Do Harry and Meghan really “want to destroy the House of Windsor,” as The Spectator grumbles? Or has the ex-soldier “finally detonated his bond with Wills after slandering the monarchy in spectacular technicolor,” as Britain’s Sun thundered?

Netflix’s “Harry & Meghan” is certainly not going over like tea and scones in Britain: “so sickening I almost brought up my breakfast,” as one reviewer for the Guardian newspaper put it. 

For amusing if caustic takes on the lives and small travails of the Sussexes, one can always count on Britain’s Piers Morgan, who charts with reliable verve some of the contradictions of the pair that “abandoned their royal duties” for “the camouflage of California.”  

More compelling than a methodically scripted show about what Mr. Morgan christened “the dreariest couple in the history of planet earth” is the media fixation with the Duchess of Sussex, Meghan Markle, in particular. Networks aired many snippets from “Harry & Meghan” but one in particular seemed to grate on just about everyone who saw it: Ms. Markle theatrically reenacting — or purposefully reimagining — the curtsey that she was expected by dint of protocol to perform before Her Majesty, the late Queen Elizabeth II. Her husband, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex, looks on uncomfortably as his Californian wife gracelessly scorches centuries of English royal tradition. 

Is “Californian” relevant? I think so: Ms. Markle is a native of Southern California. She comes from Canoga Park, a nondescript neighborhood in the middle of what locals still call “the Valley,” as in San Fernando Valley. A vast, industrious but also mainly charmless sprawl that inspired indelible pop songs like “Valley Girl” but also countless thought of exodus: many are the young ambitious types who wish to make their way to the bright lights emanating from the tops of the hills on the southern fringe: that is, Hollywood. Ms. Markle is by all accounts one such type. 

Not me, but like her I have found that no matter how far one travels in life it is seldom possible to escape one’s roots. They will always catch up with you, and when they do you can adjust your particular view of the world into whatever corner of it you happen to find yourself in and with any luck, build a cultural bridge or two. Or you can light a match, so to speak, and watch those bridges burn. 

From some of those Netflix aperçus it appears that Ms. Markle has not only chosen the second option, but seems to relish making a spectacle of it for anyone who cares to stream it. The British press is decreasingly willing to conceal its collective antipathy toward Ms. Markle, who strikes this observer as a kind of a wily Santa Monica mountain lion which finally found its real quarry: no, not a prince — an audience.

The bond between America and Britain is sturdy enough to withstand any damage to the institution of the British monarchy caused by the slick showmanship and bottomless narcissism of the Sussexes. Note the plural, because the British have been none too kind to either. In the wake of the Netflix series, the Telegraph declared that “what is clear is that a cheeky, fun-loving boy has grown into an introspective, embittered man – estranged from his family – who now clings to his feisty, beautiful wife like a life raft.”

It is Ms. Markle who most vocally turned her distaste for the public royal life into which she knowingly married to her private commercial advantage.  She could have brought any number of fine American attributes to a public life in London and because of, or despite, her newfound position enriched an untold number of worthy causes. She chose instead to decamp to Montecito, and to make that Pacific hamlet of fewer than 9,000 inhabitants into the center of a self-styled Southern California kingdom. 

That is not likely to work out as the duchess may have envisioned. Montecito, unlike Beverly Hills, does not celebrate ostentation. A sort of Malibu of the north, it is not quite obscure but neither is it seduced by celebrity culture. It is a lovely, moneyed refuge but it is not refuge Ms. Markle seeks — it is the spotlight, but as far as most locals are concerned, she can keep it. Do the self-absorbed Sussexes sense the cold shoulder? Recently it was reported the couple was house-hunting in Hope Ranch, a famously secluded and gated community at neighboring Santa Barbara. Fine, but moving gets to be tiring, especially when you’re in your forties with two kids in tow.

As it happens Santa Barbara is this Californian’s home town, and I would concede that to transition from humble Canoga Park to one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the world, with a prince in tow no less, is a feat. 

While it is a place rich with history,  however, it is not a very dynamic one. You have to drive about 300 miles north along Highway 101 to get a taste of the brainy energy that makes California a high-tech superpower. At Montecito, sunshine and mountain and ocean views reign supreme.  

What is most disappointing about Meghan Markle is that she did not turn out to be very dynamic either, only rather spectacularly self-serving. No doubt after the Netflix frenzy fades other cameras will find her as she flits from the Pacific Coast to Manhattan to wherever — though probably not London — and back. But Hollywood’s attention span is notoriously brief. Any child of Southern California ought to remember that before starting a fire for publicity’s sake.