I Want Your Sex (2026) Parents Guide

I Want Your Sex is not rated by the Motion Picture Association (MPA), which feels entirely appropriate for a Gregg Araki film that has never shown much interest in obeying institutional boundaries. This is an unmistakably adult work, not only in content but in tone and intention. Parents should approach it with a clear understanding of what kind of film this is.

Gregg Araki hasn’t made a feature in more than a decade, but watching “I Want Your Sex” unfold, you’d swear he’s been quietly sharpening his knives the entire time. The film lands with the confidence of an artist who knows exactly who he is and has no interest in softening the edges. This is the same filmmaker who gave us the anarchic fever dreams of The Doom Generation and the neon-tinted absurdity of Kaboom, and his return feels less like a comeback than a continuation of a voice that simply refuses to be domesticated. The movie is outrageous and tender, sexy and ridiculous, playful and faintly dangerous and just sincere enough that you’ll forgive the narrative shortcuts it sometimes takes to escape the messes it intentionally creates.

The pleasure of the film is amplified by the way Araki finds perfect accomplices in Olivia Wilde and Cooper Hoffman. Their chemistry turns what might have been a clever provocation into something that feels joyously unhinged. There are issues in how the film establishes certain plot mechanics some of the setup strains credibility, and you can see the scaffolding a little too clearly but it’s hard to stay bothered when the overall experience is this much fun. More than anything, the film leaves you with a simple, slightly bittersweet wish: please don’t make us wait another ten years for the next one.

Araki returns to territory he’s long been fascinated by sex, power, identity, performance but here he approaches it with a knowingly mischievous grin. The story follows Elliot (Hoffman), who appears disarmingly sweet when we first meet him, as he begins working for the artist Erika Tracy (Wilde) and is gradually drawn into becoming her submissive. From the opening beats, the film signals that this relationship is headed toward some kind of wreckage. You can feel the dread humming beneath the humor, like a fault line waiting to crack.

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The film’s structure jumping forward and backward in time to telegraph that disaster is coming can feel awkward in places. The rhythm stumbles early on. But once Elliot and Erika’s dynamic ignites, the movie grabs you by the collar and refuses to let go. There’s an almost cheeky sense that Araki has taken the basic contours of recent erotic dramas (it’s easy to think of films like Babygirl as a cultural reference point), slipped inside their skin, and then deliberately twisted the tone into something stranger, bolder, and more unapologetically his own. What emerges is a film that’s both scorching and silly, a rare combination that feels like a gift.

Wilde will rightly earn praise for her performance she wears Erika’s authority with an effortless confidence but the real revelation here is Hoffman. This is one of the most demanding roles he’s taken on, requiring him to glide between emotional registers with almost reckless speed: open-hearted sincerity, giddy infatuation, intoxicated devotion, and finally a kind of hollow devastation when everything collapses. Remarkably, he sells every phase. You don’t just believe in the chaos of Elliot and Erika’s relationship you find yourself oddly seduced by it too, which is exactly where Araki wants you.

Without Hoffman anchoring the film, the entire enterprise would topple. Instead, he holds it together with precision. His comedic timing is sharp, his vulnerability disarming. It’s impossible not to notice the echoes of his father, Philip Seymour Hoffman, in the way he can pivot from absurdity to aching sincerity without breaking the spell. Even when the film itself hesitates to fully grapple with some of the thornier ideas it introduces, Hoffman never retreats. He commits completely, and that commitment becomes the film’s emotional spine.

To be fair, “I Want Your Sex” doesn’t always reach the philosophical or emotional depth you might crave from an Araki project. There are moments where the film veers into exaggerated, almost cartoonish surrealism scenes that feel like they’ve wandered in from a stoner comedy. But longtime admirers know this is part of the deal. You don’t go to an Araki film for restraint. Expecting him to play by conventional rules would miss the point entirely, and besides, when has he ever been boring?

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In fact, the film is at its best when it actively resists convention. Whenever it threatens to settle into more predictable territory, Araki yanks the wheel hard to the side, plunging the story back into chaos. Yes, the structure creates a looming sense of inevitability that slightly dulls the impact of watching things unravel. But the campy, heightened energy of each scene keeps pulling you back in. There’s always something to watch, something to feel, something to laugh at or wince over.

Once the film stops leaning so heavily on its flashback structure and allows itself to move forward more freely, Hoffman rises even further. He’s magnetic on screen, meeting Wilde’s intensity beat for beat. You might even find yourself wishing the film had dared to go further to embrace even more madness but there’s still a strange, almost voyeuristic pleasure in watching Hoffman’s increasingly frantic expressions as Araki heaps complication upon complication onto his character.

By the end, what lingers most is the sense of play. Director and actor both seem to delight in the risks the film takes, the tonal swerves, the emotional excess. It makes you hungry to see them work together again. And even if that never happens, the simple fact of sitting in a theater and seeing Gregg Araki’s name on the screen again feels like a small victory for cinema itself. Welcome back, you glorious troublemaker. We needed you more than we realized.

I Want Your Sex (2026) Parents Guide

Violence & Intensity: There is very little conventional physical violence, but the emotional temperature runs high throughout. The central relationship grows increasingly tense and psychologically complicated, marked by manipulation, power imbalance, and emotional volatility. Some moments are deliberately uncomfortable, not because of graphic imagery, but because of the emotional dynamics unfolding on screen. The unease is part of Araki’s design you are meant to feel it.

Language: Strong language appears frequently and without apology. Characters use explicit profanity, sexual language, and crude expressions as part of their everyday communication. The dialogue often leans sarcastic, playful, and biting, but the vocabulary remains firmly adult from beginning to end.

Sexual Content / Nudity: The movie contains explicit discussions of sex and desire, explores dominance and submission dynamics, and presents sexual situations with intensity and directness. Nudity and simulated sexual activity are likely present, and the overall erotic tone is constant. Araki treats sexuality with sincerity, satire, and provocation rather than exploitation, but the material is unmistakably intended for mature audiences.

Drugs, Alcohol & Smoking: Characters drink alcohol, there are scenes involving drug use, and the film occasionally adopts a hazy, party-inflected atmosphere. This fits naturally within Araki’s long-standing aesthetic, where excess and altered states often reflect emotional and psychological themes rather than serving as moral lessons.

Age Recommendations: This is not appropriate viewing for children or young teens. The sexual content, emotional complexity, and mature themes strongly suggest an 18+ audience. Some older teens with strong media literacy might be able to engage with the film thoughtfully, but for most families, this is best reserved for adults.

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