It’s no secret that Netflix is in its flop era, both financially and creatively. This past year alone saw a huge drop in subscriptions (nearly 1 million) and subsequent layoffs—presumably because their content library has been subpar since the ending of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. This is most evidenced by the platform’s reliance on consistently unwelcome but inevitably streamed Ryan Murphy projects and a forthcoming Squid Game competition show that no one asked for. I’d also point to the streamer giving Tyler Perry a gazillion dollars to produce whatever mess he wants.
Nevertheless, the evil overlords at Netflix can’t help but to double-down on their current lack of taste. Their latest bad move: canceling one of the greatest reality shows to come out of the COVID-19 pandemic, Selling Tampa.
I’ve mulled over this devastating news since Netflix announced it on Veteran’s Day, practically ruining my day off. The best rationale I could come up with for this extremely misguided decision is that the gorgeous realtors of Tampa’s Allure Reality are simply too powerful for the Selling… franchise to handle at the moment. Their laugh-out-loud humor and penchant for juicy drama likely threatened to overshadow the flagship series, Selling Sunset, and its currently sleep-inducing cast. I’m also eager to blame the number of white people that I witnessed tweeting about Selling Sunset and its newest spin-off, Selling the OC, but couldn’t bother to watch a group of Black women try to sell million-dollar houses under the same washed-out filter.
When Selling Tampa premiered last December, the show hardly felt like a spin-off. Despite the show having creator Adam DiVello’s signature tone and aesthetic, the women of Allure felt like they were operating in a different league from the Oppenheim ladies. They had a different set of stakes and more relatable workplace drama to deal with.
For one thing, none of the women—as far as viewers could tell—were particularly good at their jobs. In fact, their lack of professionalism and ability to actually sell property spurred entire conspiracies on social media that Allure Realty, which began in 2019, was solely founded so Netflix could eventually make it the setting of a show. One subreddit sleuth pointed out that the Allure’s Head-Bitch-in-Charge, Sharelle Rosado, did not have experience selling the multi-million-dollar luxury homes that were presented on the show; instead, she’d only sold properties in the six-figure range. That Rosado poorly managed her staff did not do her any favors regarding this accusation.
But it was the cast’s glaring naivety (minus Rena Frazier, whose prior experience stood out like a sore thumb) that made the show an absolute hoot and gave us characters to root for, unlike Selling Sunset. Who cares if the private jet-owning CEO of an empanada company makes an extra million dollars on a house? On the other hand, I desperately wanted doe-eyed realtor Alexis Williams—who practically invented “quiet quitting”— to memorize just one spec at a showing. I was rooting for the stunning, quick-witted Colony Reeves to get promoted to Rosado’s second-in-command. I couldn’t wait for Frazier to escape the dysfunction of Allure and start her own competing brokerage. I wanted literally anyone on the show to close on a house.
The women of Selling Tampa were also genuinely funny. As much as I enjoy watching some of the dumbest scenarios play out on Selling Sunset and Selling the OC, I have to watch those shows through an ironic, meme-y lens, as the majority of cast members lack compelling, reality-TV personalities. The women of Tampa, on the other hand, could deliver the same belly laughs as the casts of Real Housewives of Atlanta or Potomac—not to mention the shade. One causal read from Marlo Hampton-lookalike Tennille Moore would leave Selling Sunset’s main villainess Christine Quinn in a bucket of tears, fleeing in her Ferrari.
It’s not lost on me that the one Selling series featuring Black women was the funniest. Given the racial makeup of the cast, it also doesn’t seem like a coincidence that it was canceled. “I feel like we weren’t given a second chance, possibly because of what we represented as minority women,” cast member Juawana Colbert told Page Six, in an interview following the cancellation. “When they show us [Black women] in a different light—when we’re bickering, fighting and name-calling—they get a Season 2 and Season 3, but that’s not what we were displaying.”
While the latter comment makes me wonder which show Colbert was watching—there’s tons of bickering, fighting and name-calling, thank God!—the sentiment that Black women simply aren’t afforded a second chance, even when they perform well, holds true. In the Page Six story, an insider pointed out that Selling Tampa ranked no. 1 on Netflix in multiple countries, including the U.S. within 24 hours of its premiere, making its cancellation truly perplexing.
The ladies of Selling Tampa will live in my memory and my Netflix downloads forever, unless the streamers start pulling some HBO Max shit. I’ll miss seeing these beautiful business women march into Allure’s office wearing the tightest clothing and refusing to hide their giant tattoos. I’ll miss watching Williams make excuses for bringing zero dollars into the brokerage week after week. And I’ll certainly miss Rosado’s triggering-but-amusing management of the team. I guess now I’ll have to watch Kyle Richards’ boring family sell real estate on Buying Beverly Hills instead.
