Reality Royalty Clash: Inside Peacock’s Wildest 'Traitors' Cast Yet

Olivia Bennett, 12/17/2025 Peacock’s “The Traitors” returns, tartan-clad and twice as treacherous, with reality royalty, fabulous feuds, and Alan Cumming’s dapper delights. Trust no one—except your thirst for drama—as deception, paranoia, and couture mayhem reign in this must-watch, murder-mystery masquerade. Darling, betrayal has never looked so chic.

This is not an ordinary roundtable of would-be influencers and game show also-rans. No, casting here is closer to reality TV’s answer to a high-fashion mutiny. Housewives from all five points of the Bravo compass—Beverly Hills, Potomac, Dubai, Atlanta, New York—spar and sashay among comedians, athletes, and, of course, the ever-present phalanx of Bachelor alums. Picture Colton Underwood, chin lowered, eyes glinting. Or Lisa Rinna, sizing up her rivals like the entire competitive landscape is just a particularly dicey shopping aisle at Neiman Marcus. Donna Kelce, NFL mom-royalty, sheds her maternal reputation instantaneously, demanding “Show me the money!” with a gusto that could make a Wall Street shark second-guess a deal.

It’s all presided over by the chameleonic Alan Cumming, forever oscillating between Shakespearean thespian and reality TV Rasputin. The Scottish castle itself—part Hogwarts, part haunted chic—becomes as much a character as any cast member, all shadowy corners and oppressive grandeur, perfectly matched to television’s latest parade of emotional bloodsport.

Ask reality devotees what makes “The Traitors” different and you’re likely to get three answers, none of them consistent. Some cite the original Dutch blueprint, “De Varraders”—a whisper in TV history, now reborn for 2025 sensibilities. Others will say it’s the unashamed cocktail of narcissism and cutthroat paranoia, delivered with a saucy smirk. The format? Exquisitely savage. The innocent “Faithful” must ferret out the sly Traitors hidden among them while avoiding a fictional, though enthusiastically enacted, demise. Banished or “murdered,” the fallen wander the halls—or perhaps plot their comeback on social media from an undisclosed hotel near the loch.

There are always rules, though they matter less than the one unspoken commandment: Trust no one. (One can almost picture Machiavelli bingeing the series, popcorn in hand, muttering, “Now that’s how it’s done.”) And the stakes—a shared $250,000 cash prize, or, if a Traitor or three manages to outwit the mob, an elegant heist—keep everyone on edge and audiences feasting on the spectacle. Paranoia’s an accessory that never goes out of style.

The latest trailer is a riot of close-ups—scheming and champagne-fueled confessionals. Rob Rausch, last seen on “Love Island USA,” swears off scruples with unconcealed glee: “I’m going to lie and cheat and do whatever I have to do to win.” No surprises there; this is a franchise that doesn’t so much attract villainy as require it at the door. Meanwhile, Michael Rapaport, whose vocal cords could probably power a jet turbine, bellows, “We are here to capture dirty, deceptive, deceptive Traitors,” pounding “deceptive” with the force of a thousand would-be Bond villains. Even among all this, the Housewives refuse to be outshone. “Lisa would run her grandmother down—,” one contestant muses, pausing just long enough to let the audacity linger. You’ll search long and hard to top that line in the annals of reality TV.

With so much personality in one manor house, the game slips inevitably into existential parody. Porsha Williams wryly notes their tribe’s fate: “hauling out the Housewives.” It’s reality TV cannibalizing itself, tongue firmly in cheek, with viewers eager to watch the whole glittery ouroboros devour another season.

Of course, the ensemble’s not wanting for fresh blood. Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski, Olympic darlings, bring icy precision and quietly lethal instincts. Ron Funches tosses in much-needed comic levity; Yamil “Yam Yam” Arocho of “Survivor” lore is the wildcard any contestant would dread facing in a vote. Mark Ballas samba steps his way over from “Dancing with the Stars,” and Maura Higgins injects trans-Atlantic snark courtesy of “Love Island.” Whoever’s running casting at Peacock must have a spreadsheet worthy of NASA.

Lest anyone forget, “The Traitors” isn’t merely dinner-party bickering with fancier lighting. The actual premise—Traitors “murdering” Faithful under cloak of night, while suspicion metastasizes—lines up less with “Survivor” than a fever-dream Agatha Christie mystery, albeit slicker and with more Instagram Sponsored Content deals on the side. One is left to wonder: when did TV become so comfortable blurring the lines between homicide and high camp? Perhaps somewhere between the third Real Housewives spinoff and the “Big Brother” renaissance.

This year, Peacock teases a triple-episode premiere, January 8 at 6 p.m. Pacific. Three hours of intrigue, by way of jet lag. Weekly episodes drip out every Thursday after that—a strategic, slow-release drama infusion—before the inevitable clash of egos (and possibly sequins) during the February 26 finale reunion. Some traditions, at least, never go out of style; the binge and the wait-alternating agony and ecstasy—have become part of the genre’s appeal.

Before the first fake murder has even been plotted, “The Traitors” Season 4 emerges as a studiously choreographed collision of chaos and camp, with enough star power to light up a castle—or at the very least, your group chat. The only real question: Who will out-deceive, outlast, and walk away with the loot? In the world of reality television, trust is always in short supply, but the glamor and gamesmanship never run dry.

The tartan-bedecked corridors of the Scottish Highlands—impossibly grand and faintly drafty—have come alive once more, though this time, it’s not the wail of bagpipes setting the tempo. It’s the delighted cacophony of America’s sharpest reality show schemers, echoing through Peacock’s dazzling trailer for Season 4 of “The Traitors.” For those who’ve somehow dodged the Emmy hype, consider this: a reality show where trust is a luxury and the only true certainty is that someone’s plotting your social demise within arm’s reach. Alan Cumming, ever the host with a wardrobe to rival even the boldest Met Gala darling, presides over the melodrama with an eyebrow arched just so—equal parts camp and gravitas.This is not an ordinary roundtable of would-be influencers and game show also-rans. No, casting here is closer to reality TV’s answer to a high-fashion mutiny. Housewives from all five points of the Bravo compass—Beverly Hills, Potomac, Dubai, Atlanta, New York—spar and sashay among comedians, athletes, and, of course, the ever-present phalanx of Bachelor alums. Picture Colton Underwood, chin lowered, eyes glinting. Or Lisa Rinna, sizing up her rivals like the entire competitive landscape is just a particularly dicey shopping aisle at Neiman Marcus. Donna Kelce, NFL mom-royalty, sheds her maternal reputation instantaneously, demanding “Show me the money!” with a gusto that could make a Wall Street shark second-guess a deal.It’s all presided over by the chameleonic Alan Cumming, forever oscillating between Shakespearean thespian and reality TV Rasputin. The Scottish castle itself—part Hogwarts, part haunted chic—becomes as much a character as any cast member, all shadowy corners and oppressive grandeur, perfectly matched to television’s latest parade of emotional bloodsport.Ask reality devotees what makes “The Traitors” different and you’re likely to get three answers, none of them consistent. Some cite the original Dutch blueprint, “De Varraders”—a whisper in TV history, now reborn for 2025 sensibilities. Others will say it’s the unashamed cocktail of narcissism and cutthroat paranoia, delivered with a saucy smirk. The format? Exquisitely savage. The innocent “Faithful” must ferret out the sly Traitors hidden among them while avoiding a fictional, though enthusiastically enacted, demise. Banished or “murdered,” the fallen wander the halls—or perhaps plot their comeback on social media from an undisclosed hotel near the loch.There are always rules, though they matter less than the one unspoken commandment: Trust no one. (One can almost picture Machiavelli bingeing the series, popcorn in hand, muttering, “Now that’s how it’s done.”) And the stakes—a shared $250,000 cash prize, or, if a Traitor or three manages to outwit the mob, an elegant heist—keep everyone on edge and audiences feasting on the spectacle. Paranoia’s an accessory that never goes out of style.The latest trailer is a riot of close-ups—scheming and champagne-fueled confessionals. Rob Rausch, last seen on “Love Island USA,” swears off scruples with unconcealed glee: “I’m going to lie and cheat and do whatever I have to do to win.” No surprises there; this is a franchise that doesn’t so much attract villainy as require it at the door. Meanwhile, Michael Rapaport, whose vocal cords could probably power a jet turbine, bellows, “We are here to capture dirty, deceptive, deceptive Traitors,” pounding “deceptive” with the force of a thousand would-be Bond villains. Even among all this, the Housewives refuse to be outshone. “Lisa would run her grandmother down—,” one contestant muses, pausing just long enough to let the audacity linger. You’ll search long and hard to top that line in the annals of reality TV.With so much personality in one manor house, the game slips inevitably into existential parody. Porsha Williams wryly notes their tribe’s fate: “hauling out the Housewives.” It’s reality TV cannibalizing itself, tongue firmly in cheek, with viewers eager to watch the whole glittery ouroboros devour another season.Of course, the ensemble’s not wanting for fresh blood. Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski, Olympic darlings, bring icy precision and quietly lethal instincts. Ron Funches tosses in much-needed comic levity; Yamil “Yam Yam” Arocho of “Survivor” lore is the wildcard any contestant would dread facing in a vote. Mark Ballas samba steps his way over from “Dancing with the Stars,” and Maura Higgins injects trans-Atlantic snark courtesy of “Love Island.” Whoever’s running casting at Peacock must have a spreadsheet worthy of NASA.Lest anyone forget, “The Traitors” isn’t merely dinner-party bickering with fancier lighting. The actual premise—Traitors “murdering” Faithful under cloak of night, while suspicion metastasizes—lines up less with “Survivor” than a fever-dream Agatha Christie mystery, albeit slicker and with more Instagram Sponsored Content deals on the side. One is left to wonder: when did TV become so comfortable blurring the lines between homicide and high camp? Perhaps somewhere between the third Real Housewives spinoff and the “Big Brother” renaissance.This year, Peacock teases a triple-episode premiere, January 8 at 6 p.m. Pacific. Three hours of intrigue, by way of jet lag. Weekly episodes drip out every Thursday after that—a strategic, slow-release drama infusion—before the inevitable clash of egos (and possibly sequins) during the February 26 finale reunion. Some traditions, at least, never go out of style; the binge and the wait-alternating agony and ecstasy—have become part of the genre’s appeal.Before the first fake murder has even been plotted, “The Traitors” Season 4 emerges as a studiously choreographed collision of chaos and camp, with enough star power to light up a castle—or at the very least, your group chat. The only real question: Who will out-deceive, outlast, and walk away with the loot? In the world of reality television, trust is always in short supply, but the glamor and gamesmanship never run dry.