Manolo Caro did something weird back in 2018. He took the most sacred, dusty relic of Mexican culture—the telenovela—and basically set it on fire while laughing. When La Casa de las Flores (The House of Flowers) first hit screens, it wasn’t just another show about rich people crying in mansions. It was a neon-soaked, darkly comedic demolition of the "perfect" Latin American family.
People were obsessed. Why? Because it felt real even when it was being ridiculous.
We’re talking about a family, the De la Moras, who run a high-end flower shop. On the surface? Elegance. Pure class. Behind the scenes? There’s a mistress hanging herself in the shop, a secret cabaret also named "La Casa de las Flores," and enough skeletons in the closet to fill a cemetery. Honestly, it’s the kind of mess everyone recognizes in their own extended family but refuses to talk about at Christmas dinner.
The Paulina de la Mora Effect
You can't talk about this show without talking about Paulina.
Cecilia Suárez created a monster. A wonderful, slow-talking, slightly robotic monster. Her specific way of speaking—the acentico—became a global meme almost overnight. It wasn't planned. Suárez and Caro actually came up with it during filming because the character felt too stiff otherwise. It worked. It became the heartbeat of the show.
But Paulina represents more than just a funny voice. She’s the glue. In a culture where the "matriarch" is expected to be a long-suffering saint, Paulina is a pragmatic, occasionally ruthless fixer. She handles the jail time, the bankruptcy, and the scandalous affairs with a dry wit that redefined the leading lady role in Spanish-language media.
She's the anti-heroine we didn't know we needed.
Breaking the Machismo Mold
One of the most significant things La Casa de las Flores achieved was its casual, unapologetic inclusion of LGBTQ+ narratives. This wasn't "very special episode" territory. It was woven into the fabric of the plot. When José María (played by Paco León) transitions to María José, the show handles it with a mix of high-drama flair and genuine heart.
Sure, there was some initial controversy about a cisgender man playing a trans woman. That’s a valid critique that people still discuss today. However, within the context of Mexican television—a medium historically dominated by rigid gender roles and often blatant homophobia—having a trans character as a primary romantic lead and the family’s legal savior was revolutionary.
It forced a conservative audience to root for a character they had been taught to ignore.
Satire as a Weapon
The show is a satire. That's the part some critics missed early on. It uses the tropes of the soap opera—the dramatic reveals, the slapping, the coincidences—to mock the hypocrisy of the Mexican upper class (the fresas).
The flower shop itself is a metaphor. Flowers are beautiful, but they rot fast. You have to keep cutting the dead parts away to keep the bouquet looking fresh. That is exactly what the De la Moras do. They are obsessed with las apariencias.
- The father, Ernesto, is a mess.
- The mother, Virginia (played by the legendary Verónica Castro in season one), is desperate to keep the "prestige" alive.
- The siblings are chasing validation in all the wrong places.
It’s basically a study on how much pressure a family can take before the facade cracks completely.
The Verónica Castro Departure
Let's be real: losing Verónica Castro after the first season was a massive gamble. She is the queen of soaps. Taking her out of the equation was like removing the sun from the solar system.
But somehow, it didn't kill the show.
Manolo Caro leaned into the vacuum. The second and third seasons became more experimental, darker, and even more surreal. By the time we got the prequel elements in season three, focusing on the 1970s, the show had transformed from a family comedy into a multi-generational epic about how trauma is inherited. It showed us that the "perfection" Virginia de la Mora sought was a trap she’d been building since her youth.
Why We Are Still Talking About It
There is a specific aesthetic to La Casa de las Flores that changed the game for Netflix's international productions. The colors are loud. The production design is impeccable. It looks like a Pedro Almodóvar film but moves like a prestige TV drama.
It also tackled the "cancel culture" of elite societies long before it became a daily Twitter topic. The De la Moras were "canceled" by their country club peers over and over. Their journey back to self-acceptance—rather than social acceptance—is the real arc of the series.
They stopped caring what the neighbors thought. In Latin American culture, that's the ultimate rebellion.
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Getting the Most Out of the De la Mora Universe
If you're looking to actually understand the impact of this series or want to dive back in, don't just stop at the main seasons. There is a specific way to consume this story to get the full picture of its social commentary.
Start with Season 1, but watch it as a parody. If you take it too seriously as a drama, you’ll miss the jokes. It’s supposed to be over the top. The melodrama is the point.
Watch the "The Funeral" special. It bridges gaps that the main seasons sometimes jump over. It's essential for understanding the transition of power from the parents to the children.
Pay attention to the flowers. No, seriously. The floral arrangements in the background of major scenes often symbolize the emotional state of the characters or foreshadow what’s coming. The production designers used specific floriography (the language of flowers) throughout the set.
Check out the movie. The House of Flowers: The Movie (2021) acts as a final heist-style caper. It’s less about the shop and more about the sibling bond. It wraps up the loose ends regarding the "treasure" hidden in the old house, which is a satisfying payoff for long-time viewers.
The legacy of La Casa de las Flores is its bravery. It took a format that was dying—the telenovela—and gave it a shot of adrenaline, a queer identity, and a sense of humor that didn't punch down. It proved that you can be colorful and "trashy" while still being one of the smartest shows on television.
Your Next Steps for Exploring Mexican Pop Culture
To truly appreciate the context of this show, look into the history of the "Telenovela Rosa" versus the "Telenovela de Ruptura." Understanding how stars like Verónica Castro built their careers on the "Rose" (traditional) style makes her role in this "Rupture" (subversive) show much more impactful.
If you've finished the series, your next move should be exploring the work of Manolo Caro’s wider filmography, specifically Perfectos Desconocidos (the Mexican version). It carries that same DNA of "rich people with secrets trapped in a room" that makes the De la Mora saga so addictive.
Also, look for interviews with Cecilia Suárez regarding the "Paulina voice" legalities—Netflix actually had to restrict her from using the voice in other projects because it became such a distinct piece of intellectual property. It’s a fascinating look at how a character can outgrow the show itself.
Stop looking for a perfect family on screen. They don't exist, and as the De la Moras taught us, they're much more fun when they're falling apart.