DTF: St Louis - Review 

Rating: 4 out of 5

CONTRARY to first glances, DTF (or Down To F**k): St Louis was not a sensationalist erotic thriller. It was provocative, yes, but it asked much deeper questions of viewers, while taking them in surprising directions.

Written and directed by Steven Conrad, the show proved to be far more intimate emotionally than sexually, delving into issues such as loneliness, identity and friendship. It confronted mental health and notions of masculinity.

It was also an intriguing whodunit that culminated in a powerful, poignant and sometimes devastating finale.

In doing so, it never betrayed its characters complex emotions; leaning into the darkness that informed each of them, to eventually deliver a thought-provoking climax that arrived like something of a gut punch.

The show was built around a seemingly twisted three-way relationship between St. Louis weatherman Clark Forrest (Jason Bateman), his best friend Floyd (David Harbour), who is also the station’s ASL translator, and Floyd’s wife, Carol (Linda Cardellini), with whom Clark is having an affair.

As the series gets underway, Floyd is found dead in a local swimming pool changing room, prompting a murder investigation by a local cop named Donoghue Homer (Richard Jenkins) and a special crimes officer named Jodie Plumb (Joy Sunday), who immediately senses the crime scene isn’t what it first seems.

Their ensuing investigation uncovers surprising (and sometimes sordid) revelations but doesn’t form the show’s focal point. Rather, it provides a backdrop to the flashbacks that fill us in about the true nature and motivations behind this weird love triangle.

And while sex certainly plays a large part, it’s far from the complete story. Floyd’s tragic death - and DTF is ultimately a tragedy - is genuinely heartbreaking, especially once you fully understand it. But it’s quite a profound journey.

Conrad almost invites early misdirection as he lines up the potential suspects, drawing early judgements from viewers as Clark first encourages Floyd to join DTF and then actively pursues Carol to help satisfy his own sexual fantasies.

Homer and Plumb also uncover evidence of a life insurance policy that would fix most of Carol’s financial problems.

And there’s also the question of Carol’s troubled son: an anger prone teenager who struggles to fit in but who Floyd takes under his wing and shows complete love and respect towards.

Floyd is the good guy. The Ray of sunshine and security blanket that Clark has long been seeking away from his own marriage (he is also a father). He took up signing to help others after having an epiphany while in Chicago to interview for another job, thereby changing the trajectory of his and Carol’s lives.

Even when on DTF, his first encounter proves laughably embarrassing, as it involves a man (Peter Sarsgaard), who he reluctantly agrees to French kiss in the car park after their rendezvous so as not to offend or upset him.

He even finds out about Clark and Carol’s affair and encourages it, pleased that his new friend and wife have found some kind of happiness.

But Floyd’s goodness masks a deeply troubled individual. He suffers from low self-esteem, fully aware of where his life has now taken him. His body is no longer what it was (a former naked pin-up pose shows a lean figure, whereas now he is overweight) and his penis has been bent out of shape by a traumatic experience he regularly hints at revealing but never quite gets round to.

He knows his wife no longer fancies him. He struggles to be the role model he feels his step son needs. And he’s painfully aware of the financial shortcomings that have placed a strain on his marriage in other, non-sexual ways. He is sad and in need of any kind of boost - something he hopes DTF will provide.

Harbour captures this sensitive soul brilliantly. He’s by turns awkward yet engaging, complicated in his encouragement of others’ joy at the expense of his own, yet consistently endearing. He also captures that painful sense of self-awareness, often wearing a haunted look of despair. It’s a subtle, restrained but completely engaging performance that makes the final act revelations all the more poignant when they arrive.

His friendship with Clark is also beautifully developed, allowing plenty of room for nuance in Bateman’s performance. Initially, Clark seems the most confident and happy of the two: happily married, successful professionally (his face is planted across a billboard poster) and assertive enough to apparently knows what he wants from this current middle age phase of life.

He’s also generous, helping Floyd out financially and physically, thereby imbuing his character with a nice ambiguity: is he acting out of genuine friendship or guilt over sleeping with Floyd’s wife and being able to satisfy her where Floyd can’t?

But as the show peels away the layers, Clark is ultimately revealed to be just as mixed up and insecure as Floyd. His reticence when talking to the police doesn’t so much stem from a need to hide his guilt in Floyd’s demise, but rather a desire to protect his friend’s biggest, most revealing secrets.

The final scene between these two men is expertly realised: a tragic unveiling of true inner feelings and angst (particularly on behalf of Clark) that simultaneously deconstructs the idea of make friendship and sexuality that plays like a life affirming riposte to toxic masculinity. And yet, for all of the love on display, there’s a final tragedy in store - as that final meeting (taking place, as it does, in the night of Floyd’s death) gives rise to the revelation of how Floyd came to die.

And it’s the very same ideology around male relationships that informs it: most notably a mistaken interpretation of events (easily done, given that both Floyd and Clark are spotted dancing in their underwear) by Floyd’s devastated step-son.

It is this realisation, that Floyd has failed another person in his life, that prompts Floyd to take his own life.

Hence, for just about everyone concerned, the promise inherent in their initial coming together yields no lasting joy: what there is, either sexually or by way of friendship and understanding, is fleeting.

The damage done by past trauma, by attempting to live and be judged by society’s expectations and standards, has already been done. The scars run too deep.

The final scenes of the show are raw and sometimes tear-jerkingly sad. They’re also lasting: you’ll be left thinking about these characters and their choices for days.

Conrad does attempt to bring some levity by way of a final meeting between his two detectives, in which attitudes to sex and fetishes or kinks are comically analysed for their own guilty pleasure.

But as every character eventually comes to deduce: “No One’s Normal. It Just Looks That Way from Across the Street.”

And therein lies the show’s biggest revelation or deconstruction: what is normal? And how much harm do we do to ourselves and those we love by chasing it? Surely it is better to accept yourself for who you are, how you look and what you have? Will connection then be more meaningful?

DTF offers much to ponder and so very much to enjoy.