Though its narrative is drawn from a podcast and based on real life, the milieu of Dying for Sex is tired. Those signifiers (podcast, true story) sound significant in theory, but Elizabeth Merriwether and Kim Rosenstock’s show in practice is all too familiar. Its disparate parts clash, which is supposed to generate vibrant, new feelings, but there aren’t as many surprises as you’d think.
Part of the challenge is the central topic: cancer. In Dying for Sex, Michelle Williams plays Molly, diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer and given limited time to live. In a whirl, she leaves her husband (Jay Duplass), and with the help of her best friend Nikki (Jenny Slate), decides to explore her sexuality in ways she hadn’t or couldn’t before. Save for a couple of noteworthy observations, though, the sex stuff is the least interesting thing about the show. (OK, the cancer stuff is probably less interesting, but it feels cruel to say that.) What works are the relationships of the series, both old and new, as brought to life by this cast. At the same time, there’s a nagging absence of depth within each grouping of actors; in part because of the show’s brevity (no problem), but also its chosen and often narrow focus (re-creating Molly’s ribald tales). Ironically, Molly doesn’t want to be defined by her cancer diagnosis, but other than a renewed sex drive, we don’t learn much else about her (except, surprise, sexual trauma). Even the central friendship with Nikki is somehow ill-defined—they’re friends because they’re friends—end of story.
Dying for Sex is not without its obvious charms. Williams is luminous in the central role; Slate is fun (and gets another chance to show her range); Rob Delaney and David Rasche, in their usual modes, are a delight. The show understands what it has with its actors. To the show’s credit, Meriwether and company strive to keep it real. That novelty has some value, but not much more than we began with.
