Sex Education Is Deeply Satisfying, Deserves an A+

I watch a lot of sex-focused movies and TV. But usually the actual sex scenes themselves are my cue to grab a drink, pack my vape, write a quick text, etc.; with a few memorable exceptions (hellooo, Raging Bull) most sex scenes leave me pretty bored. And I don’t really blame myself, either: despite loads of good intentions from actors and directors alike, often sex scenes just aren’t that … sexy. And so it is with IRL sex: even with the very best of intentions a lot of sex simply misses the mark – which is one of many reasons why we need sex education. Or rather, we need Sex Education.

Created by British newcomer Laurie Nunn, Netflix’s Sex Education is a surprisingly sophisticated take on a done-to-death genre: angsty but salacious teen sex dramedy. The protagonist, Otis “looks like a Victorian ghost” Milburn (Asa Butterfield), is a charming but extremely neurotic boy tormented with guilt about his sexual urges despite the fact – or rather very much in part because of the fact – that his mother Jean (Gillian Anderson at her most ravishing) is a liberated, libidinous sex therapist. So while Jean invites a new man into her bed most every night – she “doesn’t do boyfriends” – her poor son “can’t even wank” (the show is nominally British, albeit also heavily Americanized since it’s an explicit homage to John Hughes’ movies).

Otis’ fairly severe sexual inhibitions notwithstanding, the series centres on his collaboration with Maeve, the “school slut” (also the school’s feminist genius and highly talented writer, but whatevs) with whom he founds a “sex clinic,” embracing an unlikely vocation as sex therapist to his peers at Moordale Secondary School. Running sessions from urinal stalls (just like in Charlie Bartlett; RIP Anton Yelchin), Otis delivers advice on everything from sexual anxiety to scissoring, from learning about one’s own turn-ons to learning about someone else’s consent – or lack thereof. It’s an adorable premise, really: Otis’ personal and sexual life is disastrous but he can still give great advice. Some of us may be able to relate.

Sex Education has so much going for it that it’s hard to even know where to start with the praise; right from the beginning it signals its superiority to more stereotyped offerings, with a cold open that centres on a macho young man (Adam “whale dick” Groff, played by Connor Swindells) faking orgasm, followed swiftly by Otis himself “faking” masturbation with an elaborate series of props. The writing is fantastic and laugh-out-loud funny (“Think of someone strong! Like Putin, or Beyoncé!!”), but there’s an amazing depth and tenderness here too, evidenced for example by the stellar treatment of mental health issues. The soundtrack is obnoxiously good – not obnoxious like precious and trying too hard, but obnoxious like it’s obnoxious that the person who curated this track list isn’t already my friend. And Gillian Anderson, truly the contemporary exemplar of female “wanna be, wanna fuck, wanna be bffs” perfection (as my dear friend so succinctly put it recently) is, as always, an absolute delight – whether she’s getting joyfully and unabashedly high with a teenager twenty minutes into the first episode or screaming with rage (“YES I’M WRITING A BOOK, YOU FUCK; YOU DON’T FUCKING OWN WORDS!”) after a triggering Skype encounter with her patronizing, slimy, successful ex-husband – another sex therapist.

The eight-episode season is mostly comedy, but there’s some tragedy in here too, much of it stemming from the fact that, as Otis insists, “you can’t control who you’re attracted to.” But what Sex Education demonstrates – deliciously at times, poignantly at others – is that you can control how you treat people. Or at least you can try. And if you make a mistake, you can ask for a second chance. In fact in a lot of ways that’s what the show seems to really be about: second chances. Most of the main characters need one at some point, and asking for it may be the hardest part – not unlike with sex, where learning to really ask for what you want is also often the biggest battle people seem to be facing in the bedroom. In Sex Education sometimes these second chances have nothing at all to do with sex – as when Maeve, after a convoluted series of events and missteps that aren’t really her fault, has to petition to be allowed to stay in school. Her mini-speech, which struck both painfully and pleasingly close to home for me, concludes with the pledge: “I know I can be better. And if you give me a second chance I will not waste it.” Other second chances really are about sexuality: the season ends playfully, with Otis in the process of shooting for a second chance of his own – a second chance at the big O that’s been eluding him. Luckily a second season has already been promised; forget Trojans, this is the real extended pleasure I’ve been waiting for.

Sex Education is streaming now on Netflix.