For the most part, every attempt by Netflix to knock off the “Real Housewives” franchise has failed fairly miserably through the years. However, the streamer may have finally found its footing with its latest facsimile, “Members Only: Palm Beach.”
The series, which premiered in late December, follows cast members Hilary Musser, Rosalyn Yellin, Maria Cozamanis, Ro-Mina Ustayev and Taja Abitbol as they navigate the social circles of Palm Beach, Florida, and its “unspoken rules, inherited traditions and high-stakes hierarchies.”
I disagree with the critique that the new reality series is the “Temu version of a ‘Housewives’ show,” as one user said on IMDb. It’s more like a Zara rip-off of some designer’s recently lauded collection — and I mean that as a compliment.
On “Members Only: Palm Beach,” there is clearer evidence of wealth as opposed to some of the more dubious sources of income displayed on Bravo’s hit franchise. (Some of our favorite housewives have faced felony charges and convictions because of financial issues.) Likewise, this cast genuinely lives in the area they claim to represent on TV, so when one of them declares “it smells like money” in the opening moments of the premiere, there is no need to suspend belief. Together, that makes the show live up more to the “Real Housewives” premise than some of the franchise’s shows.
That doesn’t make “Members Only: Palm Beach” as entertaining as “The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City” by any stretch. But credibly wealthy women within a social circle not solely determined by their employment makes for its own kind of compelling television.
One obstacle for select viewers, however, could be whether they can stomach the level of admiration conveyed for President Donald Trump.
The show is not overtly political by any means, yet there are a lot of references to Mar-a-Lago.
“Oh, wow. You can see Mar-a-Lago from here.”
“Have you ever been invited to Mar-a-Lago?”
“I bid against Donald for Mar-a-Lago.”
“You were loud in the bathroom at Mar-a-Lago.”
“One weekend we’re at Mar-a-Lago, the next we’re at a fetish party.”
“Gale was vaping in the living room at Mar-a-Lago in Trump’s face.”
If I played a drinking game based on the number of times Mar-a-Lago was mentioned, I likely would have died of alcohol poisoning within the hour.
Other exclusive country clubs are mentioned — the Michael Jordan-owned 1000 North and The Breakers — but the Trump-owned Mar-a-Lago is undoubtedly considered the place to be.
I don’t love hearing the constant references to Trump, but I know too much about white voters to pretend this is the only show that could be branded “The Real Housewives of MAGA.”
If anything, that makes these women more like “Real Housewives” than any previously presented duplications, considering I could easily see plenty of women from this cast mingling with other Trump-loving Bravolebrities we know of — particularly those now living in the Palm Beach area and partying at Mar-a-Lago, too.
They’re not masking their conservative leanings, but it is fascinating to watch them each take themselves so seriously and argue over social statuses and rules.
Take Ro-Mina, someone who describes herself as “The Palm Beach Kim Kardashian.” She finds herself clamoring for access to Mar-a-Lago and the likes of Trump and Elon Musk, so she subjects herself to relentless critiques from Rosalyn, her new mentor, over how she dresses, how she’s too loud, and how she essentially needs to conform for the clout she seeks.
Aside from having black hair, she doesn’t resemble Kardashian at all, but I suppose they at least share the experience of being classified as new money trying to make waves among the elite. What separates her from Kim K., though, is that Kim is willing to do whatever to achieve her goal. Ro-Mina is not, for the most part, and while I don’t know how to translate the adage “the game is the game” to her in Palm Beach terms, someone else ought to.
Then there is Gale Brophy, a friend of the show, who, like many elders, loves to tell the same stories over and over again — in her case, her claim to fame is being the original “IT” girl of Palm Beach society. Gale fancies herself as the Grand Dame of Palm Beach and has anointed Rosalyn as her successor — complete with her passing a literal baton and an eventual exchange of tiaras.
Meanwhile, Hilary, who reminds me of “Real Housewives of New York City” OG Jill Zarin, along with Taja, finds Gale to be a name-dropping fool and a phony who got kicked out of Mar-a-Lago for being broke.
What’s also illuminating is what’s largely unspoken: the faces of the cast members resemble what’s now been deemed “the Mar-a-Lago face.”
Beneath all the boasts of luxury and access on this series is an obsession with relevance and acceptance, just like on any iteration of “Real Housewives.”
The “Real Housewives” franchise has long highlighted that money can’t buy you class or a clue, but “Members Only: Palm Beach” adds another layer: It can’t buy you freedom from the same desperation for acceptance that drives everyone else.
If there ever could be a “Real Housewives of Palm Beach,” it would look and sound a lot like this. The show succeeds because it successfully captures the hypocrisies and hijinks of this sort of clout-chasing.
Whether you can stomach watching it is another question entirely.
“Members Only: Palm Beach” is streaming on Netflix.
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