Masters of Sex: “Pilot” (Episode 1.01)

Sometimes it feels like all you need to drive a quality TV series is a flawed protagonist with whizkid-level prowess in his or her chosen field. Don Draper can’t open himself up to love, but he can use it to sell Hershey bars. Walter White’s trajectory is a harrowing descent into villainhood, but goddamn, he’s great at it. It’s not just drama, though; Liz Lemon’s personal life is a mess (for most of 30 Rock, anyway), but TGS wouldn’t last a day without her at the helm. Leslie Knope can be goofy, but we’re led to believe she’s basically carrying the city of Pawnee on her shoulders. Even Michael Scott eventually proved he was good at selling paper. It’s a phenomenon that, despite that last example’s British origins, feels uniquely American. We go to work—more often than any other industrialized nation, as we like to remind ourselves—and then when we get home, we unwind in our leisure time by watching other people work. We’re chasing something—wealth, happiness, a sense of identity, perfection, maybe some combination of the four. And so we love characters who are phenomenal at their jobs.
It’s obvious from the first seconds of Showtime’s new series Masters of Sex that Dr. William Masters (Michael Sheen) is meant to join the ranks of those beloved, hyperskilled TV characters. We meet him in 1956 at Washington University in St. Louis, as he’s being honored for his groundbreaking work as an OB/GYN. He fidgets with his wine glass and generally does his best angsty Draper impression as his boss (Beau Bridges) glows about him, before he steps to the mic and delivers an “I gotta go, bye”-style acceptance speech that would do Merritt Wever proud. As the episode progresses, we learn more about him: he’s secretly researching human sexuality by hiring a local prostitute to do her thing and observing through a peephole. He and his wife have been trying to conceive for two years, and he’s putting her through all sorts of rigorous fertility treatments, despite knowing that he’s actually the sterile one. He hires Virginia Johnson (a nightclub singer-turned-hospital secretary played by Lizzy Caplan) as his new research assistant and begins gazing longingly at her and jealously accusing her of flirting with patients pretty much immediately. By the episode’s end, he’s proposing that they sleep together to avoid transferring any sexy vibes onto their patients. You know, for science.