When Lisa Taddeo’s non-fiction book “Three Women” hit shelves back in 2019, it became an immediate hit. Featuring the intimate stories of–you guessed it–three women Taddeo followed over years of their lives, the novel gave readers an in-depth and startlingly intimate look into the lives of women who, while so singularly different, are all connected through their wants and desires.
At the time of its release, Taddeo’s book felt fresh, but now, five years later, this adaptation feels stifled by the stillness of the work it’s adapted from. The series follows Lina (Betty Gilpin), a housewife who is quickly withering beneath her husband’s sexual (and emotional) neglect; Sloane (DeWanda Wise), a wealthy restaurant owner struggling in her open marriage; and Maggie (Gabrielle Creevey), a young woman haunted by the relationship she had with her high school teacher while she was still a student. The stories of these women are brought to the spotlight by a fictionalized version of Taddeo, played by Shailene Woodley, named Gia.
Broke after losing a book deal, Gia sets off in search of women across the country who are willing to share their sexual accounts with her. She finds them almost as if she was called to them by a higher source, getting testimonials and, along the way, allowing their perspectives to shape not only her book but her life as well. While it sounds like the perfect setup for an introspective miniseries, “Three Women” instead feels like a show burdened by the impact of its source material.
The first episode is a fusion-filled introduction to each of the series’ central characters, but then their stories splinter off. This is where “Three Women” runs into its main problem, one from which it can never truly bounce back. Instead of expanding the original work, this series is bound to the pages so that it constantly feels as if it’s too afraid to be its own piece of art. This is partly because of the splintering of these stories, which makes for a highly stilted narrative, but it’s also because there’s one woman in particular who shines while the others simply exist on screen.
Lina, “Three Women’s” resident housewife, is undeniably the show’s saving grace. Starved for affection, we watch as she fumbles through many attempts to gain agency in her fractured marriage–from seeing a doctor for the pain in her joints to buying a vibrator and masturbating. All of this culminates in Lina finally reaching out to her high-school boyfriend, whose memory has been one of the few things uplifting her through adulthood, resulting in an explosion of passion in her otherwise stagnant life.
Betty Gilpin’s magnetic presence throughout it all is almost overwhelming to watch. As Lina’s face cracks a timid smile before shuttering into a permanent frown, it’s impossible not to view this as one of the year’s best television performances. Vulnerable and hardened, Gilpin adds some well-needed life to a series that is, at times, devoid of it. The transformation Lina goes through is enough to make this series feel worthwhile for a time, but each time she leaves the screen–and the other characters take her place–it feels as if the soul of “Three Women” is missing.
Part of what makes Lina’s storyline–and the rest of the series–particularly intriguing is the way the show portrays sex. In a culture where intimacy is all but disappearing from film and television, “Three Women” is unabashed in the sex lives of its characters, allowing the audience to witness every pleasured gasp and awkward fumble. In the first episode of the series, Gia declares that the women whose stories she later goes on to tell “were not people who wanted to be watched. They were women who needed to be seen.”
The way these sex scenes are filmed–courageously held onto for what some may deem an uncomfortable amount of time–is proof that at the series’ core, there is an understanding of women and their sexual desires. However, one of the show’s most egregious faults is the way it handles Maggie, whose sexual trauma frankly outweighs her desire. While her storyline is treated with the amount of care it needs, it often falls to the wayside throughout the series. Maggie’s story, which follows her grooming by her high school teacher to her court case against him, deserves more screen time than the series affords her. It’s clear that everyone involved in the show has the utmost respect for the real Maggie’s story, but it’s impossible not to feel like it should maybe exist as its central narrative.
Compared to the meandering lives of Sloane and Gia, the severity of Maggie’s storyline–and later, Lina’s–feel like they’re never given enough time to breathe. This also puts the audience into a corner they can’t escape from, forcing them to witness these horrors and then, in the next scene, watch as other characters go sledding amongst the backdrop of neon lights and techno-pop music. This is where “Three Women” fails: when it attempts to juggle the severity of the way sex, freedom, and power overlap in the lives of its characters. Ultimately, it feels like this adaptation doesn’t know what it wants to say, and perhaps five years since this story originally debuted, nothing needs to be said at all.
Whole series screened for review.
