Dirty, sweaty boys. To ride.’ One can only imagine this was the pitch when Harry and Meghan performed at Netflix’s headquarters for one last attempt at a commercial hit.
Well, it helped! Netflix has released a trailer for the couple’s long-awaited five-part series about the completely unrecognizable sport of polo, which will become ‘heir’ on December 10.
The executives were no doubt assured that there would be no scratchy tweeds, no cold salmon rivers, no battered Land Rovers and no wobbly teeth.
There would be no couch interviews about past slights, no domestic flock of rescued chickens, no riding out a toddler or beagle, a la the couple’s only hit since striking a deal with the streaming giant.
“Oh no,” Meghan will (almost certainly) have said to nervous producers. ‘The chickens would be trampled if we took them to watch polo. This is a much higher octane number. Haz, do polo ponies really run on gasoline?’
No, there’s nothing worthy about this latest docuseries if the trailer for Polo is to be believed.
It portrays the game as the sport of bling in the ostentatious manner of Real Housewives and Selling Sunset, the latter a reality show ostensibly about real estate, but featuring women – with cleavage so cavernous that Netflix will no doubt soon launch a reality show on the quest to find the men lost in it – bickering in exchanges written by writers who specialize in Dynasty.
The hammy, humorless lines become emotional with heavy Latin American accents: ‘The adrenaline that runs through your body. It’s addictive [sic].’ And from Nacho Figueras (no, me neither), the Argentinian player and good friend of Harry: ‘Polo is a lifestyle. We breathe, we sleep, we eat polo.” (Note: not the coin with hole.)
Netflix has released a trailer for Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s highly anticipated five-part polo series
The dialogue is delivered with such faux gravitas and clumsy acting that I’m reminded of Al Pacino in his later years. It makes you wonder how these people can keep a straight face. Oh well, of course. Botox.
The fictional storylines stem from a marriage between TOWIE and Made In Chelsea. In one scene, a pregnant woman is in labor while her husband, wearing pants tight enough to allow any conception to be immaculate, smashes a Bolly-laden table with his polo mallet because he couldn’t be there for the birth .
The big drama of the series is about a father-son duo who play against each other. Oh, how reality TV reflects life!
“I want to win against my father,” says the young rider against the background of a nagging nagging feeling. But this isn’t Prince Harry talking about his father.
In fact, we don’t see Harry in the trailer at all. But make no mistake: His and Meghan’s names loom large (literally – the font is huge) in the credits: “Executive produced by Prince Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.”
What does “executive produced” actually mean? Did they deposit the money? Don’t be silly. Of course not. Harry sold his soul.
Yes, Charles, William and others have long indulged in the sport of polo, but this series isn’t set in Windsor or even filmed at the Santa Barbara Polo & Racquet Club, home of Harry’s Los Padres team, not far away from his mansion in Montecito. .
The Duke and Duchess of Sussex served as executive producers on the series, which airs on December 10
Harry and Meghan will attend the Royal Salute Polo Challenge at the Grand Champions Polo Club in Wellington, Florida, in April
Instead, the location is an exclusive enclave of Florida’s Palm Beach, a favorite of billionaires, home to the US Open Polo Championships and minutes from Trump’s Mar-a-Lago resort.
No hoof prints will be trodden among chukkas; the women wear stilettos and are said to be putting down roots. Remember the photo of a young Prince Charles, wearing green-colored trousers, chatting with Camilla under a tree? Compared to this couple, they seem, if not down-to-earth, then at least human.
But the worst moment in the trailer, something so distinctive it wouldn’t even fit in Jilly Cooper’s Rivals, is when a Latin American hunk emerges from his bath, slim as an otter, quivering droplets and wearing a necklace that looks so heavy is that I’ I’m surprised he didn’t drown.
That the King’s son has allowed himself to be associated with this trash makes me glad that Queen Elizabeth no longer lives to cover her eyes while she looked at it.
Harry sits on his leather-covered knees. What now? His own slot on the Shopping Channel? How can Harry and Meghan ever travel the world preaching about poverty, diversity and inclusivity, if not a single black player can be spied on; the men are the color of the deck of a superyacht, while the money required to run a polo team is undoubtedly greater than that of Formula 1.
How can they lecture us about global warming when a player admits he flies to Argentina twice a week? The overdose of conspicuous, sun-drenched consumption makes me long for mud, boots, fog.
And yes, we know Meghan once toiled on game shows, but Harry? It’s like watching Princess Anne secretly discover pole dancing. How can anyone lose any trace of class? And to lose it so quickly (in 150 seconds) by putting his name on something even flashier than the ground floor of Harrods. There is no ironic detachment, no clever condemnation. It’s all as straight as Meghan’s perfect teeth.
The trailer ends with ominous headlines and orchestral booms: “For Legacy,” “For Courage,” and “For Glory.” It’s hardly the Battle of Bosworth Field. But by styling it as such, Harry has really given his kingdom for a pony.