“Little Fires Everywhere” struggles to say anything new about race and white privilege

The Hulu miniseries remains mostly faithful toward its acclaimed source material, but stumbles in expanding its themes on class warfare to include white privilege and racial tensions.

When the TV adaptation of Celeste Ng’s best-selling novel “Little Fires Everywhere” was announced back in 2018, I was admittedly a little skeptical. I enjoyed Ng’s book quite a lot and wasn’t sure if turning her work into a miniseries would elevate or dampen what was a thoughtful, compelling exploration of class, gender, racial discrimination, and familial dysfunction. Now four episodes in, my initial hesitance has mostly subsided—it’s a slight yet solid visual retelling with sturdy production value and measured performances from a well-cast ensemble. There is, however, one major change from the book on the show that gives me pause, not necessarily because of why it’s there, but more so in how it’s conveyed.

The story is still set in the Ohio suburb of Shaker Heights in the late ‘90s, centered around two women—the wealthy, detail-oriented Elena Richardson (Reese Witherspoon) and the enigmatic, working-class artist Mia Warren (Kerry Washington)—and the culture clash between their families. But the biggest deviation from the source material is a more multifaceted portrayal of race relations: In contrast to Ng’s novel, where their race is unspecified, Mia and her daughter Pearl (Lexi Underwood) are Black in the miniseries. 

In the context of the novel’s themes, this alteration makes sense. Ng’s story incorporated such sharp and timely social critique on class divisions that it could have also spoken to the historical and contemporary racial disparities between marginalized communities and privileged enclaves in America, something Ng experienced herself while growing up in Ohio. Although class warfare played an important part in creating nuance within the narrative spine of the book, the show’s fixation on addressing Mia’s race and Elena’s white privilege—and making repeated references to it, whether explicit or not—often overshadows the source material’s more intriguing themes on motherhood, assimilation, morality, and identity. 

In recent years, pop culture has attempted to unpack the many layers of white privilege and systemic racism, sometimes with success (e.g. Jordan Peele’s trenchant social thriller “Get Out,” HBO’s terrific superhero saga “Watchmen”) and other times with mixed results (e.g. the trite Best Picture-winning buddy comedy “Green Book,” Macklemore’s song “White Privilege II”). So why feel the need to apply this discourse onto the canvas of “Little Fires Everywhere,” especially when the show doesn’t seem to say anything new or interesting about it?  

This is not to say, of course, that highlighting white privilege and racial tensions isn’t still important, considering that American cities remain very segregated despite an exponential growth in racial and ethnic diversity. The problem in “Little Fires Everywhere” is that those issues are displayed in the most predictable, surface-level way possible. 

The white characters are represented as vessels for spouting ignorant microaggressions disguised as virtue signaling: In the first episode, Elena remarks to her family how it’s more appropriate to say “African-American” as opposed to “Black”; her daughter Lexie (Jade Pettyjohn) tells Pearl that she has a good chance of getting into a university because of “affirmative action”; Lexie also claims that her relationship with her Black boyfriend Brian (SteVonté Hart) has nothing to do with his race.  

Counter to this, the Black characters are much more three-dimensional but occasionally act as emotional soundboards for the passive racism they have to deal with: Mia scowls with disdain when Elena asks her to be her “house manager” (a clear code for “maid”); Pearl languishes when her school counselor mistakes her for growing up in Cleveland and advises her to take geometry instead of algebra, a course she’s already taken; Brian becomes visibly uncomfortable when Elena suggests he and Pearl must have a lot in common because of their race. 

There is certainly truth to this kind of reality, where upper-class white people mistake niceness for progressivism and minorities are essentially silenced to avoid any pushback. But here, that reality often feels more calculated than authentic, more obvious than subtle. By prioritizing political correctness over character development, “Little Fires Everywhere” obscures its uniquely potent and elaborately told story in favor of making a #Statement that’s already been made, and doing so ineffectively through ham-fisted dialogue and emotionally manipulative pandering. 

The lead performances exemplify this struggle too. Despite all her efforts, Washington overacts in her role as Mia, telegraphing her rage through passive-aggressive scoffing and snarling line deliveries that barely contain her resentment. Ironically, Elena, who’s positioned as the antagonist, comes off as more likable, whether that’s due to her character being written with more complexity or because Witherspoon performs with the same level of charisma as the similar role she occupied in HBO’s “Big Little Lies.” As an audience, we are supposed to identify with Mia’s anger because of the very uneven racial dynamic between her and Elena, but instead, the performative, almost self-righteous nature of Washington’s acting somehow makes Mia more difficult to empathize with. 

In addition to amplifying issues of race, “Little Fires Everywhere” makes an odd decision in revising another element from the book for the sake of addressing a character’s minority status. Elena’s youngest daughter, the rebellious Izzy (Megan Stott), is implied to be a lesbian, which the book does not seem to indicate or even consider. Again, this change feels like an unnecessary overcorrection rather than an inspired creative choice. How does the suggestion of Izzy’s queerness add any value to the story being told? Is it to help amp up the emotional stakes? To allow for more queer representation on-screen? It isn’t clear what the reason is, but similar to changing Mia’s race, making light of Izzy’s sexual orientation reads as a well-intentioned but misguided endeavor in engaging with an ongoing cultural conversation.

Adaptations have the opportunity to trim the fat and convey the relevant elements of its source material through a visual medium, but recontextualization often comes at the expense of maintaining the sacredness of an author’s original work. “Little Fires Everywhere” falls uneasily somewhere in the middle. At its best, the miniseries is a taut, well-paced drama about fractured families, the socioeconomic limits of the American dream, and the weight of keeping secrets. At its worst, it feels clumsy and dated when dramatizing racial tensions into a soapy spectacle. Even though Ng serves as a producer, the show is very clearly missing her eloquent prose and succinct observations.  

There are still four more episodes left, much of which will focus on the book’s most important subplot, which very explicitly deals with race: Mia attempts to reunite her Chinese immigrant co-worker Bebe (Huang Lu) with her child May Ling, only to discover that May Ling has been renamed and adopted by Elena’s friends, igniting a chaotic custody battle and furthering the rift between Elena and Mia. Even with this thrilling setup, “Little Fires Everywhere” needs to make the case in justifying the changes it’s made and how those changes make it different from other works in order to really nail those final few pieces of the story.