‘Palm Royale’ review: Kristen Wiig in a comedy of manners, circa 1969 Palm Beach
The year is 1969. The skies are sunny. The money is old. And Kristen Wiig's striving socialite wannabe wants in.
Armed with a Southern accent, a tan and the fluffiest blonde wig available, Kristen Wiig plays a socialite wannabe who is equal parts sunny and scheming in the 10-episode comedy of manners “Palm Royale” on Apple TV+.
Set in 1969, she’s a former pageant queen named Maxine Simmons who is staring down middle age and desperate to be embraced by the Florida elite of Palm Beach, so she leverages a tenuous married-in connection: Her himbo airline pilot of a husband (Josh Lucas) is the nephew and sole heir of a Palm Beach grand dame Norma D’ellacourt (Carol Burnett) who is in a coma. With the old lady out of commission, Maxine borrows her last name and worldly possessions and she’s off to the races.
William Thackeray played around with similar themes in his 1848 novel “Vanity Fair” — of a social climber from humble means determined to break into high society — but that’s a tougher idea to hang a story on when the setting is the mid-20th century. Maxine is an outsider who wants in and the obvious question is why? What does she think will happen if she’s granted entry? When she finally offers a one-line explanation, it’s unpersuasive and nonsensical. Her resolve is admirable, her ambitions hollow.
The rich and insular group of women she gloms onto spend their days drinking by the pool at the country club. At the top of the heap is the caftan-clad patrician snob played by Allison Janney, surrounded by her equally insufferable pals played by Leslie Bibb and Julia Duffy. Everyone is a viper, but Maxine conspires to make herself a useful pawn and she’s not one to back down in the face of threats delivered through the gritted teeth of Palm Beach royalty.
“Ever since my pageant days I’ve maintained a posture of relentless positivity,” she says jauntily. “The other contestants would always underestimate me.” Her delusional and indomitable spirit also involves elder abuse and writing bad checks to the tune of $75,000, and the show can’t decide if it finds these things plucky or horrifying.
Laura Dern plays a wayward rich girl cosplaying as a revolutionary who works at a feminist bookstore called Our Bodies, Our Shelves (I laughed) and she’s swept up into Maxine’s shenanigans. So is a bartender at the country club played by Ricky Martin (his performance of a guy quietly observing everything around him is the most nuanced thing the show has going for it). They are eventually won over by Maxine’s can-do spirit, but their incoherent friendships are less about human connection than narrative expediency. The one Black character in the ensemble, played by Amber Chardae Robinson, exists to roll her eyes at these self-involved Palm Beachers, but is given no interests of her own. Burnett is weirdly underused, but makes the most of her scenes when her character is revealed to be very much Maxine’s equal in the plotting and conniving department.
With “Palm Royale,” Hollywood’s wealthaganda obsession continues unabated. There’s a fizzy delirium to the show that promises more fun than it is. It’s a whirling (swirling?) dervish of meticulously high-end costumes and production design, as Maxine lurches from one lie — and mad scramble to cover it up — to the next. Her signature drink is a grasshopper, which looks delectable every time it arrives on a tray. At least showrunner Abe Sylvia (whose credits include Netflix’s “Dead to Me” and the screenplay for “The Eyes of Tammy Faye”) has an interest in the class peculiarities specific to Palm Beach, unlike Peacock’s recent “Apples Never Fall,” which takes place in the same locale.
You keep waiting for a larger story arc to emerge, but each set piece feels like vamping and filling time until someone can figure out what this show wants to be about, which makes the 10-episode length baffling. Every so often, there’s a glimpse of President Nixon on a TV in the background talking about the war in Vietnam, which suggests the show is building toward some tangy observations about the emptiness of Palm Beach melodrama versus the reality of war. But no. Nothing of the sort transpires. A social satire lacking bite or even a point of view, “Palm Royale” is as substance-free as the froth and foam left by waves on the beach.
“Palm Royale” — 2 stars (out of 4)
Where to watch: Apple TV+
Nina Metz is a Tribune critic.