As Hans Gruber might lament, upon spotting the staggering sum of his Netflix contract, Prince Harry wiped his tears—not for family squabbles, but for the luminous opportunities to critique all other family members being exhausted.
In 2020, Prince Harry and Meghan Markle thrust themselves into the streaming spotlight with a dazzling $100 million deal with Netflix. They promised to deliver “content that informs and gives hope,” wrapped in what they termed “powerful storytelling” through a “truthful and relatable lens.” Translation? They produced a single, somewhat dreary reality show about their struggles, then hit a creative speed bump. This was followed by two documentaries: one awkwardly chronicling the Invictus Games and the other attempting to define leadership, whatever that means. Rumor has it a Meghan cooking show is simmering somewhere in development; until then, we have *Polo*, brought to you by Prince Harry himself—a self-proclaimed polo aficionado.
Having survived the first season, I’m inclined to believe that *Polo* was envisioned as part of Netflix’s impressive sports documentary lineup. Much like *Last Chance U* highlighted the grit of underdog football players, *Polo* aspires to redeem its unlikely sport. But therein lies the rub—can you truly class a sport where matches are decided by popping confetti-filled balloons as dramatic?
*Polo*, however, revolves around a game often described as the most obnoxious sport on the planet—think rich people’s playground. It requires a deep pocket, often inherited, making it nearly impossible to hit an underdog vibe. These are not sob stories of triumphing over adversity; they are lavish depictions of privilege at its finest, devoid of any real conflict—unless you count the battles over bottle service.
The cast? A delightful array of men who take polo far too seriously and the vastly underappreciated women flanking them. A prime example is Louis Devaleix, a team patron who greets success with a raucous “Fuck yeah!” (good for him!). This is a man who skydives and bails on his wife’s baby shower because—wait for it—he has a polo match. Break a leg, Louis. Literally.
Devaleix’s emotional range extends to breaking things or sobbing in darkness after losing a match, muttering “win” like some twisted motivational mantra. Let’s not forget his astonishment over a rival’s knowledge of his horses’ names. If you ever wanted to see a walking heart attack, look no further. Whether this portrayal is intentional or accidental is anyone’s guess.
Despite all this, *Polo* isn’t a total loss. There’s a subplot involving Adolfo Cambiaso, the Michael Jordan of polo, struggling with his son starting to outshine him, coupled with a serious accident that forces some semblance of humanity from the cast. If you’re drawn to human stories, this might just draw you in—for a fleeting moment.
Ultimately, *Polo* seems destined for the hidden submenus of Netflix, often overlooked in favor of more engaging fare. It feels like an elaborate prank documentary crafted to fill the background of *Succession* episodes. The end credits tease a sequel, but brace for impact: none of us truly deserve that torture. Let’s hope Meghan’s cooking show brings some culinary relief to our souls.
Catch *Polo* on Netflix now!
