If the pitch that got La Maison made didn’t mention Succession and Emily in Paris then I’ll eat my couture fascinator. This rich, occasionally sickly French soap, about the trials and tribulations of a fashion house called Ledu, is over the top, melodramatic and frequently absurd. It is heavy on le fromage and light on subtlety. Yet, despite its daft plot twists and self-important mood, it turns out to be very good mindless TV, as elegantly trashy as it is irresistibly moreish.
Vincent Ledu (Lambert Wilson) is the artistic director of a legendary fashion house which grew from humble beginnings as a small family atelier to become an international powerhouse. It is part of the French establishment, and Vincent cannot move for the honours that are bestowed upon him. That is, until he does a John Galliano and is filmed at a party in the midst of a racist rant about a wealthy private client. When the footage is leaked and goes viral, his position at the head of the family business is untenable. It has become a meme across the planet, Vincent is told. “What is a meme?” he asks, clearly on behalf of the show, which does not seem to know either.
