I’m fascinated by murder mysteries (the kind where everything is designed to have viewers conduct their own murder investigation, build a list of suspects, and piece together the clues). Obviously, as a teenager I was completely hooked on Pretty Little Liars (I know, the ending and a lot of the show was terrible), and as I’ve gotten older I’ve enjoyed plenty of series like it, including some with solid bi representation, like Only Murders in the Building.
Recently, HBO’s new murder mystery miniseries DTF St. Louis was recommended to me. As I watched, there came a point when I stopped wondering who the killer was and became much more invested in the mystery of the protagonist’s sexuality. I couldn’t stop thinking about one question: am I watching this character have a bi awakening, or am I misreading the situation? That question stayed with me throughout all seven episodes. Each new scene seemed to bring me a little closer to an answer, only to pull away again. By the time the series ended, I still didn’t have a clear conclusion, and strangely enough, I think that uncertainty perfectly sums up my experience watching it.
Before we continue, let’s clear up a few things. First, there will be SPOILERS — so if you hate spoilers, I recommend watching the series and then coming back. Finally, if you want a refresher on the details of our rating system, you can read them here. And don’t forget to check out our Bi Media entry on the series here!
Created by Steven Conrad for HBO, DTF St. Louis is presented as a mix of dark comedy, thriller, and drama centered on an apparent love triangle between Floyd (David Harbour), his wife Carol (Linda Cardellini), and Clark (Jason Bateman), Floyd’s best friend. The story begins when Floyd, a sign language interpreter who works at a local news station, is found dead in a public swimming pool under mysterious circumstances. From there, the series reconstructs the months leading up to his death through a nonlinear narrative that follows both the police investigation and the relationship between Floyd, Carol, and Clark, a weatherman with whom Floyd develops an increasingly deep friendship. What begins as a thriller about a possible murder soon becomes a reflection on loneliness, desire, validation, male vulnerability, and the different forms love between two people can take.
As a series, I found it refreshingly different and interesting. The performances are excellent, and the writing constantly blends humor with tragedy while deliberately making the viewer uncomfortable. I think it’s one of the most original things I’ve watched this year. But The Unicorn Scale doesn’t rate how good a series is; it rates how good its bi representation is. And that’s where DTF St. Louis left me with mixed feelings.
What I Liked:
If there’s one thing DTF St. Louis does exceptionally well, it’s challenging the way we understand male intimacy.
For decades, movies and television have conditioned us to expect two emotionally vulnerable men to end up in one of two places: either they discover they’re in love, or the story goes out of its way to reaffirm their heterosexuality before the audience can get the wrong idea. DTF St. Louis seems determined to escape that binary.
David Harbour explained in an interview with Men’s Health that one of the things that drew him to the project was precisely that mix of a crime story and an “intimate, strange, emotionally charged male friendship.” That intention is also reflected in much of the critical conversation surrounding the series. The New Yorker, for example, described Floyd and Clark as two men who seem to exist in a world where showing physical and emotional affection between friends doesn’t immediately raise suspicions.
If only we lived in a world like that.
It’s refreshing to see two grown men tell each other they love one another, hug, care for each other, and speak with a vulnerability we rarely see from male characters. Clark listens to Floyd without making fun of him. Floyd finds in Clark a space where he can talk about his insecurities, his marriage, and even his body without fear of ridicule.
At one point in the investigation, we learn that Floyd had gone on a date with someone from the DTF St. Louis dating app, believing the person was a woman because their profile photo featured David Bowie. It turned out to be a man nicknamed Modern Love. Later, we see a scene in which Floyd and Modern Love kiss. Floyd eventually explains that he kissed him because he didn’t want Modern Love to feel rejected for being gay. And yes, that explanation fits with the enormous amount of empathy Floyd shows throughout the series.
Still, Floyd’s expression in that scene is strikingly curious and vulnerable. It doesn’t prove that Floyd is bi, but it doesn’t rule it out either. And that ambiguity doesn’t come only from his kiss with Modern Love. The series repeatedly invites viewers to question the nature of Floyd and Clark’s relationship. There are the gym scenes, where their physical and emotional closeness becomes increasingly obvious; the moments when they confess their insecurities to each other; the conversations about feeling desired; the attempts to boost Floyd’s confidence through potential interactions with men; and even the final scene in which Clark tries to get aroused to prove to Floyd that he is still attractive.
And I think that ambiguity alone is enough to explain why so many viewers started asking themselves exactly what I was asking. Even LGBTQ publications interpreted Floyd as going through a bi awakening. I reached that conclusion myself several times while watching the series.
Although the series never gives Floyd a defined identity, it does manage to capture something we rarely see represented: the confusion that can come with discovering an unexpected attraction. Not every bi person has a clear moment of revelation or immediate certainty about what they’re feeling. For many people, the process is full of doubt, attempts to rationalize their emotions, and questions that can take a long time to answer.
I also appreciated that the series never treats the possibility that Floyd might be attracted to another man as a joke or a moral failing. At no point is there rhetoric rejecting bisexuality or homosexuality, nor is the kiss with Modern Love presented as something shameful. Even when Floyd tries to explain what happened, the show avoids judging or ridiculing him. That sensitivity allows viewers to consider different interpretations without presenting any of them as absurd or incorrect. Although DTF St. Louis never develops that possibility far enough to become actual bi representation, it does create a space where that reading can genuinely exist.
What I Didn’t Like:
The problem is that the same ambiguity I found fascinating for much of the series ultimately became DTF St. Louis’s biggest obstacle when it comes to bi representation.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I spent all seven episodes wondering whether I’d actually be able to review this series or whether I was simply reading too much into it. Every time I thought Floyd was about to acknowledge an attraction to men, the show pulled back.
And that’s exactly where I think DTF St. Louis shoots itself in the foot.
David Harbour has explained that Steven Conrad’s intention was to explore an intimate male friendship unlike what we usually see onscreen. Neither the series nor its creators have addressed Floyd’s sexuality; interviews have focused on describing his relationship with Clark as a deep friendship. That explanation might be enough… if we didn’t live in a world shaped by toxic masculinity and homophobia. The series uses a visual language that inevitably invites a queer reading, and by neither confirming nor rejecting that interpretation, it has left critics divided between seeing a bi awakening and seeing an unconventional male friendship. That ambiguity ultimately becomes frustrating because it leaves audiences debating the character’s potential rather than the representation that actually made it onto screen.
And that’s where my biggest frustration comes in.
I don’t think DTF St. Louis is queerbaiting in the traditional sense of the word. I never got the impression that the series was trying to market itself as an LGBTQ story to attract a queer audience. Still, there were several moments when I felt it brushed up against that line. From the trailer and promotional campaign to, above all, the way many of Floyd and Clark’s scenes are directed, the possibility of a bi awakening is constantly present… only to remain a possibility.
Maybe Floyd was bi. Maybe he wasn’t.
The problem is that the series ends just as it seems ready to explore that question. Floyd dies before he has the chance to reflect on his own feelings and before any possible attraction to men can move beyond implication and become a real part of his character development.
As a bi viewer, I felt like the series spent seven episodes inviting me to ask a question it never had any intention of answering. That choice works perfectly well if the goal is to explore the complexity of male friendship. But when you evaluate it through the lens of bi representation, there’s very little left to analyze beyond the potential that never had the chance to develop.
The Rating:
DTF St. Louis is a very interesting series, and if we focus on its exploration of intimacy within a male friendship, it’s a very good one. But when it comes to bi representation, it falls short.
Not because Floyd can’t be read as a bi character. On the contrary, I think the series gives us enough for that interpretation to exist legitimately. The problem is that it never chooses to develop it. His possible bisexuality remains suspended somewhere between suggestion and ambiguity until the story simply ends.
That’s why I’m giving it the lowest rating I can: half a unicorn. Not because the series handles bisexuality badly, but because, in the end, all it gives us is the possibility of representation that never becomes a reality.
