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For women with cancer, the most terrifying unknown, aside from the disease itself, can be their spouses – a staggering number of whom leave their wives after receiving a diagnosis. So the lead character in the new drama Dying for Sex, Molly (Michelle Williams), a woman in her 40s, seems to be one of the lucky ones. Her husband Steve (Jay Duplass) devoted himself entirely to her care when she was diagnosed with breast cancer several years ago; when the disease relapses early in the series, this time in metastatic form, he is eager to return to the role of supportive spouse. But he is no longer the partner she needs: Molly craves physical intimacy, and Steve has not touched her in years. After she tries to give him a blow job, he pays with tears and confesses that her breasts remind him of death. She leaves their home so quickly that she almost leaves a cartoonish trail of vapor in her wake. “I don't want to die with him,” she tells her best friend Nikki (Jenny Slate) shortly after. “I want to die with you.”
The FX/Hulu miniseries, based on a true story first told in a podcast of the same name, has a morbid, slightly off-putting premise: A woman with terminal cancer seeks sex while she can. I was skeptical that the show could take the disease seriously with such a premise, but it turns out that creators Elizabeth Meriwether and Kim Rosenstock take the subject matter seriously. Molly’s quest for erotic fulfillment is depicted with sensitivity — and a determination to demonstrate best practices in sex positivity, trauma recovery, and patient empowerment, among other things. Dying for Sex is so conscientious it feels like boner murder.
It’s also something of a Trojan horse. The first half of the eight-episode series largely focuses on Molly’s sexual adventures in picturesque New York City: Fresh out of a decade-long marriage, she seeks satisfaction from strangers and soon runs into complications. She impulsively checks into a hotel and invites a man she spots in the elevator to her room, only to rescind his invitation when she realizes she doesn’t want to explain her mastectomy scars. Later, she seduces a twenty-something (Marcello Hernandez) into her bed and realizes she has no answers to his questions about how to please her. To make matters worse, he tells her that he seeks out older women precisely because they tend to know what they want. When Molly shares this with her palliative care social worker, Sonia (Esko Julay), she’s hit with some more brutal truths. “You early millennials are so tragic,” Sonia says. “You think sex is all about penetration and orgasms. Why? Because Samantha said so?” (As an older millennial, I've received erotic mentorship from Miranda, thank you very much.)
But the second half of the story takes a surprisingly deep dive. (Major spoilers ahead.) If the early chapters focus on the symptoms of Molly’s sexual frustration, the latter explores its root causes: an incident of sexual abuse at age seven. Intrusive memories of her rapist, who appears as a man with a blurry face, cause her to withdraw during sex. These interruptions also prevent her from achieving item #1 on her bucket list: being present enough during sex to have her first orgasm with a partner. Molly’s aspiration is something many people take for granted, and its banality puts into stark relief everything the assault has cost her. When Sonia encourages her to journal about her fears, Molly writes of her abuser, “I think he knew he was taking my love away from me.”
The rest of the show is a thrilling disconnect from heterosexual convention. After a confrontation with a neighbor (Rob Delaney) leads to a twisted, humiliation-based affair, Molly begins to pursue a newfound desire to dominate men. She explores untapped facets of her sexuality in scenes featuring some truly gutsy performances—notably Conrad Ricamora as an enthusiastic puppy-play participant—none of which involve penetration. She also enters into a relationship with Delaney’s unnamed character, who is attentive but clearly noncommittal. “The guy next door,” as he’s saved in Molly’s phone, could be a twisted cousin of Delaney’s character in the rom-com Casualty, someone who shares the same irresistible blend of goofy candor and self-deprecating vulnerability. (After an early evening together, the Neighbor tells Molly, “I'm going to do something neither of us wants to do, which is talk about our feelings.”) Delaney and Williams, whose wry delivery has been underrated since Dawson's Creek, keep the show from descending into darkness and make their characters' slightly rushed emotional beats believable. The tense premise
Sourse: newyorker.com
