thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the advanced digital copy.
this book is available now.
-
ita o'brien's intimacy is one of those books that feels a little difficult to pin down, sitting somewhere between memoir, industry insight, and self help guide. going in, i was most interested in her work as an intimacy coordinator on projects like Normal People and I May Destroy You, and unsurprisingly, those sections were where the book felt the most alive. when o'brien pulls back the curtain on what it actually means to choreograph intimate scenes, advocate for actors, and create spaces rooted in consent and communication, the book becomes genuinely compelling.
there's something really valuable about seeing intimacy treated with the same care and intentionality as a fight scene or a dance sequence. especially in the current cultural moment, where conversations about safety on set are still evolving, this book feels like a necessary reminder that those protections are not excessive, they are essential. i couldn't help but think about the broader discourse around intimacy coordinators and how easily their work is dismissed, when in reality, o'brien makes a strong case for why we should all be thinking more critically about consent, boundaries, and care not just on screen, but in our everyday relationships.
that said, the book leans heavily into its self help structure, and that's where it started to lose me. there are a number of exercises scattered throughout meant to help readers connect more deeply with their own desires and bodies. i can see how they might be useful for some, especially if you are newer to that kind of reflective or embodied practice, but personally, i found myself skimming them. they interrupted the flow of what i was actually invested in, which was o’brien's firsthand experiences and the tangible applications of her work.
there's also a sense of repetition that creeps in as the book goes on, with certain ideas around communication, openness, and presence being reiterated without always adding new layers. while the messaging is thoughtful and clearly rooted in care, it sometimes feels like it circles the same points rather than expanding them in more nuanced or varied ways.
one of the more frustrating aspects, though, is how narrowly the book defines intimacy at times. despite moments of inclusivity, the overall framework feels quite heteronormative, with limited space given to queer and trans experiences. intimacy is deeply shaped by identity, and it would have strengthened the book to see more intentional engagement with those perspectives, especially given how much the author emphasizes the importance of honoring individual boundaries and desires. similarly, while the book is broadly sex positive, it doesn't meaningfully account for asexual experiences, which feels like a missed opportunity in a text that is so focused on redefining what connection can look like.
overall, intimacy is at its best when it is grounded in o'brien's lived experience and industry knowledge. those moments offer a fascinating and important look at a role that is still widely misunderstood. as a self help guide, it may resonate more with readers looking for structured exercises and gentle prompts toward self exploration. for me, though, it was the behind the scenes stories and the larger conversation about safety, consent, and care that made it worth reading.