TL;DR: Palm Royale Season 2 ditches the pretense, doubles down on chaos, and delivers Apple TV’s most deliciously camp comeback. Kristen Wiig is spectacular, the writing finally clicks, and the entire cast devours their roles like caviar on a cracker. It’s the kind of show that reminds you — being unhinged can be an art form.
Palm Royale season 2
Some shows age like fine wine. Others age like boxed rosé left out in the Palm Beach sun. Palm Royale Season 2? It’s both — effervescent, dangerous, and just unhinged enough to make you wonder if you’re supposed to laugh, scream, or redecorate your living room in citrus tones.
Apple TV’s shimmering satire returns with Kristen Wiig still playing Maxine Dellacorte, the world’s most charming grifter in a headband, and the show finally stops pretending to be subtle. Season 1 tiptoed through its pastel chaos like a debutante afraid of grass stains. Season 2 cannonballs straight into the champagne fountain — lipstick smeared, mascara running, and somehow looking fabulous through the meltdown.
It’s 1969, but the women of Palm Royale are living in their own glossy apocalypse. Maxine, having detonated her social life in last season’s Beach Ball finale, is clawing her way back from humiliation with a smile so sharp it could slice diamonds. The Beach Club’s elite may look picture-perfect in Slim Aarons sunlight, but their world is crumbling behind the drapes.
Allison Janney’s Evelyn Rollins is back, still a cocktail of venom and vulnerability, realizing that power is just loneliness in a designer dress. Carol Burnett, now gloriously resurrected from her Season 1 coma, reclaims her role as Norma Dellacorte — the Grand Duchess of Palm Beach — reminding everyone that in this town, secrets are the real currency.
Meanwhile, Laura Dern’s Linda is halfway between protest marches and prison bars, Kaia Gerber’s Mitzi is plotting with the precision of a Bond girl, and Josh Lucas’s Douglas is… well, still a human wet bar towel — handsome, yes, but tragically allergic to self-awareness.
And somewhere amid the chaos, Ricky Martin quietly breaks your heart as Robert, the one person in Palm Beach with an actual soul. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been banned from the club for that alone.
Right from the opening episode — complete with a musical number so surreal it feels like La La Land met American Psycho in technicolor — Palm Royale announces that it’s done playing coy. This season is faster, funnier, and infinitely weirder. The pacing, which occasionally wobbled last year, now struts with confidence.
Showrunner Abe Sylvia (of Dead to Me fame) leans into the absurdity, crafting each episode like a champagne-fueled fever dream that’s equal parts Clue, The Great Gatsby, and Desperate Housewives by way of Wes Anderson. Every frame drips with aesthetic indulgence — the set design alone deserves its own Emmy. It’s all citrusy mid-century glam, where the swimming pools are mirrors for moral decay and the martinis have more plot twists than the dialogue.
If Season 1 was a dazzling mess of ideas, Season 2 finally finds its rhythm. The dialogue sparkles with bite, the plotting has teeth, and the humor cuts deeper. The writers seem to have embraced the truth: Palm Royale works best when it’s dancing on the knife’s edge between comedy and despair.
The highlight this year isn’t just the spectacle — it’s the character work. Beneath the pearls and polyester, this is still a show about women fighting for power in a rigged game. The satire lands harder because it’s grounded in that emotional exhaustion — ambition as addiction, civility as camouflage.
The scenes between Wiig and Janney are pure electricity. Watching these two icons shift from enemies to uneasy allies feels like a masterclass in passive-aggressive chemistry. Their shared moments — equal parts claw marks and confessionals — are the kind of acting duets that make you want to pause and rewind.
Kristen Wiig remains the show’s MVP, balancing slapstick and heartbreak like she’s auditioning for I, Tonya: The Musical. Maxine’s still delusional (or “delulu,” as the TikTok philosophers would say), but Wiig finds something new in her — a tired, hungry defiance that’s both funny and quietly tragic. She’s the social climber who refuses to fall, even when she’s already face-first in the punch bowl.
Janney, meanwhile, is magnificent — all razor wit and emotional landmines. Carol Burnett, free of her coma and armed with the best one-liners in the show, devours her scenes like she’s been starved for decades. Her Norma is both terrifying and strangely maternal, a woman who knows exactly how the game is played because she wrote the rulebook.
And then there’s Patti LuPone, who crashes into the cast as Marjorie Merriweather Post — part Broadway villain, part Bond femme fatale. Every time she appears, you can practically hear the orchestra swell. She’s ridiculous, she’s fabulous, and she knows it.
Even Kaia Gerber gets her due this season, evolving Mitzi from a sidekick into a subtle power player — all doe eyes and daggers. Ricky Martin’s Robert, too, provides a moral anchor amid the madness, grounding the series when it risks spinning into pure farce.
What makes Palm Royale Season 2 so addictive is how it turns its weaknesses into weapons. The melodrama is now a choice, not a byproduct. The pacing issues? Gone, replaced by a rhythm that feels both chaotic and deliberate — like a drunken conga line choreographed by God himself.
Sylvia’s direction sharpens everything. Each episode builds on the last, weaving new alliances, betrayals, and scandals with precision. The camp never overshadows the emotion, and the emotion never undercuts the comedy. It’s a rare tonal high-wire act that works — the kind of TV that makes you gasp, laugh, and screenshot the costumes all in the same minute.
Palm Royale Season 2 is proof that satire doesn’t need to be subtle to be smart. It just needs to be self-aware — and stylish as hell. It’s a sparkly takedown of wealth, womanhood, and the American Dream, dressed up in Pucci prints and armed with martini glasses. Wiig and company deliver one of the sharpest, funniest ensembles on TV right now, turning every betrayal into performance art.
This is The White Lotus in technicolor, Desperate Housewives by way of Palm Springs, and Succession with better swimwear.
