Palm Royale

The Gilded Cage of the American Dream

There is a specific, suffocating hue of turquoise that defines *Palm Royale*. It is the color of a swimming pool that has been chemically treated to perfection—inviting, artificial, and possibly toxic if swallowed. In this Apple TV+ series, set in the powder-keg summer of 1969, director Abe Sylvia and his team have not just recreated a time period; they have constructed a hermetically sealed biosphere of wealth where the air is thin and the morals are thinner. At the center of this sun-drenched purgatory is Maxine Simmons (Kristen Wiig), a character who vibrates with such desperate, manic positivity that she becomes a tragic figure in a Lilly Pulitzer dress.



To view *Palm Royale* merely as a campy romp or a *Desperate Housewives* retread is to miss the melancholy that curdles beneath its frosting. Visually, the series is a masterpiece of "Slim Aarons realism." The cinematography mimics the saturated, high-contrast look of Kodachrome slide film, presenting a world so bright it requires sunglasses to look at directly. Yet, this visual opulence serves a narrative function: it acts as a dazzle camouflage. The richer the fabrics and the taller the chiffon hairstyles, the harder it is to see the rot. The camera glides through the Dellacorte mansion and the exclusive club with a reverence that borders on fetishism, only to pause on the cracks—the trembling hand of a pill-addicted socialite, or the terrifying silence of Carol Burnett’s Norma, whose comatose stare holds more judgment than a thousand lines of dialogue.

The emotional anchor of this spectacle is Kristen Wiig. We are accustomed to Wiig the comedian, the master of the awkward pause. Here, she weaponizes that awkwardness. Maxine is an outsider trying to scale the walls of Palm Beach society, literally and metaphorically. A lesser show would treat her ambition as a joke, mocking her lack of pedigree. Instead, the series treats her hunger as a profound, distinctly American sorrow. Maxine believes, with religious fervor, that if she can just sit at the right table, she will finally exist.



The series finds its most surprising resonance in the relationship between Maxine and Robert (Ricky Martin). Martin delivers a revelation of a performance as the closeted Korean War veteran and pool boy who sees through the socialites' performative cruelty. In a world of loud prints and louder voices, Robert is a study in stillness. His dynamic with Maxine isn't the typical "gay best friend" trope; it is a shared recognition of two imposters trying to survive in a hostile ecosystem. They are the only two characters who seem to understand that the "Royale" is a battlefield, not a playground.

As the season progresses toward its chaotic, cliffhanger finale, the show peels back the layers of 1969. While the rest of the country burns with anti-war protests and the civil rights movement, Palm Beach remains locked in a cryogenic freeze of 1950s values. The intrusion of the "real world"—via Laura Dern’s feminist consciousness-raising circle—creates a friction that sparks both comedy and dread. The show argues that this kind of insulated wealth is a form of madness, a collective delusion maintained by grasshopper cocktails and ruthless exclusion.



Ultimately, *Palm Royale* is a tragedy dressed in drag as a comedy. It asks us to laugh at the absurdity of the rich, but it leaves us with a lingering sadness for Maxine. She is the Great Gatsby of the country club set, reaching for a green light that is actually just the reflection of a neon sign in a martini glass. She is running a race where the finish line is a mirage, unaware that the prize she seeks—acceptance—is the one thing this world is too bankrupt to afford.