Smoking Hot Prudes Rock for ‘One Night Only’

Hot lead actors and a genial genital-smashing vibe keep horndog rom-com One Night Only from being a completely flaccid meet-cute misfire. Its premise, which tittering social media feeds have dubbed “The Purge for Sex,” follows the What-If? premise that a socially conservative, fascist-adjacent government has — for the past 3 years — banned premarital copulation except for an annual 12-hour period from 7am to 7pm on August 7. (You’d think it would be July instead, to preserve the numerological consistency of using lucky number 7, but whatever).

The script revels in the most sex-obsessed sci-fi dystopia since Logan’s Run, while also raising a number of practical concerns. Everyone has a government-mandated biosensor implanted into their wrists which monitors illegal sexual behavior, so police can track and arrest any violators. Intercourse is verboten, as is oral sex. But what about hand stuff? Under-sweater but over-bra heavy petting? Dry humps? Self-pleasure is permitted, but what’s the policy on mutual masturbation? Or circle jerks? The mind reels. A randy populace is nothing if not creative.

One Night Only ★★★ (3/5 stars)
Directed by: Will Gluck
Written by: Travis Braun
Starring: Monica Barbaro, Callum Turner, Maya Hawke, Julia Fox, King Princess, Ben Marshall, Molly Ringwald, LeVar Burton
Running time: 102 mins

The just-go-with-it premise builds in a few novel enough cock- and tittie-blockers (contraception required by law!) to keep up the will-they/won’t-they tension between our sexy leads: hopeless romantic Allie (Monica Barbaro, sporting a sparkling silver barely-there party dress and strapless stiletto sandals) and sad-sack Owen (Callum Turner, tall and beefy in a tight polo short).

Wanting to avoid the purely physical “mandate meat” hook-up, singleton Allie hopes to make a real emotional connection before dawn. Broken-hearted boyfriend Owen wanted to propose to his longtime girlfriend Malika (Maya Hawke), but she’d rather have a fling with the hot new tenant in their building, so he’s stuck wandering the streets. The idea that either of them would struggle to get laid is preposterous; but the main sticking point is the pesky prophylactic law, and condoms are sold out everywhere. (You’d think each of them would have stockpiled all year, but I digress.)

They first meet on the street, a promising encounter which Owen promptly botches when he vomits onto the sidewalk. (Nothing kills the mood like upchucked sushi.) And then, improbably, they keep running into each other — at a bodega, in a police station — after each suffers various amorous misadventures. The brief encounters allow them to develop a fair amount of ingratiating banter that develops into a parallel-play wingman camaraderie. They’re rooting for each other to get rooting with others!

The premise is contrived, the after-hours complications feel rudimentary, and the made-for-each-other energy threatens to overwhelm all credulity. But man, these two main characters are smokin’. The casting director didn’t sleep on the other roles, either, populating this goofy sexcapade with a slew of cameos from enjoyably recognizable hey-it’s-that-guy! celebs like Bobby Cannavale, Pete Davidson, Julia Fox, Nicholas Braun, Ziwe, Ben Marshall, Este Haim, and Mike Birbiglia. Molly Ringwald even pops up as Owen’s mom, who takes LeVar Burton as her pipe-laying lover (their kink is bubble wrap and clothes pins — don’t ask).

Overriding the plot banalities are all the world-building antics on the periphery — blink-and-you’ll-miss-them charming sight gags that end up being less like trivial eye candy and more like scene stealers. Red Bull ads tout 12-hour “wings” and Dunkin’ promotes its caffeinated uplift, while an Equinox street poster crows, “You’ve been training all year for this one night.” Owen even passes a neon sign that says “Licensed AI Sex Booth.” There’s a sense that the filmmakers had a lot more fun thinking up background jokes than they did trying to whittle their rom-com square peg into this sci-fi round hole. (Maybe KY jelly could have helped.)

Another charming conceit: Allie is a gifted but frustrated vocalist too timid to perform in front of a crowd. So her day job is singing Big Pharma’s cheesy tweaked covers of pop songs to sell their drugs — like Sara Bareilles’ “Brave” to hawk plaque Psoriasis pill Leventave, or Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” to sell Vag-a-Clear. It’s adorably pathetic.

Less adorable: this louche love affair has the mouth of an R movie but the visual cowardice of a PG flick. No nudity, folks? People literally burst into overeager PDA groping, and yet it’s the most chaste French kissing ever on screen. Reportedly the director did shoot lots of uncovered coverage, but ended up leaving that naked truth on the cutting room floor when prudish Gen Z test audiences felt icky about looking at other peoples’ bits and pieces with their fellow movie-theater audiences. Expect coupling couples to conscientiously close doors before they get busy.

Most unsettling is a throwaway line when a character points out that waiting for sex is actually not a bad idea. “Maybe the fascist are right about this,” he says with a slight smile. Sometimes it’s good to wait for sex — but can we all agree that fascists are not right about things? Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my romances not to normalize authoritarianism.