James Parker puts the TV franchise under the microscope:
There are universalities to real housewife–hood: the wincing air kisses with which they greet one another, and the cries of “You look hot!” or “You’re so skinny!”; the shifting alliances and behind-the-back bitcheries; the viperous lunch parties, with their protestations of friendship. But there are differences, too, city to real-housewife city. Atlanta has the most businesslike businesswomen; New Jersey is the most tribal, the families moving in large, noisy packs; Miami’s real housewives throw petals into the sea to rid themselves of negativity; in Beverly Hills they have psychics flush their houses. In Beverly Hills and Miami, too, the plastic surgeon plies most visibly his sinister trade: here we see the stretched eyes and the rubberized smiles, the reaction shots that show no reaction. To be a real housewife is to be in a cage match with middle age. Existence is weightless but, oh, gravity—it drags at the sagging epidermis.
The Dish 