Cannes Film Festival 2023: Molly Manning Walker’s ‘How To Have Sex’ Plays Like An Episode of ‘Love Island’ Directed By Éric Rohmer

Molly Manning Walker’s 2023 Cannes Film Festival selection How to Have Sex won’t win any points for truth in advertising. If not an informative step-by-step guide to doing what mommies and daddies do when they love each other very much, the title at least suggests scandalizing material of some sort, maybe a premature introduction to carnality poking the same underage taboos as Lolita. The reality shouldn’t ruffle quite so many feathers: Walker’s feature debut dramatizes a gals’ trip to the Grecian beach of Malia, a holiday hotspot where planeloads of UK youths can down vodka shots, gyrate to house music, and mash tongues with fit strangers to their hearts’ content. Far from the psychotropic vortex of neon-hued debasement that Spring Breakers might call to mind, the antics of Tara (Mia McKenna-Bruce), Skye (Lara Peake), and Em (Enva Lewis) hew to the side of a harder realism — excepting the tactful elision of the gastrointestinal havoc that their diet of clear liquor and cheese fries must be wreaking. 

Their naturalistic acting matched by matter-of-fact cinematography, the girls enjoy the standard Distaff Dirtbag vacation package in all its highs (blacked-out dancing on tables) and lows (trying not to get vomit in your hair as you acquaint your face with the toilet). So frank are their experiences that real life sometimes falls short of their expectations for a getaway they’ll cherish forever, most disappointingly in the case of the less-fair sex. Tara arrived ready to get her V-card punched, only to learn that the meatheaded fuckboys drawing her interest won’t all be sensitive to her needs, as in a technically consensual hookup that still leaves her feeling like a used condom. Walker sincerely believes in the sanctity of these various rituals — the Special Thanks section of the credits extends a dedication to all the girls with whom she’s gone on such outings — while acknowledging their pitfalls, though as the final shots’ hastily tied-up resolution makes apparent, it’s nothing they can’t survive with the support of their besties. 

These basic escapades and their commonplace conclusion come as a surprise from distributor MUBI, which announced itself as the newest major destination for arthouse fare at last year’s Cannes with the roundly acclaimed Korean thriller Decision to Leave. But as the online platform has continued to grow, it’s ventured into the teen-geared content block that’s bread and butter to all the streaming outfits, well-suited as these services are to young people’s lack of money and surfeit of free time. And in their respective approaches to teensploitation, we can observe a miniature summary of streamer identity, the genre staple articulating how these startup studios see themselves and want to be seen. 

The Netflix doctrine of drowning subscribers in high volumes of low quality extends to their slew of Gen Z bait, with the likes of Let It Snow, All the Bright Places, Tall Girl and its sequel, and the Kissing Booth trilogy all too eager to scrape the bottom of the barrel. Amazon’s lack of a clear-cut brand comes across in Chemical Hearts, a misguided and tonally confused one-off already consigned to the dustbin of memory. HBO Max, once a repository for Warner Bros. productions too accomplished for the straight-to-streaming fate forced upon them, rolled out school-shooting drama The Fallout with minimal fanfare unbefitting its polish in acting, writing, and direction.

It follows that MUBI has claimed How to Have Sex as a reconciliation between on-trend traffic imperatives and their desire to maintain a high bar of artistry in their programming. However unremarkable the subject matter, Walker elevates it with small yet deft choices that capture the contours of this social minefield with deeper accuracy. She evinces a keen understanding of how a hedonistic vibe can turn on a dime, flirty fun giving way to discomfort as makeouts give way to sex acts performed onstage for a crowd. She also embeds little lessons presumably hard-won from her own salad days, like the bleak realization that friends made while under the influence don’t really count in the cold light of day. There’s more substance to the dynamic between the main trio as well, alpha Skye all gung-ho on Tara’s deflowering until she can feel the male attentions she’s always taken for granted drifting away from her. (The fretting about placements in the upcoming school year, however, plays more schematically.) Flashes of quieter lyricism punctuate the four-on-the-floor club beats and inebriated raging, like a static long take of Tara walking through the litter-strewn wreckage from the previous night’s revelry on the main drag, hung over and utterly alone.

The broad appeal of this hashtag-relatable look into female fraternity confers an image of MUBI not as a niche service, but rather a general-public player striving to only offer the good stuff. At times, Walker’s film plays like an episode of Love Island as directed by Éric Rohmer, its fist-pumping drive to party offset by the constant, sobering letdowns that come with male encounters and those early tastes of adulthood. Targeting a younger demo inspires a faint flicker of hope for the future of cinephilia; in time, the brand loyalty to Netflix could well be channeled to a competitor that rewards the willingness to watch whatever’s on instead of using it to lower the bar.  

Charles Bramesco (@intothecrevassse) is a film and television critic living in Brooklyn. In addition to Decider, his work has also appeared in the New York Times, the Guardian, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, Newsweek, Nylon, Vulture, The A.V. Club, Vox, and plenty of other semi-reputable publications. His favorite film is Boogie Nights.