Let me make this clear: Emily in Paris is not a good show. It's never been a good show. And honestly, I can't tell if the creators of this not good show are self aware and rolling with the punches, or if its a stubborn lack of awareness that've kept things shiny, light-hearted, and brainless...until now.
*CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR "EMILY IN PARIS"*
Until now, Emily in Paris was a simple show about a simple girl from Chicago. Emily likes to work and likes boys and not much else. And for four seasons, she's been pining over two boys in particular—the hot af English banker Alfie (a thankfully frequently shirtless Lucien Laviscount) and some French chef Gabriel (Lucas Bravo) who looks fine, I guess, whatever. And the only thing she collects more than men is all the couture she somehow affords on a small French marketing company's salary and stores in a tiny French apartment she shares with her friend Mindy (Ashley Park). Until now, Emily in Paris was an amalgamation of seemingly every show show-runner Darren Star (of Sex and the City fame) has ever put on the small screen; sex, work, shop, rinse, repeat. This season, however, the show that once made a name for itself as fluff personified, bafflingly tries its hand at some serious social commentary, putting its (arguably) best character, Sylvie (the forever fabulous Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu) at the center of a haphazard #MeToo.
Were You Just Trying To Have It All? That Is SO American.
It begins with a phone call. Several, in fact, in which Sylvie is contacted (borderline harassed) by a journalist urging her to publicize the sexual harassment she experienced in her early career working for the CEO of luxury conglomerate JVMA, Louis de Leon (Pierre Deny)—a company not so subtly inspired by real-life luxury powerhouse LVMH. The main dilemma for Sylvie is the choice between speaking out against a lecherous fashion industry executive or "letting it go" for the sake of her ex-possibly-still-current husband's nightclub deal with that very same executive.
Even for a show as frivolous as Emily in Paris, tackling a topic as prescient as workplace harassment could've packed a big punch—especially as the events of the show mirror a real life lawsuit against the very fashion house JVMA was based on, one which attributed the alleged misconduct to “being an attractive woman at a company with French culture” (Yikes). The show, instead, opts for a glossy, girl-boss take that merely serves as a backdrop to Emily's boring-by-now, love-triangle-but-not-really, about a dozen fashion faux pas, and Camille's (Camille Razat) ongoing villain era. It also serves as fodder for, you guessed it, another love triangle between Mindy, her billionaire scion and son of the accused, Nico de Léon (Paul Forman), and her bandmate (who'll likely be a cozy shoulder to Mindy as her relationship is slowly undone by the aforementioned accusation).
It's a move, to be sure, but is it one worth disrupting the show's stress-free, dissociative power? Especially when, unsurprisingly, the whole thing is handled with a clumsy narrative grip slip: Inexplicably, one of the ways Sylvie and friends fight back against Mr. Preditor is via Grégory Duprée (Jeremy O Harris) and his line of utterly ridiculous, phallic "penis pants". The trousers sprouting massive bananas sure feel like a product of the show. But the "men just can't keep it in their pants" theming that accompany them feels irritatingly uncomfortable in context and probably should've been reserved for a much better show.
The entire arc is wrapped up (for now) when Sylvie reluctantly agrees to be quoted in the JVMA exposé. And her major concerns about its effect on her husband’s new club are quickly assuaged by her mother, who just happens to also own a nightclub that's been sitting deserted since 1980-something apparently. The stakes are, in the end, non existent. The audience is barely given time to sit in sympathy of Sylvie's choice before twa la! beautiful overhead shots of Paris overlayed with a shot of Sylvie strutting away, headline in hand, like a bawse. What does Sylvie have to gain, if anything? What does she have to lose, if anything? Who knows? Who cares! Look, it's Emily serving Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice realness. Yass, queen!
I Did Rosetta Stone On the Plane, but It Hasn’t Kicked In Yet.
For context, the 2020's saw a reckoning with #MeToo and its portrayal in pop culture—even as the movement itself receded from headlines. With movies like Bombshell and series like The Morning Show, these were often relatively straightforward stories of women banding together to take down monsters. Those early attempts were far from complex, but they were pop culture’s first steps into a new era’s debate around consent, harassment and agency.
It wasn't long before creatives found new angles and delved deeper into gray areas. Survivors were allowed to be flawed humans, not just one-dimensional heroes, and assailants were not just boogeymen but men and women with their own traumatic pasts. This made for more interesting art, but also, crucially, a more human reflection on long-term trauma, which is rarely resolved in the triumphant moments so beloved by Hollywood. (Emerald Fennell's Promising Young Woman and Michaela Coel's intensely brilliant I May Destroy You immediately come to mind).
What makes Emily in Paris's dip into the #MeToo pond so baffling is if the creators weren't interested in tackling the issue for real, why touch it at all? Why go there if you're not willing to go there? Listen, I'm not expecting I May Destroy You here. But for a show with plenty of d, Emily in Paris doesn't seem to have the balls to actually challenge its audience. And while that wouldn't have been an issue in seasons prior, it becomes one when you take on a movement losing steam faster than a hot tea in an arctic tundra and trivialize the real aftermath of a person coming forward with their story by shrouding it in chic.
I Think You're the One Bringing the Drama.
What's worse about all this "drama"—their word, not mine—is the character who gets screwed over the most here is mon petit bébé, Julien (Samuel Arnold), whose development in Season 3 consisted of finally standing his ground against Emily—who consistently overstepped her bounds—and deciding it might be time to leave Sylvie and her agency behind for a new career path. This path unfortunately led him to a bougie office at a luxury brand company that may or may not have just gotten cancelled: JVMA. When the article drops, Julien immediately returns to Sylvie and Agence Grateau, ultimately undoing his entire arc. The problem of Emily bogarting his clients is never actually resolved. There's no apology. No amends. The issue isn't even alluded to. It's almost like it was never a real issue to begin with. Huh.
This Outfit is Plastic. It's Like Shoving Your Privates in a Ziploc Bag.
Part 2 is scheduled to hit Netflix on September 12th. And the death grip this show has on me means I'll be tuning in for sure. But its hard to predict where we go from here. Will the ditsy show finally decide to say something meaningful or gloss over the opportunity in favor of pretty people wearing, buying, and eating pretty things. I've come to expect very little from Star. At this point, it seems to be his entire show-running ethos (and possibly his advice to his own protagonists); Look pretty, say nothing.
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