The Unbearable Whiteness of Being: White Lotus (2025)

HBO’s The White Lotus is a cultural phenomenon dissecting privilege, power, and the universal truth that we are all, in fact, horrid, wretched little monkeys. At its core, The White Lotus is a play on the old “hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil” adage, except here, the characters are too busy indulging their own vices to notice the simmering disaster around them. Each guest at the luxury resort embodies a different flavor of self-absorption, their flaws thrown into sharp relief by the quiet servitude of the (mostly POC) staff who clean up their messes, both literal and metaphorical. If the show’s lush, paradisiacal settings lure you in, its ruthless unravelling of human nature keeps you captive.

I’ll admit, I wasn’t into the first season. It felt too horridly white (and yes, I know the irony of that being my critique). Who was redeemable? Who was I supposed to root for? The morally questionable, addict manager was my favorite character, and I still don’t know what that says about me. There’s a darkness in finding solace in the person who is the most obviously spiraling, but at least his chaos was honest. It was the rest of them, the pseudo-woke college girls, the self-satisfied tech bros, the miserable rich couples, who felt like the real villains.

I also have to admit that I have a visceral aversion to Sydney Sweeney. It’s not just that her family wore Blue Lives Matter shirts or that she complained about the cost of maintaining her literal mansion, but also that she’s always felt like an actress whose real-life privilege seeps into every role. And yet, when the manosphere found out she was a real human girl with a real human body (cue the viral bikini photos of her looking profoundly normal and not like a sex-bot), I felt an unexpected need to defend her. The advantage that fat in certain areas of our bodies affords white women is absurd, but the vitriol thrown her way was a reminder that being a woman in Hollywood is like tap dancing on a minefield.

But then Season 2 came along, and suddenly, I was all in. The dynamics between Theo James, Meghann Fahy, Aubrey Plaza, and Will Sharpe were like catnip. It was the perfect cocktail of sexual tension, class warfare, and the quiet, insidious unraveling of relationships. I’d watch Theo James play a sociopath any day, but the real star was Fahy, who turned every polite smile into a razor blade. And the fact that I’m still thinking about that bathroom scene? Whew.

Season 3 features spiteful Southern Gothic realness in Thailand. My true guilty pleasure love of Southern Charm felt vindicated when I found out that the family was inspired by some of those very same scoundrels from the deep south. It's like the White Lotus writers went on a Bravo binge and said, "What if we made it prestige TV?" Genius.

And then there’s Walton Goggins and his partner, he is so despicable yet so real, it’s almost unsettling. It’s like they plucked the worst couple from your Facebook feed and set them loose in paradise. Goggins, having his own renaissance after Fallout, brings an unsettling charisma to the role. He’s like if Hopper from Stranger Things decided to embrace his inner villain. There’s a folksy charm to his performance, but beneath it, you feel the rot, like a fruit just about to turn. So many characters in this show exude that kind of cruelty that’s born from boredom and privilege, the way rich people in movies sometimes kill time by hunting humans for sport. You believe they would do it if they thought they could get away with it.

MORE THAN MEETS THE (EVIL) EYE

The White Lotus is a show that doesn’t just want you to look at its characters, it wants you to see yourself in them, and that’s the real terror. Because, let’s be honest, being Jennifer Coolidge for a day? It’d be hilarious. To float through life with that breezy, bizarre blend of glamour and cluelessness, leaving chaos and empty champagne glasses in our wake? A woman who says the wrong thing at the right time, who stumbles into riches and romance, who manages to make even her deepest insecurities seem charming. She’s a reminder that sometimes, being a mess is the most honest thing you can be.

There’s something psychological happening here, our collective desire to be someone who is both entirely themselves and entirely outside of consequence. Coolidge’s Tanya is both the dream and the nightmare, embodying what it might feel like to live life unfiltered. There’s freedom in that, but there’s also danger. Tanya teaches us that living without boundaries might feel good, but it also means you’ll probably end up on a yacht with the wrong people (and, well, we know how that turned out). All within the trappings of her privilege.

The show also taps into the dark undercurrents of society, the ways we perform our identities, the transactional nature of modern relationships, and the uncomfortable truth that privilege often affords immunity from consequence. The White Lotus feels like a Greek tragedy for the influencer era, where hubris is flaunted on Instagram and nemesis arrives not with a sword, but with a subtle, devastating twist of fate.

Ultimately, The White Lotus shows us that we are all complicit, all capable of cruelty, and all, on some level, aware of our monstrous potential. The show’s brilliance lies in its refusal to offer redemption or easy answers. Just a polished mirror reflecting back our own greedy, grasping faces.

So, next time you find yourself sipping a poolside cocktail, maybe ask yourself: Am I the monster in someone else’s story?

Alright, that’s enough existential dread for one newsletter. As always, keep your bets bad, your pleasures guilty, and your hearts just soft enough to still feel something.

Love, Sofia