The Royals on Netflix: A Brutally Honest Take on Why This Show Falls Flat

Alright, let’s rip into The Royals on Netflix with the kind of brutal honesty that leaves no stone unturned. This is not a review with polite ratings or balanced pros and cons—it’s what I felt after slogging through this glitzy, overstuffed mess of a show, and why you should care enough to read this takedown. Buckle up, because I’m not holding back.

First off, the story. Or, more accurately, the lack of one. The Royals wants to be a frothy, escapist rom-com with regal vibes, but it’s like someone took a bunch of shiny tropes—royal family in debt, ambitious commoner, enemies-to-lovers arc—and threw them into a blender without a recipe. The plot is a chaotic jumble that feels like it’s making itself up as it goes. Sophia (Bhumi Pednekar), a CEO with a bizarrely unrealistic startup called “Work Potato,” wants to turn a crumbling palace into a “Royal B&B” where commoners can rub elbows with royals. Why? Who knows. The show doesn’t bother explaining why this is a viable business model or why anyone would care. Aviraaj (Ishaan Khatter), the playboy prince, is dragged back to Morpur to save his family’s legacy, but his motivations flip-flop so often it’s impossible to care. The narrative lurches from one contrived event to another—polo matches, masquerade balls, random dance sequences—without any sense of cohesion. It’s like the writers had a Pinterest board labeled “Fancy Vibes” and called it a script. Nothing feels earned, and the stakes are so low they’re basically nonexistent. By episode three, I was begging for something—anything—to make sense. Spoiler: it never does.

Then there’s the forceful insertion of inclusivity, which feels like a checklist gone wrong. The show pats itself on the back for including queer characters and storylines, but it handles them with all the grace of a sledgehammer. Jinnie, Aviraaj’s sister, has a queer arc that feels tacked on, like the writers realized halfway through that they needed a “modern” subplot. Diggy, the brother, grapples with his own identity, but his journey is so shallow and rushed it’s almost patronizing. The show screams, “Look, we’re progressive!” while doing the bare minimum to develop these characters beyond stereotypes. It’s not representation—it’s tokenism dressed up in designer gowns. And don’t get me started on the random “gay Maharaja” subplot involving the late king’s lover, Maurice. It’s introduced as a shocking twist, but it’s so poorly integrated that it feels like a cheap plot device to stir drama. If you’re going to include diverse characters, give them depth, not just a cameo to score woke points.

Now, let’s talk about Bhumi Pednekar. Oh, Bhumi, what happened? I used to root for her—she’s tackled gritty roles with grit and grace—but in The Royals, she’s a caricature of herself. Her performance as Sophia is stiff, like she’s trying to channel a TED Talk speaker instead of a relatable character. Her dialogue delivery is flat, her emotional scenes feel forced, and don’t even get me started on that dance sequence where she looks like she’s fighting her own body to move. It’s painful to watch, especially next to Ishaan Khatter, who’s at least trying to inject some charm into Aviraaj. But Bhumi’s biggest sin is her complete lack of chemistry with Ishaan. Zero. Nada. Their “hate-to-love” arc is supposed to sizzle, but it’s like watching two strangers read lines at each other. Their hookups feel random, their fights feel petty, and their longing glances are about as convincing as a used car salesman. I kept waiting for a spark, a moment where I’d believe these two could fall for each other. It never came. Bhumi’s Sophia is so unlikeable—manipulative, passive-aggressive, and weirdly entitled—that I was rooting for Aviraaj to run back to New York.

Ishaan Khatter isn’t perfect either, but he’s at least watchable. He’s got charisma and nails the brooding prince vibe, but the script gives him nothing to work with. Aviraaj is a walking cliché—party animal with daddy issues—and Ishaan can’t elevate the material beyond that. The supporting cast is a mixed bag. Sakshi Tanwar is the only one who feels like she’s in a different, better show. Her Rani Padmaja has gravitas and heart, but even she’s bogged down by melodramatic subplots. Zeenat Aman, billed as a big comeback, is criminally wasted as a weed-smoking matriarch who spouts one-liners and then disappears. Dino Morea and Chunky Panday are there for… reasons? Their characters are so underdeveloped it’s like the casting director just wanted familiar faces. Vihaan Samat and Kavya Trehan, as the younger siblings, have moments of charm, but their arcs are so predictable they barely register.

The writing is the real villain here. It’s lazy, inconsistent, and sometimes downright embarrassing. The dialogue is littered with cringeworthy lines like “green flag nahi, green forest hai” and random quips about bat poop (yes, really). The show tries to juggle romance, family drama, corporate intrigue, and social commentary, but it fumbles every single ball. Plot points are introduced and then abandoned. Characters make decisions that defy logic—like Sophia not researching the royal family she’s betting her career on. The pacing is glacial, with episodes dragging on for no reason. And the cliffhanger ending? It’s not intriguing; it’s infuriating, because it feels like a desperate plea for a second season nobody asked for.

Visually, the show is stunning—palaces, costumes, and all that razzle-dazzle are top-notch. But it’s all style, no substance. It’s like eating a beautifully plated dessert that tastes like cardboard. The comparisons to Bridgerton or Schitt’s Creek are laughable; those shows have wit, heart, and coherence. The Royals is a hollow imitation, borrowing aesthetics without understanding what makes those stories work. It’s not even “so bad it’s good”—it’s just frustrating.

Why should you read this? Because The Royals is a cautionary tale of what happens when ambition outstrips execution. It’s a reminder that star power and pretty visuals can’t save a story that doesn’t know what it wants to be. It’s a show that could’ve been fun, bold, and fresh but settles for being a loud, confused mess. Save your eight hours and watch something that respects your intelligence.