There are figures whose departure would be a belated favor to the world. Even so, after being claimed by the reaper, many of these souls remain in suspension, as if neither hell wanted them nor heaven recognized them. What’s left for them are destinations devoid of poetry: a forgotten tower, an uninhabited house, a corner where time no longer disturbs them. Deep down, they are specters of what pain has silenced. They carry wounds that can’t be shared, shaping each one’s intimate geography. It’s not about mourning, but a very specific kind of melancholy — a moral exile that isolates as much as it redeems.
It is in this liminal space between agony and absurdity that A. B. Wynter finds himself — the butler of the White House’s private wing and the first victim in a story where the ridiculous insists on inhabiting tragedy. Killed in the opening episode of “The Residence”, Wynter is not a central character but a narrative device that sets the stage for what truly matters: a parade of vanity, disguise, and distrust in the halls of one of the most guarded residences in the world. Loosely adapted from Kate Andersen Brower’s nonfiction book, the production blends comedic and investigative tones with a lightness that occasionally verges on caricature.
The case falls to Cordelia Cupp, a detective with eccentric habits and a fascination for nocturnal birds. Her role is not just to solve a crime but to navigate the undercurrents of a system where etiquette masks resentments and fragile alliances. Her first witness is Nan Cox, the president’s mother-in-law, who responds to the corpse with the hysterical despair of someone with emotional scores to settle. Cordelia, unfazed, reads between the outbursts and detects patterns that elude standard police logic. She’s not hunting culprits, but inconsistencies — and there are many.
The White House becomes a maze of suspects and secrets: 132 rooms, 157 possible persons of interest, and a detective facing more institutional obstruction than resistance from individuals. The setting, however opulent, serves as a metaphor for power in saturation — where even a crime must pass through bureaucratic filters to be investigated. It’s in this tension between image and truth that the series tries to find its breath, though the outcome remains uneven.
Despite competent visuals and the hallmark of Shondaland — a name synonymous with captivating entertainment — the series doesn’t reach the narrative sophistication of “Inventing Anna” or the emotional intricacy of “Bridgerton”. The premise flirts with large-scale political satire but often settles for safer choices that dilute its critical sharpness. Intelligence is present in the concept, yet it dissipates under the pressure to please a wide and diverse audience.
Uzo Aduba, as detective Cordelia, brings a magnetic presence that at times single-handedly sustains the narrative. Her performance, however, feels underutilized by a script that wavers between exploring the character’s ambiguity or reducing her to a functional caricature. She lacks a worthy antagonist — or at least a deeper internal conflict beyond her whimsical demeanor.
The show oscillates between a classic whodunit and the institutional irony of a modern tragicomedy but lacks the courage to fully embrace either. The crime, which should be the spark, becomes an excuse; the humor, which could be corrosive, settles into a polished farce. The viewer is left with a string of episodes that promise more than they deliver — though they still deliver enough not to be dismissed outright.
At its core, “The Residence” is an allegory about collapsing façades, about palaces where authority hides behind protocol, and about a kind of power that prefers ridicule over confrontation. The series doesn’t fail — but it never dares to triumph. And perhaps that’s its biggest flaw: the decision to remain comfortable in a universe where mediocrity feels safer than disruption.
Series: The Residence
Creator: Paul William Davies
Year: 2025
Genres: Mystery/Comedy
Rating: 7/10