Review: ‘Sex Education’ bows out with an overlong, unfocused final season that’s still brimming with heart, humor, and poignancy

In terms of its focus on representation and inclusion, Sex Education fully deserves to be remembered as a groundbreaker and trailblazer that shattered episodic television’s typical taboos to deliver a heartfelt, often hilarious, regularly disgusting, and emotionally moving realization of sexual and societal teenage norms.

However, as its popularity continued to grow exponentially with each passing season, it began to feel as though the key creatives were in danger of suffering from the dreaded “Netflix bloat” that comes with an increase in scope, scale, budget, and freedom. As a result, the fourth and final run of episodes sees Sex Education hit all the high notes audiences have come to expect, but it takes a lot longer than it needs to in order to get there, with several of the many subplots either failing to captivate or coming across as entirely unnecessary.

Of course, having been confirmed as the end of the road for the Moordale gang, there’s a lot of narrative ground to cover, but introducing a raft of new characters while trying to wrap up the stories of its already-sprawling ensemble often finds things feeling stretched too thin, offering the impression that going so much bigger may not have been the smartest play in terms of tying things off.

Shifting the action to the almost unsettlingly idyllic Cavendish College drops the majority of the returning players – with the obvious and notable exception of Emma Mackey’s Maeve – into fresh surroundings, where they’re forced to get to grips with an establishment that’s almost the complete opposite of Moordale Secondary in every way. Naturally, that stings Asa Butterfield’s Otis the most when he not only discovers there’s already a student sex therapist in place (Thaddea Graham’s enigmatic O), but he accidentally presents his flaccid d*ck pics to an entire assembly.

An issue with Sex Education since the very beginning is that Otis hasn’t exactly been portrayed as the most likeable or compelling character, which is a problem when he’s the erstwhile protagonist and main character of the entire show. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change here, and given that the eight-episode final season runs for close to 10 hours all-in, it gets a little wearisome hearing him apologize so often as he continually comes across as self-centered, selfish, and often outright spiteful.

He’s the least interesting of the principal cast by far, which by extension makes it difficult to invest in his long-distance relationship with Maeve. Their will they/won’t they is the linchpin of everything that spirals out from and gets drawn into their shared orbit, but when all they do is fall out and make up in perpetuity, it becomes increasingly difficult to care whether or not they end up together.

On the plus side, Ncuti Gatwa’s Eric continues to be a force of nature, emanating boundless charisma and screen presence. As well as the inevitability of drifting apart from lifelong best friend Otis, Eric finally finds himself surrounded by new friends who completely understand who he is, all while dealing with the emotional torment of being pulled between his faith and sexuality in yet another signifier the new Doctor Who has a phenomenal career in front of him.

Meanwhile, Aimee Lou Wood’s Aimee begins to find her creative calling, which in turn helps her process the trauma of her sexual assault in season 2 in her own inimitable style. Some people might not be happy that one of the major facilitators behind it is a new love interest, but the actress is on phenomenal form yet again as a scene-stealer that’s long since mastered the art of toeing the line between laugh-out-loud moments and emotional gut-punches, often in the space of the same scene.

He’s not even a student anymore, and yet Connor Swindells’ Adam continues stating his case for the stealth MVP of Sex Education as a whole, in terms of nothing but growth from first appearance to last. Having evolved from the resident bully to a young man wrestling with his sexuality, he’s now dropped out of school completely to try his hand at a farming apprenticeship, forcing him to tackle his long-standing issues with Alistair Petrie’s father Michael head-on, working on himself as both a person and a son in one of the finest slow-burning arcs the entire series has had to offer.

That’s without even mentioning Gillian Anderson’s Jean struggling with a return to work and a refusal to acknowledge the increasing effects of post-natal depression, never mind Lisa McGrillis’ grating sister Joanne showing up on the scene to get a storyline of her own, too. Then, when you have Kedar Williams-Stirling’s Jackson attempting to figure out his direction and existence while dealing with a personal problem that involves excruciatingly detailed giant CGI testicles, Mimi Keene’s Ruby continuing to strip away the layers of her “mean girl” persona, and George Robinson’s Isaac battling back against just how progressive his new surroundings really are beneath the facade to name just five of the innumerable ongoing sub-stories, it all begins to creak under its own weight a little.

As a result, the much-vaunted casting of Dan Levy contributes almost nothing bar a few soundbites and a ferocious Maeve monologue, leaving Sex Education with far too much fat on its bones. The dialogue comes across as a lot more forced and stilted than usual, and as much as it’s elevated by top-notch performances from talents to have nailed these parts to a tee, the heel-dragging is always simmering just under the surface to create regular pacing issues that rob season 4 of the joy, vigor, and energy we’ve come to expect from the show.

Given current sociopolitical circumstances, though, one returning face and two new additions hammer home Sex Education‘s reputation for transcending barriers and boundaries. Dua Saleh’s Cal gets a major focus as they struggle internally and externally with taking testosterone and the conflict of feeling more like an outsider than ever before, while Felix Mufti’s Roman and Anthony Lexa’s Abbi address trans issues in a way unlike very few other mainstream series – network or streaming – have done before, underlining that despite season 4’s struggles, the series has lost none of its penchant for pushing issues that go under-represented in so-called “major” movies and TV shows to the forefront and handling them with remarkable assuredness, delicacy, and poise. It’s an approach that’s defined Sex Education since the start, and will always remain a vital part of its ongoing legacy.

Some of the signature subtlety has gone right out of the window, though, as has a surprising amount of the acerbic wit. In microcosm, Sex Education season 4 tries to spin as many plates as possible to end on the highest of highs, so it was inevitable that at least one or two would end up smashing. In the grand scheme of things, however, the positives still heartily outweigh the negatives, and sacrificing some of its earlier motifs in favor of growing up both dramatically, thematically, and emotionally makes perfect sense for a final season. There may not be a dry eye in the house by the time the credits come up for the very last time, but it long since secured a status as a genuinely innovative, inspirational, and pioneering slice of small screen gold.