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Socket to Me
‘Sex Education’ Is the Best Show on TV Right Now
 with Kevin Fallon Everything we can't stop loving, hating, and thinking about this week in pop culture.
This Week:
Sex Education Season 3 Is Just So Nice I have long given up on ever understanding what you all binge on Netflix, let alone how you find it.
A TV series with the worst reviews of the year? Number one in the streamer's Top 10 for at least a month. A movie that had no marketing, no press, and that I, a person who works as a professional entertainment journalist, had never even heard of? Somehow it ranks among the most-watched movies of the year.
 It's been one of my favorite shows on television since it premiered in 2019, and I think has been underrated and under-discussed. It's definitely the best series on Netflix right now, and probably the best season of TV to premiere this month.
Maybe the title scared some people off, or made them think that it was something that it's not. It's not preachy, didactic, or patronizing about sex and sexual health. It's not trolling and out to shock you with horror stories about what teens these days are doing (a la Euphoria), or meant to titillate you in a sort-of perverse way (like the Gossip Girl reboot).
It's heartfelt and it's humorous, both heightened and real. It acknowledges the harsh truths and pains of growing up amidst modern sensibilities—which is to say, hysteria and confusion—about identity, sex, and sexuality. But for all the ugliness it unearths about the human condition, the series somehow still manages to make you feel good.
Sex Education is set in a rural British town where all the teens, no matter their economic or cultural backgrounds, all attend the same academy.
Otis (Asa Butterfield) is a familiar teen character: the lanky, bumbling, awkward kid who—while, let's face it, is completely normal—is still looked at as odd by the popular kids. His mother, Gillian Anderson's Jean, is a renowned sex therapist, and, while that makes for an odd dynamic between parent and child, Otis has retained some of her attitudes and wisdom through osmosis.
Through a series of events over the first two seasons, that manifests itself in an underground sex-advice clinic that Otis operates at the school, despite not having much sexual experience himself and learning his way through hormones, relationships, and sexual proclivity.
The clinic is a clever narrative for introducing a sprawling cast of supporting characters and their respective hang-ups, inviting viewers in for a validating round of "I feel like that, too!" Or, for us old folks, "I definitely once felt like that."
Ncuti Gatwa's Eric and Connor Swindells' Adam are coming out of the closet and into a space of pride at very different paces and levels of expression. Aimee Lou Wood's Aimee works through being dismissed as a pretty ditz and having people take her intimacy issues seriously after a trauma. Tanya Reynolds' Lily fears that letting her freak flag fly may ruin any promise of being loved for who she is. And then there's Emma Mackey's Maeve, so mature and so jaded, wearing the burden of the world on her shoulders, a weight that buries any assertion that she might deserve happiness, too.
Obviously, sex is a major element of the show. But it's subversive, not horny or salacious. It's about how anxieties, misconceptions, and, to riff on the title, bad education can be irreparably damaging, particularly in such formative years.
Practically since TV began, whenever there was a teenage-focused show that involved sex in any frank or, lately, gratuitious manner, there is a wave of celebration and excitement, and then the counterblast of condemnation, pearl-clutching, and moaning about the decline of decency.
Sex Education pierces through both sides of the argument by being, in a way that is almost rather cheeky, about the birds and the bees conversation more so than the sex itself. It's inquisitive, curious, and a little rebellious about it, because that's what teenagers are. But it's also informative, progressive, and empathetic, because that's what they need. Truthfully, what we all need.
That's a more academic reason why what the show pulls off is so impressive. But it's also about feelings. It's a show that just feels nice.
 It's a warm series, which is surprising in its own right. Ordinarily, watching teenagers navigate the absolute hell of those years makes your skin crawl while you hide your eyes in second-hand embarrassment. But there's a grace with which these characters are treated. After three seasons, there's also an assumption that, while the bullshit life throws at them is tough, cruel, and painful, they'll be OK, even if emotionally bruised. (Ain't that life?)
There's so much nostalgia, which is to be expected if you are an adult watching a bunch of kids figure out high school. But that's also owed to the bizarre aesthetic, which may be my favorite thing about the series. Everything from the costuming to the set design to the music choices make you feel like the show is set in the '90s. Even the beats of the storylines kind of evoke familiar ones from '90s rom-coms and teen comedies. But it does take place in 2021, in the age of iPhones.
Never is that more clear than when the tyrannical new head teacher, played by Jemima Kirke (who gives a sensational performance), is brought in to throw the school's sex-positivity under a cold shower. She admonishes the students for demanding that they be seen for who they are—their identities, their concerns, their mental-health issues—calling them "snowflakes" and proclaiming that the worst part of their generation is that they think they're special.
What is more modern than the false promise of acceptance and empathy, and the backlash pushing things backwards after progress starts to be made?
It's a lovely show. It's a weird show. It can be prickly. For all the fun of it and the "niceness," it viscerally captures how lonely being misunderstood and not validated can be, especially at that age.
It's so good, and I'm so glad we're finally saying it.
Hollywood Has Saved Us From the Pandemic. Phew! It's about damn time someone said it. I don't know why it took this long.
Here we've all been, frolicking through life and stopping to pick its proverbial daisies, not brave enough to acknowledge the truth. To say what's needed to be said. But now someone has.
Eva Longoria, Alyssa Milano, Ciara, and, according to Deadline, dozens of other Hollywood patriots are valiantly calling on world leaders to end the COVID pandemic "now."
To anyone who wasn't sure about whether or not we should be trying to nip this whole coronavirus thing in the bud, the likes of Anne Hathaway, Idina Menzel, and Richard Gere, who also signed this letter, are unequivocal. Enough is enough, says Debra Messing. If no one else is going to put it out into the world then she is: Geez, can't you just make this thing go away already?  To be fair, there are actual specifics to the letter that the luminous and lionhearted signed, which was headlined "an open letter to world leaders on ending the COVID-19 pandemic now." (An open letter! If only we had thought of that solution sooner.) And to give credit where it's due, the timing isn't as absurd as we're making it out to be. The letter coincides with the United Nations General Assembly Session. Their specific demand is to, by mid-2022, make 14 billion vaccine doses available and vaccinate 70 percent of the world's population.
Look, let's not crucify noble gestures. It's not like if Malin Akerman, also a signee, texted me and said, "Hey, Kev! We're all doing this open letter about wanting the pandemic to end. You in?" then I would be like, "Nah, I'm good."
But there is something hilarious about the inherent narcissism of this particular type of celebrity activism, which is perhaps only the tiniest tiptoe forward in terms of value from the "Imagine" singalong of last year—as much progress as, say, a mouse makes when it sneezes and the force propels its little body forward a bit.
The celebrities want the pandemic to end? Well, alrighty then! Let's do it!  There's a gross hypocrisy to it that I think contributes to the mockery the letter is getting on social media, where it's been viciously roasted this week.
These are the same celebrities who are gleefully walking the Met Gala red carpet, attending the Emmy Awards unmasked, gabbing about their lives on Ellen, traveling the world to film festivals without visa restrictions and quarantines, and doing flash mobs in the middle of the street for a bit on James Corden's show.
Meanwhile, us peons are still wondering if we just risked our lives by going to Target—or, in the gilded cage that surrounds Hollywood, are the people you see running around wearing full PPE in the background of the Met Gala photos and Emmy Awards footage. The normies are being extra safe so that the famouses and the hotties can be extra glamorous.
Those photos are going to be insane time capsules to look back on in however many million years when this thing is over, a pretty damning indictment of our privilege and priorities.
Listen, I recognize and am among those who are GRATEFUL for the glamour to be back, for the distraction of J. Lo and Ben Affleck looking hot on red carpets across the world, and for being able to watch an award show that's not awkwardly shot over Zoom. That escapism is what Hollywood is for, and that's great!
But it's also why, well-intentioned as it may be, ovations like this from Hollywood trigger such exasperation and cynicism. How cute for the celebrities to demand that the pandemic end "now" when it seems they're the only ones for whom it's already over.
Has Anyone Talked to Margaret Thatcher Lately? I had a lot of thoughts about the Emmy Awards, which had some gorgeous speeches (except for that one Queen's Gambit guy who wouldn't shut up), ecstatic moments (except for literally everything host Cedric the Entertainer did), and wins to be happy about (except for all the ones we're, you know, not happy about). Lucky you, I wrote all of those musings down in this piece you can read right now.
 Then there was this moment that needs no commentary: After her Emmy win for her performance as Margaret Thatcher in The Crown, Gillian Anderson was asked by a journalist in the press room if she had spoken with the former prime minister about playing her. Famously, of course, Margaret Thatcher is dead. (Watch here.)
Nine Perfect Strangers… Woof, Man.
It's actually not fun to trash a TV show. When there are so many good series vying for attention among the, no exaggeration, over 400 options that air each year, it feels like more of a public service to champion and celebrate the things that are worth your time than use that space to talk about why something is bad.
That said, I watched the finale of Nine Perfect Strangers this week, and, my God, that show was bad. So bad that I can't stop thinking about it.
It wasn't a surprise that the finale was bad. Nine Perfect Strangers is a case where a series was arriving, sight unseen, with tons of buzz. Melissa McCarthy and Nicole Kidman were co-starring in a series based on a book by Liane Moriarty, who wrote Big Little Lies. People were excited! So I checked it out! It was bad!
In this case, I did write about it—in this very newsletter—because warning people off a show that big seemed like a valuable service, as did trying to understand what went so wrong.  I don't necessarily understand my compulsion with wasting my own time, but there was something about Nine Perfect Strangers, as messy as I knew it was, that got me so invested in seeing it through.
I think it's because the show wasn't "bad" in the sense that it suffered the classic hallmarks of badness: terrible performances, nonsensical plot, or offensive material. The cast was fine, particularly McCarthy. And, hey, we got to see Manny Jacinto's butt! But the wild thing about the story, week after week, is how predictable and, in essence, boring it was.
Aside from one twist involving Regina Hall's character that was more "huh?" dumb than "WTF!" exhilarating, it's a show in which nothing much happened, up to and including the final episode of the series, which featured a remarkable lack of intensity for a series that was ostensibly a thriller.
Listen, of course no TV is for everyone and it is possible that others enjoyed this. But at a time when I can find something redeemable in almost anything, I was shocked by what a flatline of nothingness a show that was supposed to be such a huge event turned out to be.
Help, I Can't Stop Watching This Nicole Richie's hair caught on fire while she was blowing out the candles on her 40th birthday cake, and the Instagram video of the moment already ranks among the content I have watched the most times, on a loop, perhaps in my life. (She's OK. I am not.) 
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