By Sarah Osman

Because the upheavals of the ’60s parallel various breakdowns that are happening at the moment, Palm Royale turns out to be an effectively pointed lampoon, rather than just another gratuitous swipe at the upper crust.

Kristen Wiig in a scene from Palm Royale. Photo: Apple TV+

Since we first saw a group of the despicable 1 percent set sail for the lush White Lotus resort, a series of copycats have followed in its wake. While some of these trips have been a lot of fun (nothing much happens on The Gilded Age, yet I can’t help but watch) others have been out-and-out catastrophes (Death and Other Details forgot to work out its mystery plot). The latest satire dedicated to eating the rich is Apple TV+’s Palm Royale which, thankfully, dines on its victims with enjoyable aplomb.

Set in the late ’60s, the series takes place in Palm Royale, a stand-in for the real-life Palm Beach. Kristen Wiig stars as Maxine Simmons, aka Maxine Dellacourt, a perky beauty queen who is married to the last remaining heir of the vast Dellacourt fortune. Hubby Douglas (Josh Lucas) has no interest in associating with his hoity-toity relatives, but Maxine sure does. In the first episode, she scales the walls of the Palm Royale, a private club where the assorted queens of the area hold court. Maxine wants to belong — or at least that’s what she tells herself as she keeps stealing stuff from her aunt-in-law, Norma (Carol Burnett), who’s in a coma. She needs to turn robber because her husband hasn’t received his inheritance yet (he works as a pilot). Maxine swipes Norma’s clothes and jewelry and sells them so she can procure more fashionable outfits for herself.

As Maxine entrenches herself in this insular world, secrets and scandals abound. The slips and slides on social ladder are heatedly covered in the “Shiny Sheet.” As the plot proceeds, Maxine finds that she is more than a spectator –she is caught up in a few secrets of her own. She befriends Dinah (Leslie Bibb, who once again proves her comedic brilliance), who’s having an affair with her tennis instructor; Evelyn (Allison Janney), who sees right through Maxine, and Robert (Ricky Martin), the club’s pool boy, who is Norma’s confidante and doesn’t care much for Maxine.

The grasping Maxine is somewhat different from Wiig’s typical character: it’s refreshing to see the actress flex the hysterical chops of the desperate social climber. Wiig not only nails Maxine’s clueless sincerity but holds her own against acting juggernauts that include Laura Dern and Janney. On top of that, Wiig is also consistently gorgeous in her ’60s chic dresses and eyeliner. This is a welcome change from what has become a bad habit of downplaying the woman’s beauty.

The visual vibrancy of Palm Royale matches its cheeky tone. The costumes are bright, the pools turquoise, and Martin is shirtless for a good half of his scenes. Subtle and snarky nods to the late ’60s abound, including a memorable astronaut-themed party. The costume and set design evoke the period, but the series also has the good sense to explore what it meant to be a woman at the time. How did females with few financial means get by in those days, particularly women of color? Did women wield any power if they weren’t mothers?

These are meaty (and troubling) questions whose answers are still of interest today. After all, socialites still reign supreme — they’re just called influencers now. As in the ’60s, America is at a political crossroads, but the wealthy don’t seem to notice — or care. (Or are just determined to keep the good times rolling along, no matter what the consequences.) Because the upheavals of the era (the Vietnam war, women’s rights, civil rights) parallel various breakdowns that are happening at the moment — conflicts around the globe, the rise of AI, the fight for abortion rights, the climate crisis, etc. — Palm Royale turns out to be an effectively pointed lampoon, rather than just another gratuitous swipe at the upper crust.

In the words of Groucho Marx, “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member,” especially this one. But it is enjoyable to visit Palm Royale‘s lushly corrupt world.

Sarah Mina Osman is a writer residing in Wilmington, NC. In addition to writing for the Arts Fuse, she has written for Watercooler HQ, Huffington Post, HelloGiggles, Young Hollywood, and Matador Network, among other sites. Her work was included in the anthology Fury: Women’s Lived Experiences in the Trump Era. She is currently a first-year fiction MFA candidate at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. When she’s not writing, she’s dancing, watching movies, traveling, or eating. She has a deep appreciation for sloths and tacos. You can keep up with her on Twitter and Instagram: @SarahMinaOsman