Dying for Sex Is a Moving Portrait of Death and Desire

The hook of the new mini-series Dying for Sex (FX on Hulu, April 3) is right there in the title. There will be dying—but first there will be sex, the kind you won’t see on regular television. There is also the draw of star Michelle Williams, a former teen idol turned highly respected dramatic actor being given the chance to do something ribald, daring, transgressive.

In its first few episodes, Dying for Sex leans into the promise of giddy, provocative risk. Run by Liz Meriwether and based on the same-titled podcast from Nikki Boyer, the series opens with a nasty shock. Molly, a late-30-something Brooklynite, learns that a cancer thought to be in permanent remission has come roaring back, likely in terminal form. Dazed and unmoored, Molly rather quickly decides to leave her less-than-happy marriage (to a needy beta played by Jay Duplass) so that she can seek out real satisfaction. She’s never achieved orgasm with her husband, nor with any other sexual partner throughout her life. Given that that life may soon be ending, Molly adventures to finally find release, largely through kink and sub-dom play.

Meriwether and her writers are initially arch about this inciting motivation—which is based on a real woman’s own journey of discovery. Dying for Sex heavily telegraphs the envelope-pushing in its first few episodes, threatening to dehumanize Molly’s circumstances in favor of a depiction of a world gone suddenly mad with sexual desire and possibility. As Molly, Williams is a crucial force in keeping the series tethered to reality; even when Dying for Sex pushes hardest for dark, titillating comedy, she mixes something palpably rich and human into it.

So does Jenny Slate, who plays a version of the real Boyer as a contented enough person who nonetheless blows up her life in order to care for her ailing friend. In some ways, Slate is the true phenom of the series, a comedic actor getting the chance to do big, expansive drama and nailing every facet of it. We’ve long known that Williams can do this sort of thing; Slate, on the other hand, arrives as more of a revelation.

Gradually, across its eight episodes, Dying for Sex reshapes itself to better support and embolden its two fiercely committed leads. The sex stuff remains, but it’s more thoughtfully approached, given depth and specific meaning as we learn new information about Molly’s past—particularly about an incident of abuse in her childhood that has badly warped her ability to feel and accept pleasure. All of that unearthing is happening, of course, as Molly grows ever sicker, pulling the focus of the show toward more traditional cancer drama. While many of the series’s death and dying plot beats are familiar, Meriwether and company find ways to make them feel fresh and novel—and all the more devastating for it.

What the show is driving at is, strangely, not so dissimilar from the movie The Bucket List. Molly mostly has one item on her list, but it’s a big one. In achieving that wish, she is in essence savoring the fullness of life, pushing herself—and, by extension, Nikki—toward a hard-won enlightenment. Molly is not exactly making peace with her rapidly approaching end, but she is at least gaining an appreciation for the brief time that she possessed a mind and a body and a hunger for experience.

While many men are bit players in Molly’s story, one emerges as an actual love interest. He’s played by Rob Delaney, another comic actor doing seriousness quite well. At first, Delaney’s character is just an odd and vexing neighbor. But something about him holds Molly’s interest, and bit by bit they establish a rapport that evolves from carnal to sincerely compassionate. It’s a lovely and disarming little arc, an unexpected connection that gives Molly one last surge of romantic excitement.

But this subplot nonetheless feels a bit detached from what the show is ultimately about: the enduring friendship between Molly and Nikki, and Molly’s palliative process. Dying for Sex may be a grabby title, but the series itself is not so risqué in the end. It is quite moving, though, grounded by warm and thorough performances and sharp bits of writing. Joining Williams and Slate (who is, again, excellent) near the conclusion of Molly’s tale is Sissy Spacek, who plays Molly’s somewhat estranged mother with a complicated balance of guardedness and affection. When those three actors are on screen, Dying for Sex lets its racy trappings fall away. What remains is simple but deeply effective, another story of someone’s passing that gazes at our common mortality with horror, sadness, and no small amount of wonder. Come for the orgasms; stay for the crying.