Set in contemporary Oslo, Sex follows two middle-aged men, married and working for the same chimney-sweeping company, as they confront long-hidden aspects of their sexuality. Through candid conversations, their evolving perspectives on masculinity and desire create ripples in their personal and professional lives. Balancing dry humor, this Nordic drama delivers a tender, thought-provoking examination of identity.
Dag Johan Haugerud’s Sex is a masterclass in exploring the uncharted territories of male sexuality, challenging restrictive gender roles with intelligence, tenderness, and a touch of Nordic wit. As the first entry in Haugerud’s trilogy Sex Dreams Love, the film is a poignant examination of identity, connection, and the quiet revolutions that can occur within seemingly ordinary lives.
The film follows two middle-aged colleagues—neither named—working as chimney sweepers in Oslo. On the surface, their lives are uneventful: they’re married, employed, and grounded in routine. But when subtle disruptions challenge their understanding of their own desires and vulnerabilities, they begin to unravel the long-held assumptions about their identities. Haugerud’s approach is refreshingly understated; his characters’ self-discovery is neither dramatic nor revelatory, but messy, subtle, and profoundly human.
Thorbjørn Harr, as the stoic yet contemplative supervisor, delivers a quietly magnetic performance. His Bowie-inspired dream sequence—a recurring motif—introduces an unexpected fluidity to his understanding of self, including the surprising pleasure of being “seen as a woman.” Jan Gunnar Roise, playing the earnest and affable chimney sweeper, shines as his character recounts a spontaneous, liberating sexual encounter with a male client. These moments, handled with grace and humor, push both men to question the limits of their own definitions of masculinity and sexuality.
Haugerud’s screenplay thrives on intimate two-person dialogues, often feeling like a tightly crafted stage play. Yet the film is undeniably cinematic, with Cecilie Semec’s cinematography framing Oslo’s urban sprawl and rooftops in ways that mirror the characters’ evolving inner landscapes—expansive yet isolating, beautiful yet severe. The decision to leave the characters unnamed underscores the universality of their journeys, while the script deftly navigates humor and melancholy, often within the same breath.
The heart of Sex lies in its exploration of desire, not as an act but as an existential need. Both men experience a yearning to feel wanted—not in an overtly sexual or stereotypical sense but in a way that disrupts their archetypal roles as husbands, fathers, and professionals. Roise’s character, for instance, contrasts the joy of being desired by another man with the unintended pain it causes his wife (Siri Forberg). The fallout is neither melodramatic nor conclusive, but raw and honest, as their marriage quietly wrestles with the question: what does this mean for us?
In one of the film’s standout sequences, Harr’s supervisor performs barefoot with his choir, wearing a crimson smock sewn by his son. As he leads a song of praise that evolves into a sensual, choreographed dance, the moment becomes a visual symphony of liberation, attraction, and quiet revelation. This climactic scene—observed by Roise’s chimney sweeper and his family—reflects Haugerud’s compassionate approach: the camera lingers, inviting the audience to interpret without judgment.
The film’s humor often shines through its supporting cast. The teenage sons of the two men are gentle counterpoints to their fathers’ struggles, representing a generation less confined by rigid gender expectations. A subplot involving a gay architect’s mishap with a tattoo tribute to Frank Lloyd Wright, told by a cheerful doctor (Anne Marie Ottersen), injects levity while underscoring the recurring theme of how identity and self-expression intertwine in unpredictable ways.
Sex doesn’t offer tidy resolutions or grand epiphanies. Instead, Haugerud allows his characters—and the audience—to sit with ambiguity. Both men evolve in ways that are incomplete and unresolved, yet undeniably authentic. The film ultimately suggests that masculinity, like sexuality, can be fluid and liberating when unshackled from societal expectations.
With its richly layered screenplay, luminous performances, and nuanced exploration of human desire, Sex is an exquisite meditation on the complexities of identity and connection. It’s a rare and tender cinematic experience.
