‘Three Women’ Review: A Serious Study of Sex Sabotaged by Structure (and Bolstered by Betty Gilpin)
“I can’t write about my parents, I have to write about sex — specifically, sex in America,” Gia Lombardi (Shailene Woodley) says, early in “Three Women.” Sitting across from New Journalism pioneer Gay Talese (James Naughton), a living, breathing, propositioning representation of the patriarchy (at least, as depicted here), Gia is trying to find a new direction of her own. The book she’s already written has been dismissed by her publisher. They found it boring, among other issues, and she’s been sent to speak with (and, it’s heavily implied, sleep with) the author of the 1981 book on sexuality in America, “Thy Neighbor’s Wife,” to find a stronger angle into her extremely broad thesis.
She doesn’t, and it wouldn’t be wrong to say “Three Women” doesn’t either. Even when Gia is giving her closing summary (via voiceover, of course), pinning down what she’s learned at the end of her long, country-spanning journey, her conclusion is wider than the old orange van she comfortably sleeps in during the road trip. Really, that’s OK. Where Taddeo’s Starz series thrives is in the details; the extended, explicit sex scenes depicting the profuse emotions that transpire during random hook-ups, steamy affairs, and tender love-making; the complex feelings of its central subjects, whose attempts to understand their desires run in obvious, critical parallel with their attempts to understand themselves; even the performances that bring each woman to life (or, back to life, given they’re based on real subjects) are rich and vibrant in their similarities and differences to each other, to their partners, and to their surrounding world.
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That so many of these subtle strengths are undermined by poor structure, unjustifiable plotting, and an inattention to detail in basic storytelling is a real shame. I was shouting at my TV screen, either in confusion or disbelief, more than I was moved or enlightened — and there is plenty here that should move or enlighten. For each subtle, smart decision in one regard, there’s a glaring, obtuse decision elsewhere, which ultimately makes an adaptation that should broaden Taddeo’s audience into a series that may only be fully appreciated by those who’ve also read the book.
But everyone can treasure Betty Gilpin. As Lina, a housewife in Indiana whose husband refuses to touch her — and not just sexually, seeing as he flinches away from her when she tries to rest her palm on his arm — Gilpin transitions quickly and convincingly from repression to self-indulgence. Gia’s voiceover frames Lina as someone who “has only ever wanted to be fully loved and forever partnered, like a penguin,” making her inching, pleading attempts to connect with her oblivious, hard-hearted husband all the more agonizing — and her subsequent decision to have an affair with her old high school sweetheart, Aidan (Austin Stowell), all the more righteous.
Secrets from her past come rushing out rather late, and her medical conditions just kind of drift away, but Lina’s story is so effusively embodied by Gilpin, it’s easy to forgive the character’s sometimes clumsy development. (Less easy to forgive, at least to anyone who’s lived in the Midwest, is another insulting depiction of small town middle Americans, who are repeatedly mocked for their collective inability to pronounce common words or comprehend clear arguments.) Lina stands in stark contrast to Sloane (DeWanda Wise), an eternally poised, put-together catering company co-owner (with her husband, Richard, played by Blair Underwood). Living in Martha’s Vineyard, throwing fancy events, Sloane’s work also supports her play: She sleeps with other men while Richard watches, and disposable men are plentiful when you’re hosting a new party every weekend. That’s where she meets Will (Blair Redford), a fisherman who she finds irresistible, but Richard worries is too great a temptation.
Sloane’s story is also bolstered by the radiant Wise, just as it’s also hampered by nagging oversights and oversimplifications. As smart as it was for Taddeo to break up the all-white cast of her book, Sloane’s Blackness doesn’t really factor into her story. Her children don’t really either, and her ending is rushed in a way that flattens a previously well-rounded perception of Sloane as a smart, thoughtful person. The Psych 101 diagnosis she struggles to overcome feels too obvious, and her culpability is too quickly written off. (I’m all for leaving the blame-game behind, but “Three Women” bends over backward trying to reposition Sloane as the injured party, when taking responsibility would’ve delivered a greater growth moment.)
Finally, there’s Maggie (Gabrielle Creevy), a 23-year-old waiter in North Dakota who’s waiting tables at Perkins and still living with her parents. Her life was derailed by a relationship she had with her high school English teacher, as well as the subsequent trial, which doesn’t go Maggie’s way. Saying as much isn’t a spoiler. Each episode featuring Maggie’s story opens with a disclaimer stating Mr. Knodel was never found guilty, and what you’re about to watch is Maggie’s version of events. But rather than dull any suspense over what may happen, the legal requirement allows “Three Women” to focus on what really matters. By now, most viewers have to be aware of how the courts are stacked against victims of rape, so Taddeo wisely plays out the judicial matters with an uneasy sense of inevitability and digs into even more unsettling territory: sorting trauma from passion. That Maggie wanted her teacher at the time doesn’t negate the psychological pain he inflicted on her; the responsibility he had and violated as her teacher; the manipulation he deployed to get what he wanted from a minor, and how he pathetically tried to convince himself it was all OK because she kept saying yes.
It’s thorny, upsetting territory to be sure, but it’s also a distinction that still needs to be made. As embodied in a late, tragic scene with her brother, where he supports Maggie while failing to understand why what Mr. Knodel did was so wrong, these matters are often treated by pop culture with either a lurid fascination with the perpetrator or a broader call to action on behalf of the victims. “Three Women” wants to fully understand what Maggie went through, so we can understand it — and prevent it — too.
That only leaves Gia, whose addition to the series is as distracting as it is unnecessary. In a story about a journalist studying sex that’s written by a journalist who studied sex, Gia somehow succumbs to more unwanted stereotypes about journalists and women than she upends. Also, it must be said, her central romance makes zero sense. None. Woodley and John Patrick Amedori (“Dear White People”) lay on the charm to try to make up for all the leaps of logic and glaring red flags, but even their considerable chemistry can’t keep their love story from sinking the series it’s meant to support.
From the second Gia says, “I can’t write about my parents, I have to write about sex,” it’s obvious, in the end, she’s going to write about both. But fulfilling that specific promise doesn’t lend Gia’s overarching thesis as much profundity as the moments of grace captured within her three subjects’ personal quests. Buried under all the plot contortions and surplus extensions of “Three Women” are many beautiful, moving observations. If only it was easier to see them.
Grade: C+
“Three Women” premieres Friday, September 13 on Starz. All 10 episodes will be released on the Starz app and air linearly at 10 p.m. ET.
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