The American vacation, unpacked: ‘The White Lotus’
Is there anything more institutionalizing than a white American family vacation? ‘The White Lotus’ answers that question with the snide grin of a hotel staffer who’s tired of smiling and waving, and serving warmed towelettes on a silver platter. (No, no there is not. But, please, let us know what we can do to make you feel better.)
How long have vacations been integral to the nuclear American family — this idea of a ‘perfect’ getaway, a reprieve from reality, a miracle pause button that has intentions of repairing broken familial bonds while also simultaneously placing thorny conversations off-limits?
How has the modern American vacation evolved to a tug-of-war between “that work email” and helping my children navigate the fact that their grandfather died of AIDS?
The initial excitement when you arrive (so much hope! so many possibilities!), the guilt/anxiety about actually being on vacation, catching a second-wind, trying to make the most of the time you have left, the departure, and then that terrible come-down post-vacation at the airport, leaving you feeling somewhat empty. But alas, every vacation is merely a departure. The return to reality is inevitable.
Each relationship explored in The White Lotus is essentially about imbalances of power, giving and taking (or better phrased, stealing).
- First, with Nicole and Mark: One of our first introductions to Mark is that he’s somehow resigned himself to having terminal testicular cancer. Nicole, the CFO of a behemoth tech-company and therefore the primary breadwinner of the family, attempts to console him. It’s clear they haven’t slept together in a long time. But what’s interesting here is that he almost wants his diagnosis to be true — because if it is, it means the beta-title he’s given himself would then justify why he isn’t the captain of the ship. He feels he lacks the respect of his family, and such is the struggle of the modern straight, white man who isn’t the source of financial support for his family.
- Paula and Olivia: Their friendship was once endangered by Olivia forgetting the one truism of any female friendship: chicks before dicks. Paula feels she has to hide Kai from Olivia, because Olivia will inevitably “take whatever she has”, including the men she’s seeing. And what’s fascinating is Olivia doesn’t even seem to be aware of how she’s colonizing her friend. No matter how much Nietzsche you read or how much you can cringe at your mother supporting Hillary-style feminism, at the end of the day you’re “from a different tribe,” as Paula says to Olivia. God forbid a guy be interested in a non-white woman; it’s a threat to the white-woman sex appeal and therefore the beauty standards all women have striven towards for centuries. So every successful attempt Olivia makes at flirting with Paula’s men is another ego-stroking confirmation that, yep, she’s still got it.
- Rachel and Shane: As Rachel grows increasingly uncomfortable with the prospects of the ‘rest of her life’ — the power dynamic here is pretty obvious: Rachel values her independence enough to know she doesn’t want to be someone’s trophy wife, and she wants out. But she can’t bring herself to actually make the exit, because the comfort and financial safety is a tantalizing and handicapping force. Being happy, as it turns out for Rachel, has nothing to do with your own happiness.
- Tanya and Belinda: It was hard watching some of these scenes. Tanya has the financial power to lift Belinda up and help build a real entrepreneurial future for herself, and crushes her hope at the end when she opts to go off to Aspen with her newfound, questionably ill, hotel-fling. Meanwhile, Belinda is drained emotionally from giving herself to everyone else. Perhaps the more disappointing aspect of any relationship is when you give it too much hope, and the idealization of it can never stand up to its reality.
- Quinn and…nature: This is probably my favorite dynamic on the show. Here it’s about him relinquishing his power and control to the island itself. Waking up on the beach, catching a sighting of whales, making friends with the locals and going rigger-canoeing…he’s the only one vacationing the correct way, apparently. As soon as his tether to his digital gadgets was severed, Quinn was left flailing and panicking as any teenager would today. But this particular thread-line isn’t about the drama of stolen power, it’s actually about the restoration of it. And it’s invigorating.
Yet the most appealing part of this show is that it’s wrapped up in a complex moral tapestry of: What is right? What is wrong? At the end of the day, even if you do it as a middle finger to colonialism, are you still hurting people? If so, what good can it really do?(cue the $75,000 bracelets here).
“It’s different people.”
“No, it’s the same people.”
How do we pay reparations for past trauma? Who should pay? Are we responsible for the wrongful actions of our ancestors?
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Beneath this hybrid-blend of some-parts comedy, drama, and mystery, the ‘core of the onion’ — as Jennifer Coolidge’s character vents in romantic frustration at one point — is the the history of Hawaii and the colonial underbelly of the tourist-ridden island.
It doesn’t take much to realize the brilliance of these layers, and how the narrative steers us viewers, guests, in a fashion not unlike that of an actual vacation: somewhat meandering, often times unpredictable, and never complete without some kind of…baggage.
