A Child’s Doll Tale: A Whirlwind of Nonsense

I’ve decided to reconsider my opinion on Emily in Paris (Netflix, from 15 August) which I initially dismissed as simple content for viewers recovering from brain injuries, but it turns out it’s one of the most eagerly anticipated shows globally.

The show’s premise is straightforward: an American girl named Emily moves to Paris, France. She steadfastly refuses to learn French, gasps frequently, wears fashionable outfits, and entangles herself in an implausible love triangle. This includes a Frenchman and an Englishman, both lacking acting skills, and a friend who is a singing American with the same deficiency. Her boss is perpetually mean.

I’m dropping my grudge. When the first season aired, it seemed just fine — harmless fluff. Nothing to get upset about. But with the second season, people began taking it seriously. They were making broad cultural judgments about the French based on Emily’s interactions in Paris. Fans even speculated seriously about the plot twists, although it’s apparent she would end up with one of the two men she’s fumbled over for three seasons. The idea that she might choose to stay single seemed plausible but unlikely. This intensity of speculating was overwhelming for me.

By the third season, Emily in Paris was being binge-watched in my home, much to my annoyance. I couldn’t avoid it. Wherever I went, I overheard parts of the show. Her boss remained perennially angry (why not just fire her if she’s so incompetent?), and even native French actors delivered unconvincing accents. The songs, the scenarios — it all seemed absurdly ridiculous to me.

Yet, I am reconsidering. The essence of Emily in Paris is not meant for my demographic — or even for people who are fully attentive. Recognizing this allows you to at least appreciate the show for what it is: an unrestrainedly silly, dramatic, colorful spectacle of absurdity. For instance, Emily jogs and sees many attractive Frenchmen. She then talks to herself in the bathroom mirror about them, unaware that one of the men she’s been complicating things with overhears her from the shower. He pops his head out, she gasps, and he quips something like, “Oh, so you saw some handsome Frenchmen, huh?” Later, this neighbor, inexplicably invited to a party, adds to the chaos. This is akin to a child’s dolls’ story sessions while their parents deal with a serious meeting.

Honestly, who cares? I’m not here to convince you that Emily in Paris is a good show upon critical inspection (it isn’t). Nor will I argue it’s secretly intelligent, though I confess to noticing some sharp lines, mainly delivered by Ashley Park’s character Mindy Chen.

This show is about whimsical, affluent characters watching as Emily oscillates between kissing two bland male leads, interspersed with stunning aerial views of Paris that evoke a holiday feel. It’s essentially a vanity project for beautiful people who can’t act. Thirty episodes in, with more on the way, the plot has barely moved. An episode opening with “Emily needs to attend a tennis match and kiss a boy or she loses her job” is indicative of the show’s narrative depth.

On further reflection, I might have to rekindle my issues with Emily in Paris. It seems to fall short of the expectations for anyone who has watched it.

Source: The Guardian