In the HBO miniseries DTF St. Louis, two vastly different stories uncomfortably interweave. One involves a man discovered dead at a community pool, beside an empty canned cocktail and a vintage Playgirl magazine. The other follows a friendship between two middle-aged male colleagues, both navigating infidelity—with one engaging in an affair with the other’s wife.
The cuckold and the murder victim are one and the same: Floyd Smernitch, a kind sign language interpreter, devoted stepfather, and portly, downcast figure portrayed by ’ . His death structures the plot, which weaves together the police inquiry with relevant flashbacks. It also overemphasizes the least engaging elements of the series, turning what could have been a nuanced exploration of midlife love and friendship into yet another murder mystery.
Shortly after meeting TV weatherman Clark Forrest ()—a health-focused alpha who travels St. Louis on a recumbent bike—Floyd rescues him from a flying stop sign while they cover a storm. This is typical of our soon-to-be-deceased protagonist, who frequently risks injury and humiliation to assist others. At group therapy with his troubled stepson, Richard (Arlan Ruf), Floyd opens up. “It’s all right, I got C’s too” in school, he tells the boy. He aims to prevent Richard from getting what he terms “adult C’s”—an unfulfilling life. Frustrated with his finances, his physical appearance, and the growing rift in his marriage, Floyd clearly speaks from personal experience.
Though the timeline of events isn’t immediately clear, Clark befriends Floyd and begins an affair with his wife, Carol (, TV’s adept portrayer of complex middle-aged women). Likely to ease his guilt, Clark persuades his friend to download DTF: St. Louis, an app for married locals seeking discreet hookups. When Floyd’s body is found, the app becomes a key tool for two detectives investigating the case: Richard Jenkins’ Homer, a seasoned detective reliant on lazy assumptions, and Jodie (‘s Joy Sunday), a young, open-minded officer determined to follow the evidence wherever it leads.
Premiering March 1, DTF is a challenging series—its apparent inconsistencies may prove intentional. It carries an offbeat, occasionally surreal sense of humor. The writing and performances oscillate between stylized rigidity and gut-wrenching authenticity. Floyd comes across as purely kind, making his willingness to cheat on his wife feel out of character. By contrast, Clark and Carol’s genuine selves lie buried beneath layers of pretense. It often seems creator Steve Conrad (Patriot) is intentionally obscuring the perspectives of other key characters. Four episodes into the seven-part season, it remains as hard to predict where this mix of tenderness and pain will lead as it was at the start.
While the dynamic between Jenkins and Sunday is sharp, I find little intrigue in how Floyd died. More compelling are the connections binding the love triangle—the way Clark and Carol guiltily revere Floyd’s kindness, the “dream meetings” where the affair partners engage in roleplay, and the remarkable diversity and adaptability of human sexuality. The murder is, at best, a distraction from what makes DTF distinct; at worst, a prop for three characters whose creator failed to craft a less formulaic plot. What if not every drama needed to be a crime story? What if the human heart, with its conflicting emotions and desires, were mystery enough?