Florence Pugh spoke about intimacy coordinators with the kind of clarity that only comes from having worked with both the best and the worst of them. In a recent conversation with Louis Theroux on his podcast, the Thunderbolts* star didn’t sugarcoat her experience: “I’ve had good ones and bad ones.”
That simple admission cuts through the noise. Because while intimacy coordination has become standard practice on many film sets, the quality of that coordination remains wildly inconsistent. Pugh has worked with professionals who helped her understand intimacy scenes as narrative choreography—what she calls “the dance of intimacy.” And she’s worked with people who made things “weird” and “awkward,” turning what should have been a protective measure into another source of discomfort.
The difference between those experiences isn’t trivial. It’s the difference between safety and theatre, between protection and performance.
What Intimacy Coordinators Are Supposed to Do
Let’s be clear about what the job actually is. An intimacy coordinator isn’t there to police desire or make sex scenes awkward. They’re there to ensure that actors know exactly what’s being asked of them, that they consent to it fully, and that the scene serves the story rather than just filling screen time.
Good intimacy coordinators do several things Pugh specifically mentioned:
- They establish safe words so actors can pause or stop at any moment without breaking character or creating tension on set.
- They discuss forbidden touches ahead of time, mapping out exactly what physical contact is and isn’t acceptable.
- They help build the narrative logic of the scene, asking: How do these characters know each other’s bodies? What does this touch mean in the larger story? What’s the emotional history behind this intimacy?
- They act as a designated point person outside the costume department, someone whose only job is to focus on the actor’s comfort and agency.
When all of that works, Pugh says, you understand intimacy not as something to survive but as something to build. “I think when I worked with a fantastic coordinator, I was like, ‘Oh, this is what I’ve been missing, understanding the dance of intimacy as opposed to just shooting a sex scene.'”
That’s not just safety. That’s craft.
When Coordinators Make Things Worse
But Pugh also worked with someone who failed at all of that. She didn’t name names, but she was clear about the impact: they made things uncomfortable instead of structured. They added tension instead of removing it. They turned a vulnerable moment into something “weird.”
That’s not a minor complaint. When someone whose job is to protect you ends up making you feel less safe, the entire system breaks down. And it’s not because the actor is being difficult or oversensitive. It’s because the coordinator doesn’t understand their role—or worse, isn’t trained well enough to do it competently.
Here’s what Pugh is too diplomatic to say outright: some people currently working as intimacy coordinators should not be doing this job.
The profession is young. In the U.S., organizations like Intimacy Directors and Coordinators (IDC) have established training standards—typically around 40 hours of coursework, plus ongoing mentorship and certification. In the U.K., Equity provides guidelines, but there’s no universal accreditation system. That means the quality of coordinators varies wildly depending on who hired them, how much training they actually completed, and whether they have the interpersonal skills required to navigate power and vulnerability on set.
Pugh performed sex scenes before intimacy coordinators existed. She describes herself as confident in her own skin and capable of advocating for herself. But even she remembers moments when someone directed her to do something “completely inappropriate.” Confidence doesn’t protect you when the structure of power on set is designed to prioritize the director’s vision over the actor’s boundaries.
Intimacy coordinators exist to redistribute that power. But if they’re poorly trained or lack the sensitivity the job requires, they just become another layer of bureaucracy—one that can actually make things worse.
What Good Coordination Actually Looks Like
Pugh’s description of working with “fantastic” coordinators reveals what the profession can be when it’s done right. It’s not just about consent forms and checklists. It’s about understanding the why behind the intimacy.
Good coordinators ask: What is this scene trying to say? How do these characters touch each other differently than they would touch anyone else? What does the audience need to feel, and how do we build that feeling through specific, intentional choices?
This is where coordination transcends safety and becomes storytelling. The intimacy isn’t just happening to the characters—it’s revealing something about them. And when the coordinator helps the actor understand that deeper logic, the performance becomes richer, not more constrained.
Pugh also mentioned the importance of having someone outside the costume department handle modesty garments and coverage. That might sound like a small detail, but it’s crucial. Costume designers are focused on how the clothes look on camera. Intimacy coordinators are focused on how the actor feels in—or out of—those clothes. Those are two different jobs, and conflating them creates gaps where discomfort can fester.
The safe word system Pugh describes is another key piece. Actors shouldn’t have to break character or cause a scene to stop something that’s crossing a line. A simple, pre-agreed word—used discreetly—lets them pause without drama, reset without shame, and continue when they’re ready. That’s the kind of structure that creates freedom, not limitation.
The Broader Conversation
Pugh isn’t the first actress to speak publicly about this. Jennifer Lawrence, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Mikey Madison have all weighed in, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and ambivalence. The conversation is messy because the system is messy. Some actors have had transformative experiences with coordinators. Others have found them unnecessary or even intrusive. And some, like Pugh, have experienced both extremes.
What this tells us is that the profession is still in its adolescence. The standards aren’t uniform. The training isn’t consistent. And the industry hasn’t yet figured out how to separate the skilled coordinators from the ones who are just performing the role without understanding it.
But here’s what shouldn’t be controversial: actors deserve to know exactly what’s being asked of them before a camera rolls. They deserve to have their boundaries respected without negotiation. And they deserve to work with people who understand that intimacy on screen is constructed, not captured—that it requires the same level of care and choreography as a fight scene or a stunt.
Good intimacy coordinators provide that. Bad ones don’t. And until the industry gets better at distinguishing between the two, we’re going to keep hearing stories like Pugh’s—where the same profession can be both essential and exhausting, depending on who’s in the room.
