Twelve French businesspeople and one American temp walk into a Parisian bar. What language do they speak? English, of course—that American temp is Emily Cooper. She holds the entirety of the universe, known and unknown, in the palms of her hands.
I’ve watched the newly released second season of Emily in Paris twice now, and I’ll probably watch it at least two more times before Netflix blesses us with season three. I don’t know what it is about this trainwreck, this absolutely unnecessary show about a white girl bringing an “American perspective” to a French marketing firm, but I and millions of other masochists cannot get enough.
The second season begins with Emily (Lily Collins) in a characteristically banal—but extremely complex—conundrum: she’s dealing with the guilt of sleeping with her friend Camille’s (Camille Razat) ex-boyfriend—the dreamy, PewDiePie-looking chef Gabriel (Lucas Bravo)––who was supposed to leave Paris until Antoine (William Abadie)—a perfume baron and the male ex-mistress of Emily’s boss Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu)—generously funded Gabriel’s dream restaurant in Paris. This nausea-inducing love triangle seems to have half of the French population caught in its crushing gravity.
The fallout of this inanely messy dilemma launches us into the rest of the season, which is full of the same kinds of melodramatic romances and agonizing musical B-stories that made us love to hate the first season. In a scene oddly similar to Hank finding Leaves of Grass on Walt’s toilet in Breaking Bad, Camille finds Gabriel’s initials on a steel-iron pan in Emily’s apartment. Emily finds a new love interest, a handsome British businessman named Alfie (Lucien Laviscount) whose entire personality is hating Paris. In one of the most disturbing moments I have ever seen on television, he accidentally burps in Emily’s face during a date. Emily’s rich friend Mindy (Ashley Park) continues living rent-free in Emily’s one-bedroom apartment while launching her singing career in the Parisian streets. I’m not sure why it was necessary to have multiple three-minute scenes of Mindy singing covers of mediocre pop songs, but hey: I’ll leave the art to the artists.
As you can see, there’s a lot to hate about Emily in Paris. You’ve undoubtedly heard about the wacky outfits, the terrible writing, and the tone-deaf political messaging. But halfway through the second season, I actually started to appreciate it. Despite the hate the writers and producers got for season one, the second season’s tone, costume design, and storytelling are unapologetically consistent with the first season (which takes guts when you’ve created something that’s hated by literally tens of millions of people). And there are characters that I genuinely enjoy seeing on screen. I loved seeing Emily’s oddball coworker Luc (Bruno Gouery) take her to the graveyard for her birthday and I loved seeing Sylvie smile with savage glee when Camille exposed Emily and Gabriel at Emily’s party.
I’d be lying if I said I dedicated nearly seven hours of my life to Emily in Paris purely out of hatred. I’d also be lying if I said Emily in Paris was something I considered “good.” It’s hard to review because I don’t really know what to make of it. Does Emily in Paris need to exist? Did it need to go past the first season? Absolutely not. There are certainly better, more important stories to be told than that of an obnoxious girl named Emily living a luxuriously successful life in Paris, her main struggle being that all men instantly fall in love with her. But the heart wants what it wants, and mine wants ten more seasons of Emily in Paris.
Twelve French businesspeople and one American temp walk into a Parisian bar. What language do they speak? English, of course—that American temp is Emily Cooper. She holds the entirety of the universe, known and unknown, in the palms of her hands.
I’ve watched the newly released second season of Emily in Paris twice now, and I’ll probably watch it at least two more times before Netflix blesses us with season three. I don’t know what it is about this trainwreck, this absolutely unnecessary show about a white girl bringing an “American perspective” to a French marketing firm, but I and millions of other masochists cannot get enough.
The second season begins with Emily (Lily Collins) in a characteristically banal—but extremely complex—conundrum: she’s dealing with the guilt of sleeping with her friend Camille’s (Camille Razat) ex-boyfriend—the dreamy, PewDiePie-looking chef Gabriel (Lucas Bravo)––who was supposed to leave Paris until Antoine (William Abadie)—a perfume baron and the male ex-mistress of Emily’s boss Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu)—generously funded Gabriel’s dream restaurant in Paris. This nausea-inducing love triangle seems to have half of the French population caught in its crushing gravity.
The fallout of this inanely messy dilemma launches us into the rest of the season, which is full of the same kinds of melodramatic romances and agonizing musical B-stories that made us love to hate the first season. In a scene oddly similar to Hank finding Leaves of Grass on Walt’s toilet in Breaking Bad, Camille finds Gabriel’s initials on a steel-iron pan in Emily’s apartment. Emily finds a new love interest, a handsome British businessman named Alfie (Lucien Laviscount) whose entire personality is hating Paris. In one of the most disturbing moments I have ever seen on television, he accidentally burps in Emily’s face during a date. Emily’s rich friend Mindy (Ashley Park) continues living rent-free in Emily’s one-bedroom apartment while launching her singing career in the Parisian streets. I’m not sure why it was necessary to have multiple three-minute scenes of Mindy singing covers of mediocre pop songs, but hey: I’ll leave the art to the artists.
As you can see, there’s a lot to hate about Emily in Paris. You’ve undoubtedly heard about the wacky outfits, the terrible writing, and the tone-deaf political messaging. But halfway through the second season, I actually started to appreciate it. Despite the hate the writers and producers got for season one, the second season’s tone, costume design, and storytelling are unapologetically consistent with the first season (which takes guts when you’ve created something that’s hated by literally tens of millions of people). And there are characters that I genuinely enjoy seeing on screen. I loved seeing Emily’s oddball coworker Luc (Bruno Gouery) take her to the graveyard for her birthday and I loved seeing Sylvie smile with savage glee when Camille exposed Emily and Gabriel at Emily’s party.
I’d be lying if I said I dedicated nearly seven hours of my life to Emily in Paris purely out of hatred. I’d also be lying if I said Emily in Paris was something I considered “good.” It’s hard to review because I don’t really know what to make of it. Does Emily in Paris need to exist? Did it need to go past the first season? Absolutely not. There are certainly better, more important stories to be told than that of an obnoxious girl named Emily living a luxuriously successful life in Paris, her main struggle being that all men instantly fall in love with her. But the heart wants what it wants, and mine wants ten more seasons of Emily in Paris.
