With Love, Meghan: A Lifestyle Show Lost in Translation

For a while in Britain, it seemed impossible to walk into any shop without being greeted by headlines about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. After their move to America, there was the release of a documentary series chronicling their departure from the royal family, followed by Harry's book Spare, where he opened up about his and Meghan's struggles within the royal circle. Of course, no story about the couple was complete without Meghan's infamous Oprah interview, where the question “Were you silent, or were you silenced?” became a cultural moment. Then came the passing of Her Majesty, the drama surrounding Kate Middleton’s health, and soon enough, we all moved on. Out of sight, out of mind.

In the time that followed, the couple has worked tirelessly to build their media empire. Meghan signed a £20 million podcast deal with Spotify, which resulted in Archetypes, and they secured a five-year, reportedly $100 million deal with Netflix—though, so far, the results have been underwhelming. The streaming platform has hosted a forgettable documentary about Prince Harry’s passion for polo (a sport beloved by royals and a select group of the elite), as well as a doc about the Invictus Games that failed to make any significant impact. And now, there’s With Love, Meghan.

Despite her repeated claims of wanting to distance herself from the public eye, Meghan isn’t doing a very good job of it. The show, which was clearly meant to launch a lifestyle brand, is a snooze-fest. Each half-hour episode feels like an eternity, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching an extended ad. The set—Meghan’s "home"—is a generic rental house down the street from her real one, draining all sense of authenticity. She makes a one-pot pasta in one episode, telling us it’s "delicious." In another, she crafts a candle, telling us it "smells great." She arranges some crudités and talks about Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery, as though it’s some profound, groundbreaking revelation. Add some sunshine and a few vegetables in the garden, and that’s pretty much the show.

While Meghan is undoubtedly a natural in front of the camera—cheerful, relaxed, and at ease—her guests feel more like paid actors than actual friends. There’s a constant parade of mason jars and overly staged moments that don’t quite land. The show has been met with poor reviews, not just from the usual critics at The Mail—who have long had it out for the couple—but across the board. The Telegraph aptly noted, “Maintaining this hostess-with-the-moistest act must be as exhausting for Meghan as it is for us watching at home,” while The Spectator called it "surreally dull."

The Guardian ran three scathing articles, labeling it a “ghastly artefact of a particular cultural era that recently met its apocalypse” and a “gormless lifestyle filler” that’s “so awful it is almost compelling,” oozing with “tangible desperation.”

A critical flaw of the show is how intensely Californian it feels. The stereotype of sunny, upbeat, overly-grateful Californian living is on full display here—attitudes that can be alien to many Brits, especially those from the more reserved and repressed upper classes, like the royals. While Britain does have its own lifestyle shows—hosted by figures like Stacey Solomon, Kirstie Allsopp, and Nigella Lawson (an actual chef)—they don’t carry the same overtly Californian tone. You won’t find anyone in their kitchens saying, “You are the nicest person I know—I cherish and respect you so much.”

Look, I don’t dislike Meghan—far from it. But watching this program, it became abundantly clear to me just how wide the cultural divide is between her and me. I wish her all the best in her Montecito life, but I’m not sure I’ll be tuning in for any more of her latest ventures.