Recent period dramas on Apple TV+ have been grappling with a "Whose story is this?" dilemma—a recognition of the pitfalls of a single-minded historical approach, without a clear solution to the problem.
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| Natalie Portman and Moses Ingram in "Lady in the Lake.' APPLE TV+ |
For instance, Masters of the Air relegated the Tuskegee Airmen to a one-episode afterthought in a series focused on the 100th Bomb Group, failing to do justice to either narrative. Lessons in Chemistry attempted to incorporate a civil rights-related subplot not present in the original material, which was somewhat successful—Aja Naomi King even earned an Emmy nomination—but it still felt forced.
The Big Cigar struggled with whether to center on Huey P. Newton and the Black Panther Party or the well-meaning white Hollywood producers, ultimately doing neither story much justice.
In Apple TV+’s new seven-part limited series Lady in the Lake, adapted by Alma Har’el (Honey Boy) from Laura Lippman’s novel, subtext is brought to the forefront. The series explores how a woman’s initially noble quest to reclaim her personal narrative can become self-centered when she disregards the stories of those around her.
Har’el, who directed all episodes and wrote or co-wrote much of the series, has created an ambitious exploration of the unexpected challenges of self-actualization. She brings to light some of the complex undertones of Lippman’s book in provocative ways.
However, despite the intricate attempts in Lady in the Lake, it falls short in what seems like a simpler task: maintaining focus on the core story. The adaptation loses much of the book's momentum, resulting in a series that, while intriguing and thought-provoking, often fails to be convincingly entertaining.
The narrative begins in 1966 Baltimore, where Natalie Portman portrays Maddie Schwartz, a Jewish housewife who abruptly disrupts her life by leaving her comfortable suburban home and family—husband Milton (Brett Gelman) and son Seth (Noah Jupe). Maddie’s dissatisfaction is underscored by the trope that a woman married to a character played by Brett Gelman (poor Brett Gelman) is seldom content. Her decision to move into a shabby apartment on the Black side of Baltimore perplexes everyone around her.
Maddie, who departs without a source of income or a clear plan for her new life, quickly becomes obsessed with the case of a missing Jewish girl. After discovering the girl's body with the help of a friend (Mikey Madison’s Judith), Maddie seizes the chance to write for the Baltimore Star, as journalism was a long-sought dream thwarted by a troubling past.
When the body of Cleo Johnson (Moses Ingram) is found in a fountain, Maddie takes it upon herself to solve the case. This decision irks her editors (who show little concern for Black lives), the Black detective she is secretly seeing (Y’lan Noel’s Ferdie Platt), and even Cleo herself, who narrates with a touch of sarcasm from beyond the grave.
I can break it down so clearly because it follows the plot of Lippman’s book, which highlights Maddie’s narrow viewpoint by alternating chapters between her perspective and those of the individuals she interacts with—people whose personal stories she struggles to understand or relate to on her own. While Maddie isn't portrayed as the villain in Lady in the Lake, she is firmly convinced of her role as the hero, despite not being one.
Though Cleo also narrates a portion of the book, it mainly reflects her frustration with having her story taken over by someone whose empathy is inherently questionable. Har’el has adjusted this structure to give Cleo a more prominent role—though not an equal share with Portman, it is close.
This adjustment proves beneficial in many respects, as Ingram delivers a powerful and captivating performance. By expanding Cleo’s role, we also spend more time with Baltimore numbers runner, club owner, and political fixer Shell Gordon (Wood Harris), his dubious right-hand man Reggie (Josiah Cross, previously seen in the Tuskegee Airmen episode of Masters of the Air), and Cleo’s estranged, anachronistically edgy stand-up comic husband (Byron Bowers’ Slappy).
While the storyline connecting these characters could be more compelling and sometimes causes the series to drag, the choice to expand Cleo’s presence is appreciated.
This approach allows Har’el to delve deeper into the contrasts and commonalities between the two women and, by extension, to more thoroughly examine the different stigmas tied to being Black and Jewish in 1960s Maryland. These stigmas involve layers of powerlessness and voicelessness exacerbated by their gender.
Maddie can pass as non-Jewish; a recurring joke in the early episodes is that she doesn't appear Jewish. Cleo, on the other hand, cannot pass but can become figuratively invisible—a more perilous disadvantage than a superpower.
The series questions who gets to pass or assimilate and what is sacrificed in the process. It also explores how long one carries the trauma of powerlessness, especially for Maddie and her family, given that a genocide is only one generation in their past.
This is challenging material, and Har’el navigates it in ways that can be both off-putting and, at times, inspired. Lady in the Lake is infused with a dreamlike logic, mirroring how disconnected Maddie and Cleo are from their concrete realities.
They are plagued by nightmares and the shadows of their pasts. The boundary between memory and surrealism continuously blurs, culminating in a late-season episode that feels almost like a hallucinatory modern dance piece.
The music, composed by Marcus Norris, features standards by Peggy Lee, Shirley Bassey, and Nina Simone, echoing both the fragmented essence of Honey Boy and the swirling disorientation of Har’el’s documentary Bombay Beach. This is all anchored in a meticulously crafted portrayal of 1960s Baltimore, with exceptional attention to costumes and production design.
I wasn’t always convinced that Har’el’s approach was effective, but the series is audacious in a way few shows dare to be. Lady in the Lake ambitiously connects racism, antisemitism, imagery from slavery, and references to the Holocaust, making it impressive in its scope. Yet, at times, the central story—regardless of whose story it is—seems to get lost.
Unlike the hero in Lessons in Chemistry, who effortlessly excels in a newsroom simply by speaking truth, Maddie’s journey is more complex. The series treats her dream as less convincing and more like an afterthought, rather than genuinely integrating it into the plot. This issue extends to Maddie’s relationship with Platt, which is meant to be unconvincing but lacks a committed effort to make it so.
Portman, who spent much of her youth portraying projections of femininity in roles like those in Beautiful Girls, The Professional, Garden State, and Closer—often under male directors and writers—has found her work growing more intriguing as she takes on layered characters caught in artificial constructs, such as the obsessive ballet of Black Swan, the fragile fame of Jackie, and the actorly pretense of May December.
In this series, she plays a woman who has been acting a role for decades and, upon choosing to "be herself," is unsure of what that truly means. Just as her journalistic career can’t be instantly credible, Maddie herself can’t be instantly believable. The portrayal of her 17-year-old self is not meant to be immersive but rather reflects the conflict between the person she’s trying to become and the person she once was.
Her Baltimore accent—likely to spark debates about whether Baltimore and Philadelphia accents are similar—adds to the sense of disconnection. In a show where few other actors use the accent, its jarring quality underscores Maddie's partial belonging.
Portman and Maddie are intentionally out of place, which contrasts sharply with the more naturalistic performances from the rest of the cast. This includes the delightfully flighty Madison, the intriguingly enigmatic Cross, the effortlessly charming Harris, and the deeply unsettling Dylan Arnold as a pet store employee who becomes a suspect in both murders.
Portman doesn’t fully reconcile the character's inconsistencies and prickly aspects but engages with them on the intellectual level where the show excels. While Lady in the Lake might not perfectly blend its elements of essay, tone poem, and thriller, its ambitious aims are still commendable despite the uneven execution.
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