You can see so clearly what they were trying to do with Palm Royale. Its setting in the pivotal summer of ’69 lets them include period detailing like Mad Men did. There’s a soupçon of Big Little Lies and Mean Girls, with its outsider-v-queen-bee-and-wannabes setup, and a large measure of the glossy camp escapism of Marc Cherry’s (never-bettered) Desperate Housewives.
All the right ingredients are present. Kristen Wiig (finally with a proper outlet for her talents, which extend beyond comedy) stars as Maxine, a former Chattanooga beauty queen who longs to join the exclusive club of the title and become a member of Palm Beach high society. Her first attempt is by brute force. Up and over the unguarded back wall (literally a social climber – thank you, I’m here all week, try the veal), she inserts herself as soon as possible into the private conversation of the crème de la crème. This comprises the aggressively philanthropic Evelyn Rollins (“I am one humble volunteer!” she cries on receipt of her ninth annual award), who is played with menacing brio by Allison Janney. Then there is second-in-command Dinah Donahue, married to an ambassador but banging her tennis instructor (Leslie Bibb), and the widowed Mary Jones Davidsoul (Julia Duffy).
