One of the many pleasures of The White Lotus, the HBO show in its second season that does that old-school thing – makes you impatient for the beginning of the week for the next episode to drop – is the grain of squeamish recognition that comes with the horror.
Mike White’s characters are grotesque, but they aren’t grotesques, and even in the worst-behaving characters it’s possible to see some shadow of impulses one sees in oneself. It’s been so long since TV this good came along, I’d forgotten how it went – harassing your friends, spouse, anyone who’ll listen: “Hurry and catch up so we can discuss.”
The wider joy of event TV is the event bit: watching the post-game analysis on social media. This week, so far, discussions have taken off asking why the characters always eat in the hotel restaurant, soliciting responses from those familiar with the area that, actually, the town and its restaurants are a hike from that hotel, so it’s not just a TV conceit; and who’s the grosser between Shane from season one and Cameron from this season? (Side question: is it a failure of the drama that I can’t remember anyone’s name in this show, and had to look both of those up?)
Other pressing concerns: is Tom Hollander the best thing in everything he appears in? (Yes.) How has Mike White, who’s from Pasadena, made that Essex lad so credible? Friends are in a semi-row over whether Ethan really did do something wrong; and every week the sands shift, forcing one to reconsider whom one hates the most.
It’s a measure of the writing power that over the last few episodes I’ve moved between Portia, the whiny gen Z assistant to Jennifer Coolidge’s monstrous billionaire, herself a contender for Most Awful in Show until this week, when honestly – minority opinion – I think it’s Albie. Ugh, that guy.
Given that The White Lotus is about rich people behaving badly in beautiful locations, the entire show is supposed to be a hate-watch of sorts, but its sharpness means it doesn’t seem to play out that way. It’s not a guilty pleasure, either. During a radio interview this week, Mike White traced the show’s influences back to a combination of 70s sitcoms, Laverne & Shirley, and The Love Boat – both childhood favourites of his – and the reality show, which he himself has appeared on, Survivor. The show has a lot of pretentious cutaways to baroque Italian paintings, but he’s not out there punting it as Shakespeare, unlike most HBO showrunners.
Other questions to consider: does Belinda from season one remain the most shrewdly drawn character, to the extent that she’s the only one whose name anyone remembers? Is there some way that those people who, after watching episode four this season, asked “Is that actually his nephew?” – among them the Daily Mail, decrying the “incestuous gay sex scene” – can be banned from watching? Why didn’t Portia call an Uber after Essex boy passed out? Would the gays really betray Tanya?
My friend Tiff and I put at least 25 minutes this week into talking about where Mike White writes from – historically, the margins: he’s a gay guy, but not in the mould of Ryan Murphy, say. For many of us, he will always be Mr Schneebly, the dorky substitute teacher he played in School of Rock – and he writes like someone who spent years on the outside looking in.
Anyway, onwards. Is it correct to love (checks character list) Valentina? The depiction of the sex-starved lesbian hotel manager is beautifully drawn, acted and observed, but why is the single lesbian in everything always depressing and sex starved? Is this one better than the first season? I could go on (and on).
Meanwhile, the anxiety of the thing ending next week is starting to bite. What will we think about after it’s all over? And is it time, finally, to switch off for five minutes and actually consider reading a book?
• Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist
