In the Criterion Collection edition of “All That Jazz,” Bob Fosse describes the origins of the movie, which he wrote and directed shortly after having a heart attack, in 1975. Initially, Fosse says, he’d intended to adapt a novel about a woman whose husband was dying, “and her problems—with the children, her problems about money, her sex problems, etc.” The screenplay was “a lovely piece of material,” he explains, but “it was just so down . . . this real, what we used to call ‘kitchen drama.’ You know, it was very heavy.” Fosse realized that, to make art about death, he needed to use “the tools I can use best, which is song and dance.”

The result was one of the best portraits of workaholic creativity ever made—a glitzy, funny, and unapologetically solipsistic fantasia, set deep within the mind of its self-destructive antihero, Joe Gideon, played by Roy Scheider. It’s the sort of movie that would be harder to make now, during a period of reckoning with the kind of man that Fosse undeniably was: a sexually predatory “bad boy,” whose worst behavior was part of a system that exploited the female artists it relied upon, then discarded them. “Fosse/Verdon,” an eight-episode bio-pic on FX, is framed as a corrective. It’s a #MeToo-era take, poking holes in the notion of the dysfunctional male genius—and, crucially, devoting equal time to Gwen Verdon, Fosse’s creative partner (long after the spouses separated). The show’s delicious previews on FX made it look as if it might be a good time, too—a nostalgic kick, full of song and dance, written by Steven Levenson, of “Dear Evan Hansen,” and directed by “Hamilton” ’s Thomas Kail. Instead, “Fosse/Verdon,” at least in the five episodes sent to critics, fizzles, weighed down by good intentions. It’s heavy, but mainly it’s heavy-handed.

For the unenlightened, Fosse was the world’s most celebrated show choreographer, adored, in particular, for his distinctive movements: “jazz hands,” slouched shoulders, minutely pivoting pelvises, a style that was at once erotic and awkward, liberated and possessed. (Google “Rich Man’s Frug” for a giddy example.) When he and Verdon married, however, it was she who was the superstar, a Tony-winning triple threat who swept into fame in “Can-Can,” with a cameo performance so scene-stealing that she was pulled onstage wearing only a towel to satisfy an audience howling her name. The two met during “Damn Yankees,” in which Verdon played the temptress Lola. Their affair ended his marriage; they had a daughter (Nicole Fosse, one of the “Fosse/Verdon” executive producers). As the series underlines, while Fosse became a legend, Verdon was his silent partner, responsible not merely for bucking him up but for editing and styling his greatest works, without credit. In the pilot, she flies to Munich, where Fosse is filming “Cabaret,” then dresses Liza Minnelli in her own wardrobe; she even takes a flight back to New York to procure a gorilla head, to make sure that the infamous “Meeskite” number works. While she’s off running errands, Fosse stays behind, gloomily seducing his German translator.

The message is not subtle: without Verdon, Fosse couldn’t have finished his masterpiece. With her, he amassed a shelfful of awards, none of which brought him much joy. Meanwhile, Verdon was lied to, undermined, and burdened with every household responsibility. Of course, Verdon needed Fosse, too; he was her ideal director—as good as it gets, which was the whole problem. A few episodes in, the story begins to warp, as we see her, freed by their breakup, pressing Fosse to pay her back—to give her the great role she needs, that of Roxie Hart, in “Chicago.” Verdon bonds with Ann Reinking, who was then Fosse’s girlfriend, and together they kept their ex’s flame lit, long after his death, in 1987.

There are rich, chewy themes in this story: the muddy line between, say, collaboration and codependence, muse and doormat. But “Fosse/Verdon,” despite its shuffled chronology, its stylized countdown captions (“267 Days Since Verdon’s 1st Tony Award”), and some “All That Jazz”-esque surreal flashes meant to suggest inner conflicts, is a frustratingly linear project, flattening kinky situations into straight lines. To its credit, the series doesn’t soften Fosse’s worst acts, including an attempted rape of one of the dancers in “Pippin.” (In real life, the dancer later appeared in “All That Jazz”; Fosse’s demands were regarded in that era less as abuse than as a normal, if ugly, workplace hazard.) But the series is so aggressive about deglamorizing Fosse—played by Sam Rockwell, in an uncharacteristically muted performance—that it’s hard to understand how this leechy lox held any power at all.

Michelle Williams is better as Verdon, capturing the star’s blend of daffy charm and shrewdness, but both characters feel robbed of their juice, strangeness, and charisma; in the process, the series reduces nineteen-seventies Manhattan to a primer about sexist exploitation. And maybe, in certain ways, that’s what it was. But that’s not all it was. “Fosse/Verdon” has its pleasures. It’s fun to see “making of” sequences for shows such as “Pippin.” In the best episode, written by Charlotte Stoudt, and set during a rainy weekend in the Hamptons, “Fosse/Verdon” has a gossipy appeal, giving us a fly-on-the-wall opportunity to watch miserable icons get smashed with their exes, as Paddy Chayefsky (a charming Norbert Leo Butz) makes dry remarks. (And let’s face it: for Broadway maniacs, this show is a must-see, whatever its flaws. I’d watch it, even after reading this review.) But, too often, it’s “All That Jazz” backward, in flats.

Perhaps the biggest loss is the treatment of Verdon, who begins as a cheerful helpmeet derailed by her louse of a husband and then, as messier elements of her history emerge, is reduced to an object lesson. The worst example is in the ham-handed (and ham-titled) episode “Me and My Baby,” which revisits Verdon’s youth, including her teen-age marriage to a man who raped her, and her choice to leave her first child to be raised by her parents. There’s a potent story in there, about trauma and ambition. But, in “Fosse/Verdon,” it’s filmed as melodrama, all cheesy flashbacks and bathos—climaxing in a truly cheap shot. When we finally get to witness the moment when Verdon was pulled onstage in her towel, she’s lit as if she were entering Hell. Her baby’s wails break into the roars of praise; then we cut to the seventies-era Verdon, in a kitchen, chain-smoking in tormented regret. Fosse’s best work explored the pain of show-biz corruption, but also its glory; “Fosse/Verdon” is so eager to keep its hands clean that it can’t even allow its heroine her moment of triumph.

The series does have one perfect scene, set on the day the couple met, during Verdon’s audition for “Damn Yankees.” We see each performer privately adopt a persona: in an elevator, Verdon slaps on a warm grin; Fosse poses a script on a table and then lounges in a chair, his feet up, feigning disinterest.

At first, it’s a mutual test, as they each flex their Broadway status. Then, in a singularly erotic, funny, and bold sequence, they bond, through a series of negs (“What’s taking you so long?” she taunts, about coming up with Lola’s choreography) and unsettling notes (“Lola is a little long in the tooth for a temptress,” he tells her). Fosse trains Verdon to shrug her shoulder down, as she fluidly mimics his movements. “Let them come to you,” he whispers. It’s a rare bolt of electricity, a stripped-down portrait of two scrappy, damaged seducers who revel in moving their bodies, who share a love of razzle-dazzle, of discipline and control. For a moment, it’s enough to help you understand why she’d tie her life to his, even as he threatened to pull her under.