In the glittering glow of holiday screens, Netflix has unleashed a volcanic bombshell that’s scorching its way through viewing habits worldwide: “La Palma,” a Norwegian miniseries that transforms a sun-soaked Christmas getaway into a hellish gauntlet of earthquakes, lava flows, and a tsunami of biblical proportions. Premiering on December 12, 2024, this four-episode disaster thriller has rocketed to the top of Netflix’s global charts, amassing over 61 million views in its first five weeks and securing a spot in the platform’s Top 10 Most Popular Non-English Shows. Yet, beneath the spectacle of erupting mountains and crashing waves lies a powder keg of controversy. Viewers are divided—some hail it as a pulse-pounding triumph, others decry it as a “cringe-worthy” catastrophe that leaves them screaming at their screens, sobbing uncontrollably, and vowing to cancel their Canary Islands vacations indefinitely. As one exasperated fan tweeted, “Watched La Palma and pure sh*t—what do you mean she survived a tsunami inside an airplane?!” Welcome to the eruption that’s got everyone talking, raging, and rethinking their travel plans.

At its molten core, “La Palma” is a fictional fever dream inspired by the very real Cumbre Vieja volcano on Spain’s westernmost Canary Island. The series draws chilling parallels to the 2021 eruption that blanketed La Palma in ash for three months, displacing thousands and ravaging banana plantations and homes. But the show’s creators—Martin Sundland (of “The Quake” fame), Lars Gudmestad (“Headhunters”), and Harald Rosenløw Eeg (“The Wave”)—dial up the dread to apocalyptic levels. They weave in the long-debated “mega-tsunami” hypothesis, first proposed in a 2001 scientific paper, positing that a massive flank collapse of Cumbre Vieja could hurl a chunk the size of Manhattan into the Atlantic, unleashing an 80-foot wall of water that could swamp the U.S. East Coast. Though experts have since poked holes in the theory’s immediacy, “La Palma” resurrects it with cinematic fury, blending hard science with heart-wrenching human drama. Directed by Kasper Barfoed (“The Nurse”), the miniseries clocks in at just under three and a half hours, making it a bingeable beast that’s perfect for dodging holiday small talk—or fueling family feuds over plot twists.

The story ignites on a balmy Christmas Eve as the Halling family touches down on La Palma for their annual escape from Norway’s icy grip. Fredrik (Anders Baasmo Christiansen), a mild-mannered schoolteacher, and his wife Jennifer (Ingrid Bolsø Berdal), a high-strung professional, are shepherding their two teens: the rebellious 17-year-old Sara (Alma Günther), who’s secretly navigating her first romance with girlfriend Charlie (Jenny Evensen), and the wide-eyed 12-year-old Tobias (Bernard Storm Lager), whose innocent wonder clashes with the growing chaos. Their idyllic hotel, nestled amid black-sand beaches and lush palm groves, promises respite from marital strains and adolescent angst. But paradise cracks open like an eggshell when young geologist Marie (Thea Sofie Loch Næss) and her Icelandic colleague Haukur (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) detect seismic anomalies at Cumbre Vieja. What starts as subtle tremors escalates into a symphony of destruction: ground fissures spewing sulfurous gas, roads buckling like paper, and rivers of lava devouring villages in a hellish glow.

Parallel to the family’s fraying nerves, Marie and Haukur battle bureaucratic inertia to sound the alarm. Their boss, the skeptical Álvaro (Jorge de Juan), embodies the denial that amplifies real-world disasters, dismissing warnings as overblown until the earth literally moves beneath him. As evacuations falter amid panicked tourists—millions of Scandinavians flock to the Canaries yearly, a detail the series hammers home with grim irony—the Hallings become unwitting pawns in a race against nature. Fredrik’s quest for a stolen shuttle spirals into a desperate dash for a ferry to neighboring Tenerife; Jennifer clings to Tobias amid ash-choked skies; Sara and Charlie’s tender moments shatter under the roar of explosions. Interwoven are subplots of other Norwegians: Jens (Thorbjørn Harr), Jennifer’s diplomat brother coordinating from Oslo, and a cadre of officials grappling with the geopolitical fallout of a wave that could inundate Europe and beyond.

Without spoiling the seismic finale, the climax unleashes a torrent of controversy. As the volcano’s flank shears off in a cataclysmic roar, the ensuing tsunami barrels toward the islands like a liquid apocalypse. Survival hangs by threads of improbable luck and heart-rending sacrifice, with characters making choices that blur heroism and hubris. The series culminates in a fade-to-black laced with bittersweet nods to resilience, flashing back to serene dives with sea turtles amid the rubble. It’s a narrative sleight-of-hand that leaves some viewers gutted, others gobsmacked— and a vocal contingent howling in disbelief.

The cast elevates what could have been rote disaster porn into a tapestry of raw emotion. Baasmo Christiansen, a Norwegian theater stalwart, imbues Fredrik with quiet desperation, his everyman panic mirroring our own “what would I do?” reflexes. Berdal, known for her fierce turns in “Herself” and “The Last Kingdom,” channels Jennifer’s unraveling with ferocity, her screams echoing the primal terror of loss. Günther’s Sara is a revelation—a coming-of-age arc amid Armageddon that feels achingly authentic, her stolen kisses with Evensen’s Charlie a defiant spark against the gloom. Loch Næss brings intellectual fire to Marie, her wide-eyed determination clashing with Ólafsson’s brooding intensity as Haukur, the pair forming a scientific Odd Couple whose banter humanizes the jargon. Supporting turns shine too: Harr’s Jens as the voice of futile reason, de Juan’s Álvaro as a tragic gatekeeper, and bit players like Iselin Shumba and Amund Harboe adding layers of ensemble panic. Filmed on location in the Canary Islands with a hefty budget—the largest for a Nordic TV series—the production boasts VFX that make Hollywood quake, from molten rivers snaking through frame to waves that crash with thunderous realism.

Thematically, “La Palma” erupts beyond spectacle, probing the fragility of modern life against nature’s indifference. It’s a cautionary tale of ignored warnings, echoing climate denial and the hubris of tourism in volatile zones. The Hallings’ domestic fractures—strained marriages, queer awakenings, parental blind spots—serve as microcosms for societal rifts, all tested by apocalypse. Barfoed’s direction, with its handheld urgency and desaturated palettes, turns La Palma’s postcard beauty into a claustrophobic trap, where azure seas mock the fleeing masses. The score, a brooding pulse of strings and percussion, builds dread without bombast, letting character beats breathe amid the booms.

But oh, the backlash. Since its drop, “La Palma” has ignited a firestorm on social media, with Rotten Tomatoes audience scores dipping to a scalding 30% amid a flurry of one-star rants. “Yelling at the TV” has become the rallying cry: fans howl at characters’ boneheaded moves, like lingering in danger zones or botched evacuations that scream “plot convenience.” The finale’s survivals—particularly Sara and Charlie’s airborne miracle—have drawn the fiercest ire, branded “unrealistic” and “rage bait” by skeptics who argue it cheapens the stakes. One Reddit user fumed, “It’s like an immortal Norwegian family cosplaying mortality with a death wish.” Others weep over emotional gut-punches, with posts confessing tear-streaked binges: “I’m over here bawling my eyes out… 10/10.” Travel phobia is rampant; tweets abound with vows like, “La Palma has destroyed the tourist industry—I’ll never go there now,” despite the island’s real-world allure drawing 1.5 million visitors yearly.

Critics, mercifully, offer a cooler take. With a 75% on Rotten Tomatoes from limited reviews, outlets praise its taut pacing and visual splendor. The Hindu called it “taut, touching, thrilling,” lauding the “engaging cast and picture-perfect locations.” Heaven of Horror deemed it “masterfully woven,” blending survival with sacrifice. Even detractors concede the binge factor: “Fairly typical disaster fare, but worth a watch for its brevity,” notes one RT critic. Comparisons to Norwegian forebears like “The Wave” (a 2015 fjord-tsunami blockbuster) abound, with “La Palma” expanding the formula to international shores while retaining Nordic restraint—no gratuitous gore, just grounded peril.

Production whispers add intrigue. Co-produced by Maipo Film and Netflix, the series shot amid actual Canary breezes, blending practical effects with CGI wizardry that rivals “2012” but with Scandinavian subtlety. Barfoed, drawing from his true-crime roots, infuses moral quandaries: Who evacuates first? How do you choose between family and duty? The result is a show that’s as much about human bonds fracturing under pressure as the earth itself.

For all its faults, “La Palma” has undeniably struck a nerve, proving disaster porn’s enduring allure—even when it leaves you scorched. In a streaming sea of cozy comedies, it’s a fiery outlier that forces confrontation with our vulnerability, one rumble at a time. Whether you’re screaming in frustration or shielding your eyes in terror, one thing’s certain: this eruption won’t fade quietly. Fire up Netflix, brace for impact, and maybe skip that Canaries booking. After all, some holidays are best left fictional.