God help me, I got dirty thoughts watching this movie. That’s as fitting a confession as any because “It’s What’s Inside” operates on the queasy, ticklish nerve where comedy, anxiety, lust, and a weird species of social dread all mingle together in the trunk of an Uber, hungry for a fight or a kiss. I love when a film makes you wonder, in the cackling recesses of your mind, “What would I do if I were dropped inside someone else’s body for a night?” Not just the old switcheroo, but the real, squirming, terrifying, exhilarating thing—and not with anonymous ninnies, mind you, but your oldest, most untrustworthy friends.
“Body swapping” in the movies usually means gender jokes, cheap empathy, maybe a glib lesson about “walking a mile in someone’s shoes.” But Greg Jardin’s film has a wicked sense for the granular mechanics of envy, desire, and revenge that staggers the body-swap genre into a jittery, lubricated new territory. Here, the switching is literal (and explicitly so), and it’s a pleasure—a perverse one—to be kept so deliciously in the dark.
Walking into this one blind is the best decision you’ll make all week. You start thinking you know the game—party of old friends, reunion jitters, and some past sin that will surely bubble up—and then Jardin’s script casually flicks the apple cart into a hedge maze. You may think you’re prepared (these movies always trade on a unifying trick, and the Netflix blurb will tip its hand), but “It’s What’s Inside” doesn’t just clink through the typical body-swap beats. It dives face-first into the panic of losing not just your body, but your social role, your secrets—the nine kinds of self you juggle for a friend group already bristling with hidden bruises.
What’s intoxicating here is the energy of the ensemble. This is one of those movies where everybody’s a little bit terrible, but compulsively watchable—the best kind of train-wreck. Their backstories spill out in sloshing, half-drunken echoes; you get the sense that everyone is gaming each other, even when the rules themselves are scattered, half-made-up, or broken. At first, the constant shifting of names and faces feels dizzying (God knows, as someone bad with names, I was ready to throw up my hands). Then the confusion becomes the punchline—and somehow, half the fun.
Comedy, here, isn’t just relief from tension—it’s the accelerant. The film’s best trick is the way Jardin keeps the powder keg burning under the dancing, sniping, and sexual roundabouts. The group dynamics are a marvel of precisely calibrated awkwardness and biting humor: bodies falling into bed, into violence, into someone else’s old regrets. These are young adults—young enough to treat trauma as a competitive sport, old enough to sob about their bank balances and beer habits. The script trusts the actors (Brittany O’Grady, James Morosini, Gavin Leatherwood, all snapping and pivoting through doubles and doubles); their whiplash timing keeps you laughing even as they’re all circling their next betrayal.
Technically, this movie is a treat. The color palette is that rich, vibrant sort that glows like a midnight bruise or a busted neon sign—a tipped hat to thrillers and art-kid horrors, sure, but with a cheeky wink. Editing here isn’t just crisp, it’s electric: Jardin slices through bodies, time, identities, so you’re never more than a step ahead of the next swap. The film knows how to keep you glued to the screen—at times, when things spiral (and they do spiral, with a body count that’s somehow both cartoonish and queasy), you need to pause just to collect yourself. But that’s part of the ride. Confusion, here, is a feature, not a bug.
But look closer: “It’s What’s Inside” is a little fairy tale about the rot at the heart of insecurity, and the way envy erases the difference between friendship and predation. Insecure people are terrifying; envy, as ever, is a disease without a cure. The film flicks away any notion of easy catharsis and hands out a nice, cold slice of social dread. Everyone is pretending to be okay, masking their own venom—the best part is, you won’t know until the last seconds just how deep the role-playing cuts.
There are cracks—I found some moments overwhelming, almost too much for my own internal circuit breaker. The constant swirl of swapping and screaming means you might need a breather, but press play again, and the film rewards your curiosity with another wriggling plot twist. The real genius is that it doesn’t let up until the very end: a fizzy, nihilistic encore in which one more mask slips off, and you’re left giddy, maybe a little dirty.
The movie doesn’t require you to think very hard—its pleasure is in watching the con unfold, in relishing the bumps and bruises (and those expertly handled reversals). But there’s a sweetness to its originality—how it freshens the musty halls of body-swap comedy with a film that actually feels, well, new. If you crave a fun time, want to see a great ensemble get limber (and scandalously weird), and have a taste for tense games played at the edge of disaster, then plop yourself down and hit play. It’s not just a movie—it’s a party trick with teeth.
In a summer of tired reboots and templated horror-comedies, “It’s What’s Inside” arrives with something almost scandalous: a unique idea, executed with sticky, hungry relish. And what is more terrifying, fun, and embarrassing than getting exactly what you want—right there under your greasy skin?
