Portside

In the second episode of Your Friends & Neighbors, Andrew Cooper (Jon Hamm) sneaks into an acquaintance’s mansion in broad daylight and pockets a Richard Mille with a resale value of $358,000. In the next installment, he chances upon and swipes a Chardonnay worth $32,000 while hiding in the wine cellar of a different neighbor who is busy screwing her daughter’s young boyfriend. Coop’s haul includes a Patek Philippe, diamond jewelry, a Birkin bag, expensive art, and wads of cash over time. His unhealthy addiction to stealing develops after losing a longtime job as a hedge-fund manager. To maintain a reputation and facade of elitism, he resorts to pilfering prized possessions from the same people he parties and makes small talk with in an affluent New York suburb. Who cares, he essentially posits, about these one-percenters’ valuables? 

That question could be asked about the show itself, as well several other series this year that  center on rich (mostly white, mostly male) people doing bad things: Who cares? Watching Coop slither around Westmont’s resplendent homes to pluck out items to pawn becomes a chore, despite Hamm’s admirable acting. There is simply a lack of emotional investment in Coop’s outcome (or of those he robs or anyone in the community, for that matter). The Jonathan Tropper-created show and its navel-gazing voiceovers offer little insight through softball takes on greed, materialism, and morality. YF&N‘s empty grandeur is just more proof that TV needs to take a break from terrible rich people. They’ve worn out their welcome. 

Of course, awful—and awfully wealthy—people committing crimes on the small screen is nothing new and can be seen in everything from soapy series (Dynasty and Desperate Housewives) to outright comedies (Arrested Development and its “light treason”) to prestige dramas (Succession). But even Jesse Armstrong, who created that last sensational series, couldn’t hit the mark twice. In his recent film for HBO, Mountainhead, entrepreneurs debate pulling a political coup to capitalize on a global meltdown their tech started (and try to literally murder one of their own to do so). But in a time when the President and a Silicon Valley billionaire are duking it out on social media, the fictional exploitative men in Mountainhead feel too bleakly on-the-nose to enjoy. 

Like Neighbors and Mountainhead, Nine Perfect Strangers also examines wealth inequality in a glamorous setting—and does so hollowly. The first season of the show struggled within the confines of Liane Moriarty’s novel, and the second frankly flounders without that source material to adapt. Hulu’s series explores psychedelics “expert” Masha Dmitrichenko (Nicole Kidman), who now runs an ornate wellness retreat in the Alps called Zauberwald. In season two, she invites a roster of new clients, including billionaire David Shaw (Mark Strong), to join a bonkers, cutting-edge program. Masha doesn’t just want David as an investor, though, as the two share a tumultuous past: After a one-night stand years ago, she got pregnant and raised their daughter alone until the child’s tragic death at age seven. Masha blames him and his business partners, whom she (a former journalist) was secretly investigating. The remaining Zauberwald clients, NPS slowly reveals, have ties to David. And his profit-seeking agenda has somehow disrupted each of their lives, as seen in how David’s media company exploited a humiliating video of Brian’s (Murray Bartlett) outburst on his children’s show, which destroyed his career and sense of self.  

NPS goes from a fever dream to a paltry attempt at being relevant with a tycoon antagonist who is involved with Russian military contractors and weapons production. But the show’s unabashed campiness is not equipped to meaningfully handle such topics. Masha lingers in a confusing space of rage and lust for David herself, unable to decide whether she wants to bring him down while they’re isolated in the snowy mountains, team up with him for the sake of her enterprise, or somehow find a way to save this seemingly tortured billionaire who won’t deign to spend time with his adult son (played by Henry Golding) at the same retreat. The writers of both Nine Perfect Strangers and Your Friends & Neighbors also throw in several meandering subplots, watering down their central theses. 

A similar aimlessness plagued this year’s overly stylized, poorly paced Thailand-set season of The White Lotus. Mike White wasn’t able to prod at class disparity and entitlement like he did in the show’s first two batches. The third one, instead, prioritizes flashiness over substance, as seen in the incoherent conclusion of Belinda’s (Natasha Rothwell) arc or the shallowness of the Ratliffs. 

And looking ahead, Prime Video’s We Were Liars, which premieres June 19, matches Lotus‘ sunny aesthetic—and emptiness. Based on E. Lockhart’s novel, the eight episodes explore the privilege of the uber-rich and dysfunctional Sinclair clan, which is led by a Logan Roy-esque patriarch played by David Morse. While summering on their private island near Martha’s Vineyard, adult family members fight over their inheritance while their teen children struggle to understand all this obsession with money. 

Without sufficient depth, spending time with these characters is as tedious as watching Jason Isaacs’ Tim Ratliff repeatedly swallow pills and have visions of murdering his family, lest they learn the truth about his scandal. Going back to Your Friends & Neighbors, Coop seemingly matures after his brush with the cops and brief prison stint. It’s as if he’s finally recognizes that material assets aren’t as valuable as his estranged loved ones. Yet, by season one’s end, he rejects the offer to return to work for a much higher salary. Instead, he chases a criminal adrenaline rush and robs a painting from the man who fired him as payback. This act of defiance is both soulless and predictable. It brings to mind what Coop says about things like scotch, cigars, and custom-fit golf clubs: They’re “entire industries built to cash in on the quiet desperation of rich, middle-aged men.” If only TV shows like these could stop doing the same damn thing.