In the second episode of Your Friends & Neighbors, Andrew Cooper (Jon Hamm) casually breaks into a lavish estate during the day and steals a Richard Mille watch valued at $358,000. In the following episode, he stumbles upon and takes a $32,000 bottle of Chardonnay while concealing himself in another affluent neighbor’s wine cellar as she is preoccupied with her daughter’s young lover. Over time, Cooper’s loot grows to include a Patek Philippe, diamond jewelry, a Birkin bag, pricey artwork, and stacks of cash. He turns to theft after being fired from a long-term position as a hedge-fund manager, striving to uphold an elitist image. He questions, essentially, who would care about the loss of these luxuries owned by the one percent?

This leads to a broader question about the series itself, along with several others this year that focus on affluent (predominantly white and male) individuals engaging in wrongdoing: Who actually cares? Watching Cooper sneak through opulent Westmont homes to gather items for resale becomes tedious, despite Hamm’s commendable performance. The emotional stakes for Cooper’s fate—or that of his victims or anyone else in the community—are minimal. Created by Jonathan Tropper, the show and its introspective voiceovers barely scratch the surface of themes like greed, materialism, and ethics. The hollow splendor of YF&N is just further evidence that television should take a hiatus from depicting detestable wealthy characters. Their appeal has definitely run its course.

Of course, depictions of terrible, incredibly rich people committing crimes on television aren’t new and have been a staple in everything from melodramatic series (Dynasty and Desperate Housewives) to comedies (Arrested Development with its “light treason”) to high-brow dramas (Succession). Even Jesse Armstrong, creator of the latter hit series, missed the mark with his latest HBO film, Mountainhead, where tech entrepreneurs consider a political coup amid a global crisis they triggered (and even contemplate murdering one of their own). But in a world where the President and a tech mogul publicly clash, the ruthless characters in Mountainhead seem too grimly realistic to be enjoyable.

Like Neighbors and Mountainhead, Nine Perfect Strangers also tackles the issue of wealth disparity in a ritzy setting—but does so superficially. The first season of this Hulu series awkwardly navigated Liane Moriarty’s novel, and the second season falters without that literary guide. Set in an extravagant Alpine wellness retreat named Zauberwald, the show follows Masha Dmitrichenko (Nicole Kidman), a so-called expert in psychedelics. In the second season, she invites new clients, including billionaire David Shaw (Mark Strong), to participate in a radical program. The two share a complex past; after a brief fling years ago, Masha became pregnant and raised their daughter alone, only for the child to tragically die at age seven. Masha blames him and his associates, whom she had been covertly investigating as a former journalist. The remaining clients at Zauberwald, as revealed slowly, all have connections to David, whose profit-driven motives have impacted their lives negatively, such as when David’s media company exploited a video of Brian’s (Murray Bartlett) meltdown, ruining his career and self-esteem.

The series shifts from a surreal narrative to a weak attempt at relevance with a villain who deals with Russian military contractors and arms manufacturing. However, the show’s overt flamboyance fails to address these serious issues effectively. Masha remains caught between anger and desire for David, struggling to decide whether to bring him down, collaborate with him for her business, or save this troubled tycoon who refuses to bond with his adult son (played by Henry Golding) at the retreat. The writers of both Nine Perfect Strangers and Your Friends & Neighbors also introduce numerous tangential subplots that dilute their main messages.

This year’s season of The White Lotus set in Thailand suffered from similar issues: overly stylized and poorly paced, it failed to probe class disparity and entitlement as effectively as its earlier seasons. Instead, it prioritized style over substance, evident in the unresolved storyline of Belinda (Natasha Rothwell) and the superficiality of the Ratliffs.

Looking forward, Prime Video’s upcoming series We Were Liars, premiering June 19, seems to echo Lotus in both its sunny visuals and lack of depth. Based on E. Lockhart’s novel, it delves into the privileged, dysfunctional Sinclair family, led by a patriarch reminiscent of Logan Roy (played by David Morse). While vacationing on their private island near Martha’s Vineyard, the adult family members squabble over their inheritance while their teenage children grapple with the family’s obsession with wealth.

Without meaningful depth, spending time with these characters becomes as exhausting as watching Tim Ratliff (Jason Isaacs) in Your Friends & Neighbors repeatedly take pills and envision murdering his family to protect a secret. Eventually, Coop seems to mature after a brief run-in with the law and a short stint in jail, realizing that material possessions are less valuable than his estranged family. Yet, by the end of the first season, he declines a lucrative job offer to return to his criminal thrills, stealing a painting from his former employer as revenge. This predictable and soulless act reflects Coop’s views on luxury items like scotch, cigars, and custom golf clubs: they’re merely industries exploiting the quiet desperation of affluent, middle-aged men. If only television could cease exploiting this narrative as well.

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Avery Sandridge

Avery Sandridge has an unmatched love for storytelling and the screen. From detailed analyses of your favorite shows to behind-the-scenes scoops, Avery offers a fresh and engaging take on everything TV series.