Aloha and welcome to paradise, albeit a paradoxical one where a mediocre mai tai barely masks a simmering melancholy. In the debut episode of HBO's miniseries, The White Lotus, Mike White masterfully blends the awkward charm of a high-society comedy, the intricate intrigue of an Agatha Christie whodunit, Nora Ephron's keen eye for the finer things in life among the affluent, and a relentless class consciousness that fuels both the narrative and its razor-sharp wit. Jean-Paul Sartre lamented the misinterpretation of his play, No Exit, where trapped souls realize their confinement is hell itself, not a mere vestibule. For Sartre, it wasn't the company that was tormenting but the realization of oneself through others' gazes. White grasps this concept intimately.
At the White Lotus Resort, nestled amidst the tropical allure of Maui, strangers indulge in snorkeling, bask in the sun, and covertly critique each other's poolside literature. This paradise vacation swiftly transforms into a purgatory of social observation, where hell truly is other people.
Yet, before delving into the depths of existential musings, White employs a Tarantino-esque time-bending narrative. Jake Lacy's Shane stands morose at the airport gate, fingers fidgeting with his wedding band, haunted by the specter of a deceased honeymoon companion sharing his flight home. His wife's absence hints at darker secrets, and as television viewers, we know that when the equation seems straightforward, complexities are brewing beneath the surface. A death has occurred; perhaps blame lies elsewhere? These morsels of information precede a rewind to a week prior, leaving us to ponder if we'll catch up with Lacy's melancholic figure by episode's end (spoiler alert: we don't). Will we by the series' finale? The suspense escalates exponentially, though mercifully, it doesn't linger at its peak, allowing our nerves a reprieve.
As a former Hawaii resident, I've always believed that attire speaks volumes about tourists. Shane Patton arrives in a pastel polo, leather loafers, and Oakley-esque Ray-Bans—a business-meets-vacation attire that's almost cringeworthy, especially when he waves his shaka from the resort ferry before even checking in. His bride, Mrs. Rachel Between-Last-Names (Alexandra Daddario), sports sailor shorts on a boat, an ensemble that begs skepticism.
Jennifer Coolidge excels as Tanya, adorned in every long, flowing, gauzy floral robe imaginable, her every fiber screaming for a massage. Mr. and Mrs. Mossbacher (Steve Zahn, who seemingly aged into a suave 53 overnight, and Connie Britton, applying moisturizer with impeccable character) embody the tropical wealthy's dress code: she in her quirkiest pearls, he in rubber-soled shoes, reserved for occasional Hamptons excursions. Mark and Nicole aren't dressing for Maui; they're attired for their lavish escape, a world they're determined not to leave.
It's the three kids—Olivia Mossbacher (Sydney Sweeney), her friend Paula (Brittany O'Grady), and high-schooler Quinn (Fred Hechinger)—who arrive authentically, their clothing a testament to their true selves. Perhaps this is the crux: the adults seek refuge in Hawaii's fantasy, a week-long escape from their mundane realities, while the children are here solely because their parents bought the tickets.
Under the watchful gaze of the White Lotus's deft manager, Armond (Murray Bartlett), and the empathetic spa director, Belinda (Natasha Rothwell), guests are pampered with the promise of a fantasy escape. Yet, their endeavors prove futile against the relentless swell that dwarfs even the nimblest Jet Skis, and the suites, though grand, feel cramped beneath the weight of expectations. No matter how remote the island, it's not enough to shield guests from their own demons.
Nicole, a tech titaness on the mainland, transforms into a domestic diva on vacation, meticulously organizing her family's respite while navigating the nuances of their R&R. The entitled Shane, heir apparent to a real estate dynasty, threatens to call his mother in a fit of pique when he discovers he's been denied the honeymoon suite's charms. Mrs. Shane, stunned, begins to question the union before the lei's fragrance even begins to fade.
Armond, with his tactical finesse, pretends to wield control, while Belinda, in her kindness, endeavors to soothe. When Tanya's arrival is met with an inability to fulfill her immediate craving for a massage, Belinda expertly steers her through a spa consultation that blossoms into a session of self-affirmation. Tanya, solitary on Maui to scatter her mother's ashes, finds herself drawn to Hawaii's promise like so many others seeking solace, renewal, or a respite from life's turmoil. Surprised to find her sorrow has crossed the ocean with her, she clings to Belinda, who offers a fleeting reprieve from solitude.
The Mossbachers, on the contrary, struggle to shed their routines. Nicole, a micro-manager extraordinaire, can't relinquish control, from dictating room arrangements to coaching Mark through a cancer scare's emotional turmoil. Olivia and Paula oscillate between mocking fellow guests and performing their wokeness for Nicole's approval, highlighting a generational rift that echoes loudly yet remains superficial. Despite their political differences—Nicole's allegiance to Hillary Clinton versus Olivia's neocon label—they share the same lavish lobster bake, bound by opulence. Nicole's parenting seems to have yielded contrasting offspring: a daughter who takes for granted and a son who finds fault in everything.
And then there are the Pattons, whose newlywed bliss dissipates quicker than a temporary tan. Rachel, a thirty-something journalist, grapples with the realization of her perceived lack of success. Shane, clad in his perpetual golf-or-frat-ready attire, is fixated on securing the Pineapple Suite, convinced his mother's booking oversight has relegated him to lesser accommodations. This man, incapable of discreetly removing an unwelcome hair from his meal, is no longer on his honeymoon but embarked on a crusade to uncover the secrets of that pineapple-themed paradise. Meanwhile, Rachel finds herself in an endless loop of convincing herself to embrace her new life as the wife of a man who seems oblivious to her true desires.
Armond imparts to Lani, a fresh recruit, that the White Lotus experience is merely a veneer of "tropical Kabuki," where staff members are interchangeable pieces in a pleasant spectacle. As she inadvertently dabs a smear of mayonnaise on her blouse, he promptly instructs her to conceal it with a tray of hand towels, akin to a censor's bar, emphasizing even the slightest personal detail is too revealing. Yet, despite his meticulous orchestration of guest satisfaction – "They simply crave the illusion of being noticed," he muses – Armond falters when confronted with Shane, whose dinner attire transforms into an abomination of an aloha shirt, unparalleled in hideousness. His promise to Rachel to let go of the Pineapple Suite obsession dissolves, as it resurfaces as his sole purpose upon their next encounter. "Pineapple Suite or nothing!" echoes his relentless mantra.
The White Lotus, nestled on Maui's shores, could be any exotic locale where affluence supersedes history, as wealthy vacationers occupy lands once belonging to native islanders, now held by distant, equally wealthy proprietors. Lani's arrival at the hotel serves as a stark contrast to the VIP guest boat's landing, offering Armond an opportunity to expound on the Herculean efforts required to keep discontent guests content. But when she unexpectedly goes into labor on her maiden day, a fleeting glimpse into the cutthroat tourism industry's reality emerges. Lani concealed her pregnancy to secure employment; Armond, preoccupied with fulfilling imaginary desires of the ungrateful elite, fails to recognize the literal birth of a colleague.
On the ferry to paradise, Paula and Olivia indulge in a scathing game of people-watching, weaving intricate, spiteful narratives around fellow travelers. They later mock Rachel's friendly greeting, fueled by their beauty, cynicism, and a belief that those older than them are absurd, while the younger, like Quinn, are mere infants. Their relentless, indiscriminate critiques would evoke contempt were it not for White's masterful placement of the viewer in their same, vicious mindset. My amusement at their poolside posturing with Freud and Nietzsche was surpassed only by Shane's bedside reading of Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, a testament to the show's humor hinging on our shared cruelty, as White suspects we all possess.
As the episode draws to a close, Shane and Rachel profess their love in the Palm Suite (not the coveted Pineapple), leaving us once more pondering who among them will not survive the White Lotus's enigmatic embrace. Classifying this hybrid of comedy and drama is a challenge without knowing its fatality. Tanya's pathos renders her an unlikely comedic casualty; Mark's vacuousness, an unfitting dramatic demise. I question the necessity of the opening's in medias res device, for the series' menacing undercurrent flows not solely from the specter of death but Cristobal Tapia de Veer's urgent, percussive score and White's foreboding imagery of the relentless sea. Even without foreknowledge of a demise, death looms, its cardboard coffin an indelible image.
