Jenny Slate and Michelle Williams in Dying for Sex.FX/Disney+/Supplied
I get this hair-on-fire feeling when I’m watching a piece of art – in this case, the new limited series Dying for Sex (Disney+) – that so clearly inspired everyone involved to give everything they had.
Dying for Sex was created by Elizabeth Meriwether (The Dropout) and Kim Rosenstock (Only Murders in the Building), based on a true story that the actress Nikki Boyer turned into the hit 2020 podcast of the same name. When Molly (Michelle Williams) learns that her breast cancer has metastasized to her bones, she begins to realize what she wants: to leave her husband of 10 years (Jay Duplass). To have a lot of different kinds of sex, without judgment. To break her lifelong habit of being scared of what she feels. Most importantly, as she tells her best friend Nikki (Jenny Slate) – her soulmate – “I want to die with you.”
That’s an extraordinary moment to see on film, because so many stories get women friends wrong. Too many depictions imagine that the drama of female friendship lies in conflict (I’m looking at you, frenemy trio in the third season of The White Lotus). Meriwether and Rosenstock know that the drama is actually in the love. Molly and Nikki love each other the way everyone wants to be loved: They are a team, aligned against the world. They show up for and support each other, not just sometimes but every time. They see the true person, and the best version of that person, at the same time.
That doesn’t mean the show’s vibe is treacly – it’s absolutely not. Nikki and Molly’s friendship is based on a shared humour that feels inevitable and lived-in, and the dialogue is funny, fast and frequently filthy. (“You had an orgasm listening to a podcast? Which one?” Molly asks Nikki. “I think it was The Daily,” Nikki replies.)
Nor does it mean their friendship is never messy, that they never hurt each other. Sometimes in a loving relationship, you have to say the things that hurt, whether that’s Molly admitting that she loathes the giant bag of crap Nikki carts around, or Nikki calling out Molly for marrying a man “who does not care about what you want or who you are” out of fear. But our involvement in Molly and Nikki’s relationship grows from how sure they are of each other – how each knows, just knows, that the other is the most solid, reliable love of her life.
Nikki’s unflagging support gives Molly the freedom she craves to have sexual adventures: with an array of vibrators, with men who like to be humiliated, and especially with the man in the apartment beside hers, known only as Neighbour Guy (Rob Delaney). And the nearness of Molly’s death opens her up to observe her sexual partners with such radical acceptance, she not only gives them what they desire, she frees them from the shame that weighs those desires down. It’s rare when a television show can make you wonder if you, too, could change your life, unmotivated by pain or fear or a terminal diagnosis. This one does.
As the eight episodes progress, the sexcapades recede, making way for Molly and Nikki’s most profound adventures: Molly must reckon with a childhood trauma and reconcile with her mother, Gail (Sissy Spacek), while Nikki learns to commit her whole self to be with Molly to the end, and also steel herself for life without her. It’s not that the sex stuff is a bait-and-switch for the friendship stuff – they are intertwined. The sex is a vehicle for Molly’s learning how to love and listen to herself, thanks to the safety net Nikki provides; and providing that net helps Nikki learn what it means to love selflessly. Meriwether and Rosenstock also know that for women friends, part of the pleasure of sex comes afterward, when you’re sharing the stories with each other.
The writing is sharp, insightful and never on the nose, and the showrunners clearly delight in showing on camera as many variations of female pleasure as possible. Every actor seizes their role between their teeth. David Rasche has a touching arc as Molly’s cancer doctor. Rob Delaney, who’s written so movingly about his own experiences with grief, manages to be both crazy-vulnerable and sexy as hell.
But it’s the women who will slay you. Esco Jouley is tremendous as Sonya, the palliative care specialist who guides Molly toward what she needs, including a sex party/potluck. Spacek, who is never less than fantastic – what a pleasure simply to look at her face! – shimmers as Molly’s complicated mom. Williams is every bit as beautiful, tragic, weird and brave as her role requires. But the revelation is Slate. I’ve always loved her deft comic way, but she goes so deep here, my eyes are filling with tears just writing about her.
All art starts with ambition. You ache to make something that shines, and then you ache over all the ways you feel you fell short. But Dying for Sex is that rarest of projects: It’s the most perfect realization possible of what its makers set out to do. It goes all the way. If this show had a mouth, I would kiss it.
