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New episodes of Emily in Paris hit Netflix last week. Four seasons in, it’s still the most divisive show on television. People have argued its merits since S1 debuted, but I don’t get all the fuss. Even with all the reality TV garbage I watch (Love Is Blind UK is not to be missed), I find myself defending Emily the most. So what is it about this innocuous, purely entertaining, silly little streaming show that makes people so mad?
I imagine some people expect “more” from the creator, Darren Star. Of course, he gave us Sex and the City, which is easily one of the greatest television shows of all time. It did something similar but had grit and edgier themes and dialogue. But the two aren’t comparable because we live in a very different time. Sex and the City hit its stride in the early 2000s. It was a more optimistic and lawless era. We weren’t chronicling our every move on social media, parasocial relationships didn’t exist, and partying was cool. Emily in Paris debuted in 2020 in the heat of the pandemic. Everyone was bored and on edge. It was a low-stakes smooth-brain salve with a pretty lead actress as a young college grad from Chicago navigating her new home, the glamorous city of Paris. She wore over-the-top mostly ugly outfits, went to parties with her lit roommate Mindy, and got herself into a love triangle with a hot chef named Gabriel (Lucas Bravo). Was there Sorkin-level dialogue? Of course not. Prestige-wise, it landed somewhere between Younger—another Darren Star show about the publishing industry, starring Hillary Duff—and a Bravo reality show. If it had come out in 2008, it would have aired on Thursday nights at 8 p.m. on the CW.
Much of the criticism is fair; the word cringe comes up a lot in the reviews. But in the words of the great Sky Ferreira, “Everything is embarrassing.” In season four, we get a plotline that revolves around designer Grégory Elliot Duprée (played by Jeremy O. Harris) showing his first collection for Pierre Cadault to his boss. The offering is full of whimsical clothes that feature a plush stuffed penis attached to the outside. Every model has a plush dick. Another pivotal scene occurs at Claude Monet’s water lily pond (spoiler: Gabriel’s ex-girlfriend Camille and Emily both fall into the water after a tense rowboat fight). Gabriel’s new obnoxious pastry chef sends out a dessert that looks like an apple and, of course, Emily falls for it. There’s also a #MeToo subplot, about which the less said the better. Season four is all over the place, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It keeps you hooked while it’s on, and you never have to think about it again. That is perfect television.
Many of the same people who are exasperated by Emily in Paris loved Gossip Girl, The O.C., and even Gilmore Girls. But the landscape has shifted. Succession and Billions ushered in a particular high-octane drama with a sense of humor, a throne that Industry currently occupies. These shows are, of course, good. They are brilliantly written and acted, win awards, and are breathlessly debated on message boards and group chats. Highbrow legacy television has taken over and become the norm. Gone are the days of Dawson’s Creek and One Tree Hill. But there is room for all of it. We contain multitudes. You can watch Emily lead a fake Ami campaign at Roland Garros and watch finance guys do coke and get hand jobs. Watching TV isn’t supposed to make you smarter. That is what books are for. Television should be strictly for entertainment, which Emily in Paris provides plenty of.
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