It’s hard to tell whether “DTF St. Louis” is a cold-blooded contemporary “Double Indemnity” or a humanistic examination of love and friendship that transcends conventional understanding.
Hard to tell by Chapter Four of the intriguing murder mystery, anyway, which is the number HBO showed critics of the seven-episode season. Told by two eminently unreliable narrators to two (so far) clue-deficient cops, this reconstruction of the events leading to the death of a pitiful man becomes a different story with each detail revealed — or is that with each lie told?
Whatever it may turn out to be, “DTF” is a funny, lurid and creepingly compassionate watch. Its veteran stars Jason Bateman, David Harbour and Linda Cardellini are showcased in ways we haven’t seen before, then in new ways again. Writer-director-creator Steven Conrad proves as skillful a manipulator as any of his characters while displaying a keen specific understanding of midlife and Middle American anxieties.
And boy, does Conrad have a dirty mind. Something unexpected from a writer whose work mostly consists of such mushy films as “The Pursuit of Happyness,” “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” and “Wonder.” Although “DTF” talks more explicitly than it shows, its TMI factor is off the charts. And while that will titillate many a “can you believe that?” conversation at Monday morning workplaces, perhaps “DTF’s” finest achievement is its nonjudgmental empathy regarding people’s sexual preferences and emotional needs.
Except the ones that may lead to murder. We’re not quite there yet.
If you don’t know what the title’s acronym stands for, look it up. In this case it’s the name of a dating app for married Missourians seeking no-strings affairs. Bateman’s Clark Forrest is a local TV weather forecaster (fun fact: Conrad also wrote the Nicolas Cage film “The Weatherman”) with a wife, two daughters and a backyard swing set positioned to let him glimpse over the hedge at his hot, sunbathing neighbor.
Clark befriends his on-air sign language translator Floyd (Harbour), an overweight schlub with money troubles, a surly stepson and a curved penis from an often-asked about but yet undisclosed mishap. Still super into Batman comics, Floyd’s clearly not in his wife Carol’s league, since she’s played by a push-up bra favoring Cardellini — though, as if to level that playing field, she’s often enwrapped in baseball umpire’s gear, a kids team side job she works for much-needed household income.
Clark meets Carol at a cornhole party (Not that kind! The yard game). She soon proves receptive to not just an affair, but one built around Clark’s very particular fetish fantasies. He’s basically a submissive who rides around town on a recumbent tricycle that screams “Cuck!” But like everything about Clark, that’s deceptive. Bateman plays him as a soft-spoken motormouth deft at choosing words to get what he wants.
Carol’s probably a femme fatale and Cardellini’s often hilariously deadpan about it, but her frustrations and affections sure feel genuine. Who’s really in charge of the illicit relationship is always a question, but it’s easy to see that these are both the “Arrested Development” and “Dead to Me” actors’ wiliest, best-controlled performances. Plus, hearing things like “Pop boners” come out of Velma’s mouth is great fun.
Carol still seems to love Floyd and has no trouble telling Clark she wants to save her marriage. She likewise can’t stop dropping hints that her husband needs a life insurance policy and they need to be secret about it. To distract Floyd from their infidelity, or perhaps to have something to hold over him if he finds out, Clark signs his pal up for a DTF St. Louis account, which leads to some surprising encounters — and presumably to Floyd’s poisoning at an early morning assignation.
Sad Floyd can be a magnet for mortifying situations. But before you ask “Was Lily Allen a script consultant?” know that, in both freestanding flashbacks as well as Clark and Carol’s sincere-sounding narratives, Harbour reveals a man who contains multitudes, most of which are quite beautiful. The “Stranger Things” star’s performance is vanity free and strives to locate the good in a troubled soul. When successful, it’s the one element of “DTF” that’s truly heartwarming.
Richard Jenkins is county detective Don Homer, a grizzled veteran who thinks he’s seen it all but gets discombobulated whenever sexcapades are discussed. Joy Sunday (“Wednesday”) is Jodie Plumb, a suburban investigator who knows more about carnal practices and keeps having to undercut the old white cop’s paternalistic sense of superiority. Both have their crime-solving strengths, but neither are as good as they think they are. The actors don’t play it like they’re out to make us laugh, which gives their humor a dry, delicious bite.
Beside revealing that he’s unapologetically bent, Conrad proves quite the visual stylist. He encourages cast members to strike odd physical poses and films them from off-kilter camera angles. The St. Louis sheriff’s station is a brutalist masterpiece, with rocklike furniture in its otherwise barren lobby and perdition-evoking interrogation room walls painted a hope-throttling green.
It’s our sympathies, though, that Conrad really splatters across the scenery. For all their scheming and cheating, Clark and Linda keep insisting that they loved Floyd more than they ever will one another. Bateman and Cardellini sell every one of those lies or heartfelt expressions or whatever they are, and with each new appearance Harbour earns more affection for his character.
Still, as mentioned, after watching a little more than half the season we’re entirely unsure of what to believe or what may happen. In an era rife with domestic crime shows that strain to keep viewers guessing, Conrad disarms us with seductive ease, then tickles our anxiety with naughty, amusing and horizon-opening twists.
“DTF St. Louis” is DTF with your head. But there’s a chance it may do your heart good.
“DTF St. Louis” premieres Sunday on HBO and HBO Max.