Netflix’s The Royals Season 1 Review: Regal Romance or Shallow Spectacle?

Netflix‘s ever-evolving lineup tends to chase broad appeal, sometimes with unexpectedly dazzling results. With The Royals, the streaming giant aims for a winning blend of palace glamor, Indian heritage, and the universal pull of romantic drama. On the surface, it’s an easy binge—a world of gold-leafed halls and shining traditions, eager to sweep you up in sparkling intrigue. But as the episodes pass, it becomes clear that such shine comes at a price. Beneath the ornate costuming and vibrant scenery lies a series balancing on the edge—occasionally lively, sometimes hollow, and rarely as meaningful as it wants to be. Our review of Netflix’s The Royals looks at how well the first season hooks in new viewers.

Morpiur, the show’s imagined princely state, sets the stage for a rivalry that soon turns romantic. Sophia Kanmani Shekhar, a driven CEO, finds herself up against Aviraaj Singh, a polo-playing prince with as much entitlement as charm. Their adversarial dynamic propels the plot, echoing the well-trodden route of enemies-to-lovers. There’s an initial spark—an exchange of sharp words, then a wary partnership, and finally, a romance that walks the familiar tightrope between passion and defiance. While this push-and-pull animates the first few episodes, the relentless reliance on banter and cliché reveals the show’s main flaw: a reluctance to dig deeper than familiar character outlines.

What could have been—the promise of real tension between tradition and change, or a sensitive portrait of clashing ambitions—is rarely fully realized. Sophia, played by Bhumi Pednekar, is introduced as a figure of quick thinking and determined action. Her first few scenes brim with energy—a brisk escape on horseback, a pointed takedown of royal snobbery, and a clear vision for turning Morpiur’s decaying palace into a sleek boutique hotel. Early on, she balances wit with conviction, hinting at layers of ambition and vulnerability beneath the confident facade. But the writing too often undercuts her, relying on broad humor and simplistic beats. Pednekar works hard to fill these gaps with moments of pause and subtle glances, yet the show’s script rarely gives her more than a surface to play on. Emotional nuance is replaced by punchlines, and any chance for us to see a detailed portrait of modern Indian womanhood slips away.

Aviraaj, Sophia’s main foil, is cut from similar cloth. Ishaan Khatter has proved he can lend depth to even the most privileged roles, but here, Aviraaj’s rakish posturing and late-night soul-searching seldom feel like more than surface tactics. His longing for a life less scripted—free from protocol, shallow expectations, and the weight of family honor — registers as half-formed, obscured by awkward dialogue and a grab bag of dramatic interruptions. Plots involving jealous exes, palace mishaps, and family meddling supply the menacing hum of a soap opera, yet rarely do they generate genuine momentum. The chemistry between Sophia and Aviraaj has its moments, yet the series struggles to make their journey feel distinct from the many that came before it. Even as the backdrop shifts from resplendent halls to secret courtyards and back again, the relationship never quite leaves behind its formulaic origins.

Still, while the two leads waver between stereotype and substance, supporting characters often deliver more impact with far less screen time. Digvijay “Diggy” Singh, Aviraaj’s younger brother, emerges as a low-key standout. He finds escape from royal straitjackets in the kitchen, mixing tradition with invention through his culinary experiments. His role provides a rare note of authenticity, as the story follows him trying to carve out a sense of self apart from hereditary obligation. Similarly, Divyaranjani “Jinnie,” the siblings’ sister, struggles with acceptance and self-identity, echoing Diggy’s journey while grounding the larger family tensions. They serve as gentle correctives to the palace’s pageantry, offering glimpses of introspection and humor amid the often shallow main arcs. These side stories, as brief as they are, anchor the series in themes more universal than royal spectacle.

Perhaps the most intriguing threads belong to the older generation—figures perched uneasily between nostalgia and regret. The mother, Padmaja, is caught balancing the expectations of queenly decorum and her own ambition, symbolizing the persistent push and pull between the old and new order. Bhagyashree Devi, played by Zeenat Aman, is the faded matriarch whose regal presence hides disillusionment and echoes of loss. Her scenes, though few, reveal a figure numbed by repetitive rituals and the numbing weight of a vanishing world. These moments suggest there’s much more to say about the costs and contradictions of inherited privilege—but just as quickly, the narrative pulls back, content to gesture without delving into those emotional depths.

What The Royals lacks in psychological subtlety, it tries to compensate for in lavish presentation. The show’s Rajasthan is a visual triumph. Camera sweeps over golden deserts, intricate arches, silken costumes, and candlelit chambers, turning every episode into a feast for the eyes. The production design is attentive, reviving a fantasy of Indian monarchy that manages to be both affectionate and hyper-elevated. Even the smallest set pieces—silver tea sets, ornate jewelry, patterned saris—add layers to the spectacle. Soft, dreamy lighting and carefully orchestrated camera angles make sure each room pulses with history and grandeur, drawing you in whether or not the plot commands attention.

That visual brilliance finds an able partner in the music. A curated soundtrack, featuring the work of RUUH, JOH, and Harsh Upadhyay—with careful supervision by Aditya N and Nayantara Bhatkal—offers more than background. As scenes shift from playful waltzes to slow, aching melodies, the soundscape keeps step with the drama. Sometimes, it does more: an airy motif lifts a mundane conversation or a swelling chord turns an ordinary family spat into something momentarily poignant. This alignment of sound and image helps sustain the illusion of grandeur and urgency, even when the script falls flat. Yet, there are moments when the music only serves to highlight the series’ discrepancy: emotional depth is not always present beneath the sheen, and no score, however moving, can fill that gap entirely.

It’s this recurring mismatch—between shimmering surfaces and storytelling substance—that keeps The Royals at arm’s length from greatness. The narrative skims intriguing concepts, only to turn away before true complexity emerges. Themes like relinquishing privilege, forbidden romance, or the tension between public and private selves flash by but rarely take hold. More often than not, conflicts are resolved—or simply bypassed—before they can fully mature. The plotting leans heavily on spectacle: grand balls, whispered betrayals, sudden reversals, and circular misunderstandings. This pace ensures efficient binge-watching, yet the efficiency comes at the cost of real emotional investment.

Among the cast, a handful of performances manage to strike the right note. Sakshi Tanwar’s Maharani evolves subtly across the series, moving from tentative reserve to measured command. She turns what could have been a flat archetype into something more lived-in, especially in brief, wordless moments of doubt or resolve. Zeenat Aman’s queen mother radiates grace even in isolation, her limited dialogue hinting at a woman both proud and sorrowful. Meanwhile, younger actors Vihaan Samat (Diggy) and Kavya Trehan (Jinnie) supply welcome humanity and gentle sibling rapport. Their sincerity often balances out the self-conscious efforts of the veterans—Chunky Pandey and Nora Fatehi—whose comedic asides occasionally jolt the viewer out of the story’s rhythm rather than enrich the atmosphere.

The inclusion of progressive themes—especially surrounding sexual identity and gender roles—marks an attempt to broaden the royal drama’s territory. Whether it’s women defying old customs or LGBTQ+ characters testing the limits of self-expression, these sidetracks sometimes succeed in adding color and risk. However, the show rarely lingers on these elements long enough for lasting meaning. Too often, they push up against stereotypes or become vehicles for brief comic relief, rather than opportunities for transformative storytelling. It’s a choice that keeps The Royals hovering on the edge of innovation but ultimately lands on safe, sometimes even performative, ground.

Our review of Netflix’s The Royals also finds that the tone further complicates one’s engagement. Some episodes move with the lightness and verve of a romantic comedy, only to veer abruptly into overwrought melodrama. One minute, the palace hums with breezy banter; the next, it’s locked in repetitive quarrels or circular dialogue that saps pace and energy. As a result, the show rarely sustains the lively balance achieved in modern updates of classic romance, despite visible borrowings from series like Bridgerton or Downton Abbey.

Nevertheless, moments of real connection do emerge. Whenever the show’s hurried plotting slows, there’s a window for vulnerability. Quiet scenes between Sophia and Aviraaj—midnight conversations, shared confidences, lingering glances—surface now and again, charged with a sincerity that feels hard-won. The siblings’ heart-to-hearts, especially as they navigate tradition and independence, offer glimpses of what could have been more consistent across the story. These interludes briefly defy the spectacle, hinting at a deeper emotional core that is, for the most part, left unexplored.

Visually, The Royals never loses its footing. The interplay of past and present is reflected in every detail, from gilt-framed portraits gazing silently over the action to the clever use of light and shadow across labyrinthine courtyards. The costumes straddle glamour and nostalgia—a deliberate attempt to connect the world of Indian monarchy with global fashion sensibilities. The effort to reimagine palace culture for contemporary audiences is visible in the smallest textile choices and chandelier glimmers. But there’s a sense of longing in each frame, as if the set designers and directors are striving to fill the space left by the story’s lack of depth and true complexity.

The orchestration of sound, so often an afterthought in similar productions, is a central player here. Every big emotional moment is scored to fit, every shift in mood marked by a suite of carefully chosen notes. At its most successful, this approach lends weight to the tiniest gestures—a hand on a shoulder, a tense pause before a battle of words. Yet, there are scenes where the careful music calls attention to what’s missing: the sense that these characters are risking more than embarrassment or minor heartbreak. Instead of smoothing rough edges, the score sometimes spotlights the emotional limitations imposed by the script.

Seen alongside Netflix’s other Indian originals, The Royals occupies the lighter end of the spectrum. Where dark dramas like Sacred Games and Delhi Crime grapple with systemic injustice and hard-won personal triumphs, here the focus remains on escapism and pageantry. For those in search of a visual fantasy—palaces, intricate jewelry, lush gardens—it delivers in full. But the series’ true shortcoming is clear: a lack of intricate storytelling and character development means every triumph is fleeting, every setback quickly erased or forgotten. The show is content to deliver beauty and drama in measured doses but never risks the kind of boldness that would make it memorable.

In the end, The Royals is a portrait in contrasts—a world meticulously built and beautifully filmed, inhabited by characters who don’t always seem quite real. Its pleasures are immediate: sumptuous visuals, lively exchanges, moments of humor and humanity. Its limits, though, are equally obvious. Rigid plotting and thin characterization keep it from surprising us, leaving little behind but the memory of glittering scenes and catchy musical cues.

For viewers who love light romantic drama and the visual pleasures of a regal setting, The Royals is a satisfying—if familiar—escape. Over about six hours, it invites you into a universe where every problem glimmers, every emotion benefits from a perfect camera angle. But for those who crave emotional depth and complex character journeys, the cracks show quickly. In this, the show mirrors the crumbling palace it venerates: all outward allure, with rooms echoing emptily behind locked doors.

Netflix’s The Royals is ultimately a textbook case of the streaming era’s reach for spectacle. It tries, sometimes clumsily, to blend modern romance, familiar genre play, and cultural gravitas. The effect is both grand and fleeting—an experience that glimmers brightly, then fades from view when the credits roll. For all its warmth, romance, and dazzling craftsmanship, it remains a spectacle first—with all the pleasures and frustrations that label entails.