel able to do their best work.

For me each job looks slightly different. Half the work is understanding and reading what’s needed in the room at the time. Sometimes it’s more choreographed, other times it leans more into improvisation, and sometimes the actors find it themselves. The most essential part is the groundwork and prep to ensure that everyone feels supported from the get go. 

We’ve seen versions of abuse-of-power stories, as with The Intimacy Coordinator, in many guises before: the director who pushes too far; the producer who blurs professional lines because they can. From Black Swan to Whiplash, abuse of power is so often portrayed as expected and inevitable. It rarely shocks us anymore.

So why is it that endowing the same behaviour on an intimacy coordinator feels different or wrong somehow? That reaction is interesting because it reveals an expectation and a need for the role to be safe and trusted, and to function differently from the hierarchies we’re used to seeing on set. 

I started my career as an actor, and throughout my training and a 15-year career, I never once worked with an IC. I remember dreading auditions where I might have to kiss someone, speed-reading a script to see if there was any intimacy that hadn’t been flagged and making split second decisions about consent. I remember being in rehearsal rooms where those moments were brushed over or left vague, so we worked it out ourselves. Which is why I now love being able to give autonomy back to an actor. 

Being an IC is rooted in collaboration, communication, and consent. Not as a restriction, but as a framework that allows everyone to do their best work. It isn’t about removing risk from storytelling – quite the opposite. It’s about removing risk from the people making it. You wouldn’t expect an actor to improvise a sword fight, so why a sex scene?

And perhaps that’s why a film like this feels provocative, because it takes something designed to create safety, and imagines what happens when that safety is compromised. But in doing so, it doesn’t weaken the role, it clarifies it. The discomfort you feel watching that abuse of power isn’t accidental; the sense that something isn’t right is exactly what intimacy coordination is built on.