Emily in Paris has had quite the ride. The first season, about a Chicago PR girl who heads to the City of Love, was critically derided, hailed as a sign that Netflix was giving up on quality TV and churning out formulaic shows instead (two years and a bazillion true-crime later, that judgement feels seriously prophetic). But creator Darren Star promised to iron out the kinks, and by the time season two rolled around, reviewers U-turned, claiming the show was now totally “in on the joke”. As the third run of episodes arrive on Netflix, I’m unconvinced. Is it enough for a show to be in on the joke if the joke isn’t a good one? Does knowing your show is clichéd make it immune to criticism?
The third instalment picks up mere days after last season’s cliffhanger finale, which saw the charming – or so we’re told – Emily (Lily Collins) in professional, emotional and geographical limbo. Does she follow the aloof Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu) to her new PR agency, or return to Chicago with heavily pregnant boss Madeline (Kate Walsh)? Does she choose British boyfriend Alfie (Lucien Laviscount) or former fling Gabriel (Lucas Bravo), who’s back with his ex anyway? In her French class, Emily is asked to translate a Sartre quote: “Ne pas choisir c’est encore choisir.” Not choosing is still choosing.
On the nose? You ain’t seen nothing yet. In Emily in Paris, an exposition-heavy script makes sure nothing is left open to interpretation. In a nod to her romcom foremothers, Emily channels her panic into cutting a dodgy fringe – one that looks miraculously immaculate, eight seconds later. “They’re just bangs. Sometimes people cut bangs when everything’s fine!” she insists, the comment a wink to the audience that’s as subtle as a punch in the face.
At this point, there’s little to be written about Collins’s performance as Emily that hasn’t been said before. She’s not as delightful as the show wants us to think she is, but no one could call Collins bland – and she does give some great facial expressions, frequently raising her eyebrows so high they hit her hairline. As she struggles to pick between bosses, she’s pushed towards the impossibly chic Sylvie, never without an existential cigarette in hand, over the garish, overbearing Madeline. While many of the supporting roles have gained depth over the years (Ashley Park as Emily’s flatmate Mindy in particular is given a lot to do this season), Madeline still feels like an afterthought.
The high fashion world of Emily in Paris (aka her mildly ridiculous wardrobe) continues to be the best thing about this show. In the opening scene, she is a vision in pink hearts and plush ostrich feathers, while she later dons a silver metallic zebra print jacket with jagged sleeves that add a good metre to her shoulder span. Love ’em or love to hate ’em, they’re a couture talking point. But they feel at odds with the first episode, which is essentially a 40-minute McDonald’s ad full of clunky product placement. For all the attempts to class it up, comments like “I didn’t want you to make a McMistake” and “I am not loving it so much anymore” are sure to make your stomach churn more than a 2am Big Mac. In these moments, Emily in Paris lost me, the show descending from a respectable comme ci, comme ça to straight-up merde.
