My friend and I were talking about how sometimes, and especially with a show we really love, we often put off watching the final season for as long as we can stand. There’s a temptation to leave characters we adore suspended in mid-arc forever—caught in perpetual motion, always on the brink of something else—because, in the end, no ending will ever be entirely satisfying. So I put off watching the final season of Sex Education for a bit, because I didn’t want to lose the potential of visiting this dreamscape alternate reality that I’ve come to love so much. But of course I caved and watched it all, which has left me somewhat satisfied, unsatisfied, bereft, and nostalgic. While there were aspects of this season that I truly appreciated and adored, it was, when compared to other seasons, what I believe the youths call somewhat mid. This review will contain spoilers, so gird your loins, your eyeballs, your brain, and whatever else for that.
With Moordale High closed down, the students have scattered, with some of them, like Anwar (Chaneil Kular) and Olivia (Simone Ashley), no longer in the frame at all. A core contingent, though, have migrated together to Cavendish College, a student led school with an actual slide in the building, a podium for public speaking, a no gossip policy, a color-scheme that evokes Heartstopper, an undying devotion to the concept of kindness, queer kids at the top of the pecking order, and, much to Otis’s (Asa Butterfield) consternation, a student sex therapist named O (Thaddea Graham) already in residence. It’s an unsettling change because part of what made Sex Education work so well was that somewhat fantastical combination of the traditional (uptight) British school with more American elements (lockers, varsity jackets) and the classic high school hierarchy of popular kids and freaks. The inclusive utopia at Cavendish College purposely turns that pecking order on its head, which is certainly interesting and opens things up for other debates, but it’s a LOT for the final season of a beloved series. Gone are the letterman jackets, the sly references to teen movies of yore, and the feeling that the kids were always fighting the power. Here, the adults are all but invisible, showing up only rarely to offer milquetoast opinions.
Otis is in a long-distance relationship with Maeve, who is in America at her prestigious writing thing where she’s learning a lot, but also missing Otis a great deal. She tries to sext him, but it will not shock you to learn that Otis then overthinks the whole ordeal and punts on sending her any photos of himself back. This causes upset and some turmoil, which leads to Otis then questioning things further, and, well, you get the idea of two young people trying to keep things going across an ocean when one of them is Otis and the other one is Maeve. Her writing instructor is played by Dan Levy who is poorly cast in an otherwise impeccably cast show, which is a huge disappointment. Plus, his parts don’t seem to be particularly well-written, so he comes off as a not particularly believable portrait of the fragile, snide, egotistical, self-important writer who uses his power to first goad Maeve into giving her honest opinion about his work and then immediately undermining hers because of it. The idea rings true, but not his words or mannerisms. Also, for the love of all the jelly beans, for once I would like to hear about some intellectual snotty writer getting published or rejected from a magazine OTHER THAN the New Yorker. They exist.
But back to Otis, who it feels very much is just relearning the same lessons he learned last season? And maybe that’s the point? That cisgender white boys don’t manage to learn these things the first or second time through? He’s so caught up in his battle of the sex therapists, and so convinced that O must have stolen his idea to begin with, that he can’t even find the time or energy to let Eric (Ncuti Gatwa) finish his sentences. Sound familiar? He cuts Eric off when he talks about his concerns with getting baptized in his church—where he can’t be open about his sexuality. He cuts Eric off when he talks about being shat on by birds and chatting with God, which is really important stuff when it comes to Eric’s future, and also probably the very best thing to happen this season. He cuts Eric off when he tries to explain how it feels different for him to spend time with Abbi (Anthony Lexa), Roman (Felix Mufti), and Aisha (Alexandra James) until the two have a chasm of unexplained feelings between them. Again. I am, however, all for where this season takes Eric in terms of his journey toward becoming a pastor and reconciling all aspects of himself. It’s done in classic Eric style with lots of doubting, laughter, some darkness, and a final reveal that will lift you higher and likely make you laugh with delight. Eric is always phenomenal. This show should get all the praise for introducing us to Ncuti Gatwa, his smile, and his laugh. AND for the genuinely vulnerable, tender, and timeless friendship he and Eric share. I would watch the spin-off about Pastor Eric and his hanger on best friend friend Otis.
But what of those new friends who show up this season? Abbi, Roman, Aisha, and O? For a show that has until now been so meticulous in forming its characters and giving even the most tangential among them room to grow and mature, these introduced in the final season feel somewhat flat or like they’ve been given too many expectations to fulfill in such a short time. Take O, for example, the rival sex therapist, highly competent in her job, who helps lift Jean (Gillian Anderson) out of postpartum depression, but is also Ruby’s (Mimi Keene) former elementary school bully, and an until-now closeted asexual. These are just a lot of facets to explore in one character throughout one season when she isn’t even at the forefront for most of the show. Whereas in other seasons her sexuality would have felt like something hugely important, pulled out, explored, examined, held up, and really laid out for other people to identify with, here it’s barely given space to breathe among all the other drama. Don’t get me wrong, these characters are valuable, but they feel more like tools to help the already existing characters explore themselves than they do fully formed people, which hasn’t been the case in previous seasons. Also, there is just a lot crammed into this final season and I wonder if they could have jettisoned some of it, leaving the viewers more space to really reflect on the other topics. The whole concept of a gossip-free, kindness forward school is something that could be parsed for hours, but it’s barely given air. I was left not sure what to make of a candlelight vigil held by students when Abbi and Roman temporarily hit the rocks. Is concern trolling? An earnest expression of worry? A sign of cultist leanings? All of the above? Toward the end the series kind of addresses Abbi’s insistence on positivity above all else and Aisha’s desire to gossip, but it really barely scratches the surface and feels like the kind of pat solutions this show has always sought to avoid. Other storylines also suffer for lack of time. Jackson (Kedar Williams-Stirling), for example, has a cancer scare and goes on a journey to find his sperm donor, which leaves him confused and fractured, and me wondering what exactly was gained from the storyline at this late juncture. Viv (Chinenye Ezeudu) experiences intimate partner violence, but there’s so little time to really let it play out or explore it that it feels almost trite and wrapped up too neatly. Something the series has never done before, especially when you look at how they have let Aimee’s experience with sexual assault linger and ooze and spill, as it should, into every crack and crevice of her life and the show. We don’t need cheap tricks at the eleventh hour, when we already know the insipid horror of bad men posing as innocuous bystanders.
Oh, but Aimee. Sweet Aimee. What a journey she’s taken. If you had told me at the beginning of the first season that I would be rooting so hard for Aimee, Adam (Connor Swindells), and Ruby—well, I probably would have mostly been confused. But the way Amy has never stopped being true to herself—this season she tells Eric and Otis she can’t drive her car because she’s letting a family of squirrels live in it—but has grown, matured, and learned in ways that most people only hope to do across their entire lifetime. The entirely poignant moments when she returns to the trauma of her assault, seeing it from different perspectives as she heals and moves forward. And that monumental moment when tells off a group of construction workers. It feels like a breakthrough. It feels like success. It was amazing.
And while Adam is, sadly, isolated from his peers this season, it’s still interesting to watch him find his way through mending the many, many holes in his family and perhaps finding new talents. Part of me very much wanted to leave him high on his proverbial horse at the dog show at the end of last season, but then I did very much enjoy getting to watch him meet an actual horse this season, and, when asked if he was afraid of them, respond by saying, “No, they have perfectly normal sized faces.” I snorted. Look, his whole arc of learning to ride a horse and giving kids lessons is less than realistic, but I guess I can let it slide for Adam, who has become such a bright light in this show, and who deserves the very best. His gentle bending toward self-acceptance and love and warmth has been an absolute joy to watch, and I will miss him perhaps most of all. Also deserving the very best is Ruby, who simply does not get it from Otis. Why does he never treat her as anything other than an afterthought? And what are we supposed to make of that in the end? That he has finally learned but it is too late? I suppose that’s what I hope and that Ruby has finally let go of some of her past worries and hangups and can finally enjoy herself and have friendships again with people who appreciate her ample organizational skills. Because as much as Otis has grown and as much as Maeve credits him with helping her to learn to trust people, I still think he has a long way to go in terms of learning how to really listen and communicate openly with people.
My goodness, I’ve written this much and I haven’t even addressed Jean, who is largely a mess for most of this season as she’s lost in the morass of baby Joy and postpartum depression, which does feel realistic. She tries to do it all by herself—or just with Otis’s help—but she comes up woefully short every time. She starts a radio show, which goes horribly at first. Otis enlists the help of her somewhat dodgy sister, which also goes horribly at first. And I’m just not sure how I feel about where Jean ends up. It’s not quite clear for me, I guess.
And I should say, for all my previous complaining, some of this season’s storylines are just so very good. The episode with Maeve’s mom’s funeral is one of my favorites for just a plethora of reasons, but especially when Maeve is folded into the back of a hearse, the touching moments between Eric and Adam, Maeve’s eulogy, and the closing song. I’d be absolutely remiss if I didn’t mention that the series, once again, have done a good job of calling out the need for accessibility, with the broken elevator at the college being an ongoing theme throughout the season as well as Aisha’s scant access to accessibility for her deafness. This comes to a head at the end of the season and is probably resolved far too easily, but it at least highlights the tendency of institutions to fund almost anything over less sexy things like accessibility, and the difficulty individuals sometimes have in feeling like they constantly have to ask for access.
A lot of this season feels like the show is nostalgic for itself already, which I don’t think is a bad thing. I was also nostalgic for it as soon as I hit play on the first episode. There are plenty of echoes of seasons past and ideas and thoughts and that sort of thing, even as they’re filling out this season with new material. Where I liked this the most though was how it left the main characters largely where they started—Aimee astride a boy, Adam and his parents in their house, Otis on his bed, Jean with a man—but all of them so completely changed that they’re all but unrecognizable to their former selves. Most of all, the show gives its characters the opportunity to finally speak and act upon their truths—to open themselves up to the wild, scary, exhilarating world that they crave—which is beyond beautiful to witness. Yes, even with all my snitty asides, even Otis. Although this season lacked a lot of the spark and euphoria of previous seasons, I’m still so grateful to have been able to spend these last few moments with these characters whose stories have always felt urgent, timely, and just this side of magical. Goodbye, Moordale. And, thank you.
Overall Rating on the Chronically Streaming Pain Scale:
Chronically Streaming 