Recap and review: I watched Emily in Paris and you’re not going to like what I thought

Part way through the second series of Emily in Paris, there’s a bit where dreamy chef Gabriel feeds love rival Alfie so much delicious food and wine that Alfie’s too stuffed to have sex with Emily, so goes back to his apartment by himself. Bloated and inert, I knew how Alfie felt. By this stage I too needed a lie down, alone.

Why? On paper, Emily in Paris is as good a recipe for a fish-out-of-water comedy drama as any other. The premise—a young American woman sent to the French capital for work—provides the usual scope for character development and tangled plotlines involving culture clashes and hilarious misunderstandings. Created for Netflix by Darren Star, who also produced Sex and the City and its sequel And Just Like That, Emily in Paris was launched amid the sort of publicity that proves the old adage: that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Much was made—deservedly—of the lack of diversity in the cast and negative character stereotypes. Parisiens—and the French in general—are lazy and peevish, with a lax attitude to personal hygiene. French men are presented as louche and unreliable, and Emily is flirted with by virtually every man she meets. In contrast, Emily herself is rigid and uncompromising, a supposed workaholic—except when it comes to learning the French language. Barely able to speak more French than she did when she began, she is forced to retake the conversation classes she enrolled in on her arrival in Paris a year earlier. Perhaps this is no surprise, given that the native speakers who surround her always speak English—not only to her, but also, bafflingly, to each other. In one sense, Emily’s linguistic ineptitude is an odd decision, breaking one of the the golden rules of dramatic fiction writing, as it is a reflection of her lack of character development. In another way, though, it makes perfect sense, in that it may be intended to help viewers identify with her (especially American and English ones). And, to be fair, we need all the help we can get. Superficial and one-dimensional, Emily is referred to at one point as ‘sociopathic’, which is also accurate. But good writing and authenticity aren’t the points here, although I’m struggling to understand what are. 

Then there’s the setting. Was Emily in Paris actually shot in Paris? Yes, but in such a way as to feel as though it wasn’t. A city as complex and nuanced as any other, here it is airbrushed of its multiculturalism, heavy traffic, crowded streets and tourist hotspots, and feels more like a film set. If Las Vegas had a Paris bit—like the mini-Venice they have there—it would be like this, consisting only of cute cobbled streets, charming bistros and cafes, and immaculate parks. Shimmering and ephemeral, this is Emily in Imaginary Paris, or made by Disney (indeed, one of the first observations Emily makes when she arrives is how Paris “looks like Ratatouille.”). It is Paris for people who have never been there, or who have only ever seen it on Instagram. 

Which is how Emily views it: cropped, cleaned and filtered through a lens smeared with Vaseline and dipped in glitter. The city is her stage, the backdrop to whatever it is she happens to be snapping herself doing: drinking wine, eating a pastry, trying on clothes, or walking home wearing her boyfriend’s jacket. Uploading pictures to Instagram forms a significant part of her work, which, like that of Sex in the City’s Carrie Bradshaw, also does not feel real. Neither does Savoir, the French subsidiary of the the American marketing agency Emily works for. There to unleash the magic of social media, Emily doesn’t have to work hard; her progress is effortless, the result of miraculously bumping into the right people either in the street, at dinners, in art galleries, or at the ballet—a quirk put down to the notion that Paris is small enough to feel like a village. The photographs Emily takes of herself at these functions, accompanied by banal captions and hashtags, garner her many thousands of followers—voilà. 

Being shared on social media by Brigitte Macron and Carla Bruni, no less, helps. These endorsements are a result of an assignment given to Emily by her boss at Savoir, Sylvie Grateau. While researching Vaga-Jeune, a cream for menopausal women, Emily learns that the French word for vagina is masculine. “Why is it le vagin, and not la vagin?” she asks. Perplexed by the apparently nonsensical nature of the French language, Emily posts on Instagram that, “The vagina is not masculine”—an observation presented as a profound insight, but which is both, paradoxically, obvious and untrue. While Sylvie suggests that it’s because a woman owns their vagina, but a man will possess it (also not always true), the etymological point is missed: ‘vagina’ comes from the Greek for ‘sheath’ or ‘scabbard’. 

Not that that matters here. The idea of a woman of probable menopausal age giving such an assignment to a younger woman is not an issue in itself, but this subplot is symptomatic of the uneasiness between Emily and Sylvie. The Vaga-Jeune project is a bizarre one, not least because the name Vaga-Jeune means, creepily, ‘young vagina’ (instead of fixating on the gender of the noun, Emily would have done well to suggest renaming the product entirely). Clearly, Emily in Paris wants to say something about the way older women are regarded in France (that French First Lady Brigitte Macron is 25 years older than her husband was mentioned early on), and a storyline about a vaginal lubrication cream is a nod towards the perception of older women as desirable sexual beings. But what is Sylvie’s dramatic function? An obvious antagonist—the cliché of the mean boss—she exists to add tension but, beyond this, I’m not sure I understood her role. The reasons for her hauteur are unclear. Savoir’s workplace culture is as established as any other, and Emily is regarded as a threat to the status quo. Initially suspicious—referring to her as ‘la plouc’ (‘country bumpkin’)—most of Emily’s colleagues, however, quickly warm to her, while Sylvie remains resentful throughout both series. Often holding her hands in front of her as though waiting for nail varnish to dry, her nose perpetually turned up while simultaneously looking down it, Sylvie is disdainful and contemptuous of Emily, and seems to take personal offence at her young colleague’s existence. Contrasted with Emily, Sylvie comes across as a bitter woman who works hard to maintain her sexual allure (her smoking habit is clearly an appetite suppressant and, as such, a way of staying thin). Yet she lacks joie de vivre and is almost perpetually miserable. The epitome of French refinement, Sylvie’s signature sartorial style is one of immaculate dishevelment—as if she’s just returned, braless, from a secret tryst in the stationery cupboard—yet her elegant appearance betrays her gracelessness. That Emily could be perceived as a sexual threat is moot, given that Emily’s love interests exist beyond Sylvie’s sphere, and Sylvie herself is not short of suitors of varying ages. This makes her apparent misery all the more difficult to fathom. 

Then again, it’s possible that her convoluted love life is the reason for her unhappiness. You lose track of it all and perhaps that’s the point. The French here are supposedly easy-going about sex, yet their lived experience is different. While those in a relationship are simultaneously sustaining some sort of love polygon—married men have mistresses, while wives and mistresses too have lovers, as do the lovers (and bloody good for all of them!)—and those who are not in relationships see prostitutes—none of this seems to make them very happy. This includes Emily, whose friend Camille is furious when she finds out that her boyfriend, dreamy chef Gabriel, has slept with Emily, and humiliates Emily at her birthday party. Clearly keen on Emily, Gabriel confesses his love for her, but remains in his relationship with Camille. He appears to want both women, and one wonders whether he is any better than all the other sleazy French men that Emily meets. 

For a show set in the City of Love, and which talks a lot about the supposed French propensity for seduction and romance, sensuality and pleasure, we hear a lot about sex, but see virtually none it in action. Emily in Paris is like Sex and the City, only without the sex (or even the city, for that matter). Those that have sex keep their knickers on, as evidenced by Sylvie and her lover as they cavort on the bed, still in their underwear after having just had sex. Rather than seen, sex is implied via a series of clichéd visuals—a ruffled sheet, or clothes strewn on the floor—or people are occasionally heard having sex in another room. The only glimpses of naked flesh are within different contexts entirely, such as during the filming of a perfume commercial in which a naked female model walks across the pont Alexandre III while being gazed at by fully-clothed men, and in the scene when Emily joins her friends in a sauna (and is the only one not to go topless). Perhaps the most explicit reference to sex in Emily in Paris involves masturbation, when a visiting actress asks Emily to leave the room while she masturbates in order to relax after her journey (we don’t see the masturbation, either). Overall the attitude towards sex in this city is somewhat coy, even though it tries very hard to be sensual. This is illustrated when Emily visits St Tropez and is told by a friend of the enduring myth of champagne coupes having been modelled on the breasts of Marie Antoinette. It is a charming story but its effect is undercut when, amusingly, Emily picks up two coupes and places them on her chest. The moment is more reminiscent of Benny Hill than Anais Nin, but that is no surprise. For all the lectures on refinement and sophistication by various French characters, Emily in Paris was never meant to be subtle, and it’s never too long before we’re back in Benny Hill territory. And so to another one of our protagonist’s baffling marketing triumphs. Champère—the male counterpart to Vaga-Jeune—is the brand conceived by Emily after observing her friend Mindy and her female relatives wasting good champagne by spraying it all over themselves at a hen party (the closest anyone gets to an ejaculation in Emily in Paris). Discovering that no one wants to swallow the disgusting champagne produced by Camille’s father, Emily sees the opportunity to style it as a celebration spray instead. Although, anyone still watching may find the ‘plink plink fizz’ of Alka Seltzer more appealing than the fizz of champagne, whether sipped or sprayed. 

It certainly will be more appealing after enduring the migraine-inducing spectacle of Emily’s wardrobe for hours on end. While Emily comes from Chicago, whose spelling starts with ‘Chic’, chic she is not, and her visual appearance is obviously intended to contrast with that of Sylvle’s, who is always impeccably turned out in tasteful monochrome outfits with signature asymmetrical details. Just like Sex and the City, Emily in Paris too places an emphasis on fashion; however, unlike Carrie Bradshaw, who maintained a certain cutting-edge fashion style that spoke to her age, Emily’s age is unclear until she celebrates her birthday and we learn, via Instagram, that she is 29. This is surprising, given that she dresses like a hyperactive child that’s binged on Primark mini-skirts, cropped tops and bucket hats. As outsiders, both Emily and her friend Mindy dress accordingly, seemingly oblivious to the idea of French style being grounded in discipline and restraint. Indeed, as visual signifiers of their fish-out-of-water status, their maximalist, unedited ensembles are the equivalent of big red neon pointy arrows, backlit by Skegness illuminations. Their clothing is klaxon-loud, and as the days go by, both women get through so many clothes it’s remarkable that they manage to afford them, or even store them in their tiny flat (do they donate or sell each outfit after it has been worn?) While Mindy is an engaging character, albeit with a bonkers backstory, Emily is a cipher, a blank space onto which anyone may project themselves. She is so uninteresting, and her blandness is so exhausting, that even her zany outfits can’t endow her with personality. Perhaps it is no mistake that her name isn’t unlike the word ‘emoji’—and perhaps that too is one of the points, which is always never to go too far beyond the Instagrammable surface of things.

Escapism, too, is one of the points, I think. A frivolous confection, Emily in Paris is perfect escapist fluff (although it could be said that the word ‘fluff’ endows it with a substance it doesn’t have). It makes Mills and Boon look like Proust, and the episodes fly by like scrolling through your Instagram feed (thank heaven that Netflix cuts off the irritating theme tune at the end). At the same time, despite inhaling the episodes, I also had a feeling of being held there, almost against my will. If you thought Amelie was sickly-sweet, this saccharine portrayal of Paris fills you with so much sweetness that you may find yourself not being able to move. Hardly comparable to the exquisite meal composed of complementary flavours and textures cooked by dreamy chef Gabriel for Alfie, Emily in Paris, for all its airy lightness, is stodgy fair, a sugar fix without a high. Fetch me the bucket (hat), s’il vous plaît.