Slippery Suspects: The White Lotus as a Riff on Agatha Christie
How The White Lotus plays with classic whodunit conventions, queer desire, and the unsettling thrill of not knowing who—or what—is lurking beneath the surface.
In an interview on the red carpet at The White Lotus Season 3 premiere, Variety’s senior culture and events editor, Marc Malkin, asked Parker Posey what was going through her mind as she read the script. Posey, who portrays Victoria Ratliff—a kooky, wealthy Southern wife and mother—responded:
"It’s a genre that I love—as a kid, like a young adult, like Evil Under the Sun or Murder on the Orient Express—these characters who you don’t know if you can trust them or where they’re coming from. It’s kind of like people—like … what are you capable of? What is this slippery … (rubs fingers together, smiles, but leaves her full meaning undisclosed) … you know? It’s great for drama … and for creating characters."
As a fan of The White Lotus (one of the throngs, I know!) and an immense admirer of Parker Posey (The House of Yes is in my top ten movies of all time), I must admit I hadn't connected the frankly obvious relationship between Agatha Christie and Mike White’s The White Lotus series. Thank you, Parker Posey!
Of course, I understood that each season of The White Lotus is a murder mystery—who dies is as big a mystery as who commits the crime. But unlike Christie’s novels and their film adaptations, The White Lotus doesn’t function as a conventional puzzle mystery. In Christie’s works, a murder occurs, and the detective—Poirot, in the cases Posey mentioned—steps in to reconstruct the past, peeling back the layers of both the motive and the mechanics of the crime: how it really happened and how the murderer obscured the truth from view.
In The White Lotus, the viewer becomes the detective. Every season opens with a flashforward: we know someone—or multiple people—have died, and that the death was unexpected. In Seasons 1 and 2, it’s not even clear that the deaths were murders; in Season 3, gunfire rings out in the opening sequence, indicating violent deaths—though, of course, this could be misdirection (who knows what Mike White has up his sleeve?). The point is, instead of relying on a detective as an intermediary—a kind of friendly opponent against whom we test our deductive and inductive reasoning—we are forced to read the characters for clues, sniffing out cracks in their facades. Is this character capable of murder? Or violence? When Posey suggests that the characters are "slippery," I think that’s what she means.
In The White Lotus, ripples of unrest and tension start in the first episode of each season, but it takes time for the nature of the crime to emerge. Unlike Christie, the show’s narrative structure destabilizes us: we have no Poirot to ensure a clear answer. In White’s script, both the victim and the perpetrator are usually morally tainted; corruption seeps in from all sides—and there’s an uncomfortable weight to that. In fact, the true villain in every season is the inequity between the wealthy Western vacationers and the working-class and often indigenous White Lotus staff. As viewers seduced by the show’s gorgeous locations and luxurious resorts, we are complicit. Violence, White suggests, is the child of solipsistic greed. Indeed.
Watching The White Lotus is electrifying, but it doesn’t offer the comforting joy of Evil Under the Sun, the first Christie story Posey mentioned. I have a hunch Posey was referring to the film version of Evil Under the Sun—she would have been 13 or 14 when it was released. At the very least, I’m sure the film and novel blur together in her mind as they do mine. In this adaptation, Peter Ustinov, Diana Rigg, Roddy McDowall, Jane Birkin, Sylvia Miles, James Mason, and Maggie Smith sling insults over cocktails and canapés, and a clever murder mystery is unraveled by the pesky but brilliant Poirot.
The film is gloriously gay—total camp. The costumes alone are a drag show-like spectacle: flowing dresses, wide-brimmed hats, and silk scarves for the women, exuding wealth and leisure. The bold Art Deco patterns, polka dots, and chunky jewelry add to the theatricality. After all, the victim, Arlena Marshall (Diana Rigg), is a retired stage actress, and many of the suspects are connected to the theater. And if you know the plot, you know that what the characters wear is a key clue.
The film also brims with snarky one-liners and drag queen-worthy bitchery. Take this gem from Maggie Smith’s Daphne Castle, who remarks to Kenneth Marshall (Denis Quilley), Arlena’s new husband and her own former crush, upon seeing Arlena again:
"Arlena and I were in the chorus of a show together, not that I could ever compete. Even in those days, she could always throw her legs up in the air higher than any of us... and wider."
Meanwhile, Roddy McDowall’s Rex Brewster is an openly gay writer, his swish played for laughs. While the women and older men are draped in luxury, the camera lingers on Nicholas Clay’s Patrick Redfern—his sun-bronzed, muscular, Speedo-clad body making him the primary object of desire. The male gaze? Subverted. And finally, the entire film is scored with Cole Porter music—Porter being famously gay.
All this is to say: while it’s difficult to argue that The White Lotus is camp—the hum of darkness underneath its glossy surface frustrates that interpretation—it’s not difficult to argue that it’s queer. Across its first two seasons, it has featured several openly queer characters. In Season 1, Armond (Murray Bartlett) and Dillon (Lukas Gage) engage in an encounter reflecting themes of power and excess. In Season 2, Quentin (Tom Hollander) and Jack (Leo Woodall) are entangled in a manipulative scheme; Valentina (Sabrina Impacciatore) experiences a late-in-life queer awakening; and Mia (Beatrice Grannò) explores her bisexuality. As for Season 3? Well, the way the camera lingers on Patrick Schwarzenegger’s body—even through the eyes of his own brother (very uncomfortably)—at least suggests an exploration of how men look at other men, and why. How desire and envy mingle.
I’m eager to see where Season 3 takes us, but I’m also fascinated by Posey’s comparison of Christie to The White Lotus. The comparison highlights the differences but also sparks deeper questions about the similarities. Where do queerness and queer desire fit in this world—this space between the wealthy guests of a five-star resort and the staff tending to their every need? To what degree does desire cross those boundaries? And to what degree do those boundaries twist and trouble those desires? We’ll just have to watch and see.
Hall of Mirrors is Now on Audio!
The wait is over—Hall of Mirrors is out on audiobook, and I couldn't be more thrilled! With the incredible production by Deyan Audio and stunning performances by Sion Dayson (Judy), Ray Ford (Lionel), and Shea Taylor (Roger), this one will pull you in.
Hearing my words come to life like this is surreal, and I can't wait for you to experience it.
Available now wherever you listen to audiobooks! Let me know what you think.
