John Powers

Whenever two of them get together, they grow catty about the one who's not there. I was especially knocked out by the scene in which Rick meets an old friend, who launches into a monologue about his sexcapades in Bangkok. It is, I promise you, the most surprising thing you're going to hear on TV this year.

The White Lotus takes it as a given that its privileged characters have no interest in the culture they're visiting, be it Hawaii or Sicily or now Thailand. They treat it as a theme park or a stage on which they can act out. White clearly hopes to avoid doing that himself, although he does glamorize Thailand. Conspicuous luxury is one of the show's selling points, after all.

The White Lotus takes it as a given that its privileged characters have no interest in the culture they're visiting, be it Hawaii or Sicily or now Thailand. They treat it as a theme park or a stage on which they can act out. White clearly hopes to avoid doing that himself, although he does glamorize Thailand. Conspicuous luxury is one of the show's selling points, after all.

The White Lotus takes it as a given that its privileged characters have no interest in the culture they're visiting, be it Hawaii or Sicily or now Thailand. They treat it as a theme park or a stage on which they can act out. White clearly hopes to avoid doing that himself, although he does glamorize Thailand. Conspicuous luxury is one of the show's selling points, after all.

He treats Buddhism respectfully, and he makes a point of trying to incorporate Thai characters. The two best are the hotel's owner, a silver-haired diva, and a sympathetic security guard whose factlessness makes us constantly worry for him.

He treats Buddhism respectfully, and he makes a point of trying to incorporate Thai characters. The two best are the hotel's owner, a silver-haired diva, and a sympathetic security guard whose factlessness makes us constantly worry for him.

He treats Buddhism respectfully, and he makes a point of trying to incorporate Thai characters. The two best are the hotel's owner, a silver-haired diva, and a sympathetic security guard whose factlessness makes us constantly worry for him.

Now, over the course of the six episodes available to screen, there are eight in all, White repeatedly shows us two very different things, monkeys and Buddhas. This motif is fitting, for White's theme here is the tension between our animal nature and our yearning for a deeper, more spiritual existence, one free from the values and egotisms that imprison us.

Now, over the course of the six episodes available to screen, there are eight in all, White repeatedly shows us two very different things, monkeys and Buddhas. This motif is fitting, for White's theme here is the tension between our animal nature and our yearning for a deeper, more spiritual existence, one free from the values and egotisms that imprison us.

Now, over the course of the six episodes available to screen, there are eight in all, White repeatedly shows us two very different things, monkeys and Buddhas. This motif is fitting, for White's theme here is the tension between our animal nature and our yearning for a deeper, more spiritual existence, one free from the values and egotisms that imprison us.

pushing its characters toward questions of life's meaning, this is the most soul-conscious of the three seasons. No matter how safe and comfortable things might seem, White suggests, there comes a time of reckoning when we have to face how alone we really are.

pushing its characters toward questions of life's meaning, this is the most soul-conscious of the three seasons. No matter how safe and comfortable things might seem, White suggests, there comes a time of reckoning when we have to face how alone we really are.

pushing its characters toward questions of life's meaning, this is the most soul-conscious of the three seasons. No matter how safe and comfortable things might seem, White suggests, there comes a time of reckoning when we have to face how alone we really are.

It's one measure of Latin America's arduous history that it spawns so many books and movies about dictatorship. Over the years, I've been through scads of them, from novels by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Mario Vargas Llosa to the landmark documentaries of Patricio Guzman to Hollywood thrillers like Missing and Under Fire. What they share is the awareness that history hurts.

It's one measure of Latin America's arduous history that it spawns so many books and movies about dictatorship. Over the years, I've been through scads of them, from novels by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Mario Vargas Llosa to the landmark documentaries of Patricio Guzman to Hollywood thrillers like Missing and Under Fire. What they share is the awareness that history hurts.

It's one measure of Latin America's arduous history that it spawns so many books and movies about dictatorship. Over the years, I've been through scads of them, from novels by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Mario Vargas Llosa to the landmark documentaries of Patricio Guzman to Hollywood thrillers like Missing and Under Fire. What they share is the awareness that history hurts.

Few films have shown this with more delicate intelligence than I'm Still Here, a moving new drama set during Brazil's military dictatorship that began with an American-backed coup in 1964 and ended in 1985. Based on a memoir by Marcelo Rubens Paiva, Walter Salas's movie is no political tract or manipulative tearjerker, although it may make you cry.

Few films have shown this with more delicate intelligence than I'm Still Here, a moving new drama set during Brazil's military dictatorship that began with an American-backed coup in 1964 and ended in 1985. Based on a memoir by Marcelo Rubens Paiva, Walter Salas's movie is no political tract or manipulative tearjerker, although it may make you cry.

Few films have shown this with more delicate intelligence than I'm Still Here, a moving new drama set during Brazil's military dictatorship that began with an American-backed coup in 1964 and ended in 1985. Based on a memoir by Marcelo Rubens Paiva, Walter Salas's movie is no political tract or manipulative tearjerker, although it may make you cry.

Exploring the dictatorship indirectly, I'm Still Here tells the heroic true story of a wife and mother who steers her family through the rapids of tyranny. The story begins idyllically on Ipanema Beach in 1970, when we first meet the Paiva family. The father is Rubens, played with easy charm by Sultan Melo, a warm-hearted man who was a congressman before the coup.