Should you find yourself looking for a place to live at the moment, then there is a high-to-100% chance of severe tedium. But imagine for a second that your agent turned up to the viewing in lurid neon block colours, shoes they need to be forklifted into, and tops that require boobs which defy the laws of gravity. Now that’s entertainment.
Good news though if you have a few mil to spare, and are looking for a place in LA, because you can employ the services of the Oppenheim Group. Good news even if you don’t, because you can soak up their intrepid fashion adventures from the comfort of your own bed. Netflix’s Selling Sunset is back.
Season six is shaping up, style wise, to be the campiest, most deliciously unhinged outing to date. Yes, even with the absence of Christine Quinn, the woman who did what we all thought was impossible and made the business of estate agenting high-fashion. Gone, but not forgotten, Quinn’s legacy lives on in every gloriously ridiculous, utterly impractical, highly expensive look.
A taster for the uninitiated of what the current season defines as workwear, then: underboob-flashing Fanta suiting (Emma), fingerless gloves (Amanza), crystals and sequins (everyone!). There are harnesses and hair jewellery and, completely unsurprisingly, two red jumpsuits in one team meeting. There is a gold croc-effect coat that is considered ‘appropriate for the beach’. There is a complete disregard for practicality, not limited to the terrifying heels; see also latex and leather in the Cali heat and a cycling-shorts-onesie that must prohibit peeing for a woman who is pregnant. The peacockery is off the scale. Indicative of the camp levels in this season is that by the time Nicole lands on screen in a white mini skirt suit and khaki cropped top, you likely find yourself thinking, ‘ahhh! So she is the conservative one’.
Anyway, back to Quinn. If there is anyone who is inheriting her fashion crown (an actual crown is yet to be spotted on screen, but it’s only a matter of time) it’s British-Nigerian export Chelsea. She is making a beeline for the instantly recognisable hype pieces, the type that set social media on fire. Note, for instance, the Diesel belt-skirt, bumpy Balenciaga shades or the humongous Versace platforms. She who dares, cements her screen time.
There is a moment, while visiting a 9,587-sq-ft pad in ‘prime Santa Monica’ that Chelsea observes ‘when things are really heavy you can tell they’re expensive’. She is talking about a door. But weight isn’t the only metric for telling how spenny something is. Clothes-wise you can mainline labels. Pieces that you can spot a mile off? A Bottega Veneta Jodie bag, Balmain monograms, a Lady Dior tote and Saddle bag, and lots and lots and lots of Chanel. No doubt Coco Chanel – who urged women to take one thing off before they leave the house – would be rolling in her grave when confronted by the Oppenheim gals’ utter, unapologetic lack of restraint. But it’s nice to think she would admire their chutzpah.
The Oppenheim realtors owe more to Carrie Bradshaw – the Love Island version – than Stath Lets Flats. Look, you can see it in Chrishell’s fit-and-flare fuchsia Alexander McQueen mini dress with a black belt or Bre’s belted bare midriff. The patron saint of fun fashion, it does make sense.
What is definitely not on the moodboard is Succession. Quiet luxury? They don’t know her. Who wants biscuit colours and cashmere and serious suiting when you could dress like a Bratz Doll on her way to Burning Man? Who wants to blend into the background when you could be the full Technicolor attraction? It’s a redefinition of power dressing, one which doesn’t shy away from frivolity and glamour and femininity. In one sense, this is modern power: it’s multi-faceted. Whether you would actually take property advice from a person who is wearing fingerless gloves, however, is a whole other conversation.