5 Reasons Why "Masters of Sex" Is the Best New Drama of Fall 2013

Image via Complex Original

Advertising is going to do what it needs to do to put butts in seats, but don't mistake the scantily clad men and women in the posters pushing Masters of Sex for a promise of wall-to-wall, premium TV humping. Yes, this show is about sex. Yes, people get naked. But this isn't After Dark on Cinemax. Being serious about sex means being serious about gender roles and evolving perspectives on pleasure in America during the '50s, who's entitled to it (everyone) and in what ways (all of 'em).

The first episode, with its conversations between Johnson and Masters's protégé Ethan Haas (Nicholas D'Agosto) about what sex means in terms of a friendship, is loaded with big, important ideas. There's a confrontation between the two at the episode's end that speaks to the show's willingness to expose sexist, conservative ideas about pleasure for what they are.

I've only seen the first two episodes, but if the show continues to get better—the dialogue could use more subtext—Masters of Sex will be just the thing we need in a Breaking Bad-less world. —Ross Scarano

For Mad Men fans keen on a new fix, bask in the wood and respectable, subdued color palettes of St. Louis circa 1956. Having more in common with the look of the first season of Matthew Weiner's period drama, Masters of Sex keeps it conservative even when exploring decidedly unconservative environments, like the brothel you see above. That space, which becomes an important location in the second episode, is nothing but dark varnish, complicated lingerie, and rosy scarves placed over bedside lamps.

The Masters' home is cold and empty, just like the marriage between William and Libby. It's a great sign for viewers who revel in the metaphorical possibilities of space. (Again, Mad Men viewers will find a lot to love.)

The show looks gorgeous, as any period drama worth its salt will. —Ross Scarano

Prostitutes, prudes, and prototypical chauvinistic '60s males— this is the world of Masters of Sex. In stark contrast to the progressive Victoria Johnson, there's Dr. Ethan Haas and Masters's wife Libby (Caitlin Fitzgerald).

Haas, the protege of Dr. Masters, is the show's resident dick. Unwaveringly set in the mentality of a '50s-bred husband who still expects his woman to cook and clean for him, Haas unravels when he becomes enamored with Victoria Johnson, only to realize she's cool with simply being fuck buddies. Furious in the first episode, he strikes Johnson. Haas is the guy you hate. He encapsulates the era's conservative thinking that's fighting against the research of Masters and Johnson. Haas is the guy the show begs to change.

Libby, on the other hand, is the kind of woman you see illustrated in the era's newspaper ads for cleaning products. She's sweet, quiet, and obedient to a fault. While at first she seems unfazed by her husband's absence and their separate beds, a sex scene between her and William, one that looks more like a chilly fertilization procedure than love making, reveals a loneliness behind her eyes. She's questioning who she is. To her, who can she be if she can't provide kids for her husband? The show looks beyond the Pleasantville stereotype and digs deeper into the soul of wives who were only seen as one-dimensional.

And then there are prostitutes. Each given life and purpose in the show, the sex workers that round out that cast represent a pivotal shift in the series. That is, the show isn't just interested in the sex lives of the uppermiddle class, but a whole era's experience and their role in the sexual revolution. —Tara Aquino

At first blush, the relationship between Masters and Johnson feels analogous to the one between Don Draper and Peggy Olson. Johnson is put in the position of having to prove herself to an older man who, in some ways, is right in step with the pre-Second-wave feminism ideology of the '50s. Only Johnson is far more confident than Olson, and Masters isn't the anti-hero that Draper is.

Masters is no angel, but he doesn't have a Big Secret like Don. (The secret he has is more like a medium-size secret, and doesn't involve a double life or any dead people. In the same way that Mad Men has only become better, richer, and more unpredictable the further away it gets from the Big Question of who will learn Don's secret, Masters of Sex begins in a place where the issue of "When will he be exposed?" isn't the driving engine of the narrative.)

Masters's personality issues have to do with his scientist's perspective on the world. He's a Vulcan. Everything is a procedure. Cold rationality trumps passion, including any hot-blooded ideas about what's underneath the drawers of others. Except we know he'll crack. There will be #feelings on this show just as surely as there will be more camera dildos. —Ross Scarano

Victoria Johnson, refreshingly modern but not out of place and played to perfection by Lizzy Caplan—she's the best thing on screen in Masters of Sex. Johnson represents the life and the hope of the show. She is the embodiment of the sexual revolution.

In the first episode, it becomes clear: she's got everything Masters is trying to understand. She's compassionate and empathetic toward people (see: Libby Masters), yet clear-headed enough to let a one-night stand be what is it is. What's more, she's divorced and single, but also a financially successful mother who intellectually powers her way into becoming Masters' research partner. Essentially, what makes Victoria Johnson such a captivating character is that she's an enemy of the past yet a heroine of the future. But because of Caplan, she doesn't become a didactic symbol. Instead, she's a person. —Tara Aquino