The Surprising Enjoyment of “Emily in Paris”
When the show “Emily in Paris” first came out in 2020 I point blank refused to watch it. It wasn’t until over a year later– confined my couch for 3 months with a broken tailbone - that I finally binged the two seasons available on Netflix. Although like most people I pride myself on having “good taste”, I also know I’m within the bell curve of what the general public likes. When I heard the title I skeptically asked myself “Again? Why is this country so obsessed with Paris?” Of course Paris is a fantastic city. I was lucky to visit there in my early 20s, strolling through the Orsay museum and the Monmarte neighborhood, eating baguettes and soaking in the place that so many wonderful artists lived and worked. I just muse, to copy the fictional Miranda Priestly, “it’s sort of comical” how much of a chokehold this city has on our collective American psyche. (Spoiler Alert for anyone who missed 90s must see TV). Two of my very formative shows, “Friends” and “Sex and the City”, both referenced Paris in their dramatic series finales. In “Friends”, Rachel forgoes a work opportunity in Paris while she’s already on the plane because she realizes she loves her NYC-based on again/off again boyfriend Ross. Considering that show was filmed on a soundstage in LA, I had no anticipation of episodes attempting to show Rachel walking down a fake French street. In “Sex and the City”, we at least got some more legitimate on-location content. The loneliness of walking through rainy Paris in stilettos while her artist boyfriend toils away in his studio awakens Carrie that her real home is back in NYC, with her friends and her on again/off again boyfriend Mr. Big.
When Pinterest boards and Tumblr began to infiltrate our visual world around 2010, it seemed like you couldn’t search for style inspiration without the description “French girl fashion” popping up everywhere. Glancing at these photos I knew they were actually from American women trying to emulate French women, not the real locals giving us mere mortals tips on how to be effortlessly chic. Pre-Instagram it seemed too ridiculous to even imagine; a Parisian woman getting ready for a late dinner, pausing to document her style choices for strangers? Not likely. The temptation to dress French is of course understandable. One summer during my tenure as a clothing designer I came into the office wearing vintage jeans, a white t-shirt and red lipstick. My boss told me I looked like Jane Birkin and I felt an instant uptick in my mood. Who wouldn’t want to be associated with somebody like Jane, Catherine Deneuve, Carla Bruni or Loulou de La Falaise? The main issue is that I am NOT French. Growing up in a certain country will inform how you take in culture and that translates to what you put on your body. I never felt sartorial shame in being American, so I always felt American’s obsession with French style was fruitless.
But I digress. What does this have to do with “Emily In Paris”? Being a collaboration from Darren Star and costume designer Patricia Field, both previously of “Sex and the City”, I was admittedly intrigued. But the promo I saw before the show’s release ignited my most judgmental side. Why is Lily Collins (the titular Emily) in front of a staircase wearing a full skirted gown and a tiara? Why is her hair always perfectly curled? Why is she wearing a puff sleeve, off the shoulder dress in what appears to be a business meeting? When the show did finally come out, most of the reviews I saw were fine at best and scathing at worst. Not just pertaining to the wardrobe, but they eviscerated the notion that a cheery young American woman was dazzling Paris with her business acumen without speaking French. This millennial decided I had better things to do with my time than embark on this ridiculous journey.
That is, until I found myself lying down on a couch for most of my day, unable to work or walk around the icy streets of the mountain town where I had recently moved. I watched all five seasons of “Insecure”, both seasons of “Euphoria” and the first season of “White Lotus” before I begrudgingly introduced myself to Emily, thinking I would probably be too sophisticated for it and soon quit.
What’s funny about consuming this show is that the outlandish clothes aren’t the most unrealistic part of it. Ignore the attractive men Emily bumps into everywhere and seemingly endless supply of marketing campaigns falling out of her mouth, impressing her luxury clients. In my opinion the most unrealistic part of this fantasy romp is actually how easily Emily makes two new friends, Mindy and Camille. She meets one sitting on a park bench and the other when buying flowers at a corner market, struggling with the language. They are both gorgeous and want nothing more than to invite this American expat to parties and art gallery openings within minutes of meeting.
And yet, and yet… “Emily” charmed me. Once I released any notion of realism or normalcy, I actually found myself enjoying the show. By the time season three came out I almost didn’t care that Emily and Mindy sit on a bench during lunchtime; Emily wearing a bright yellow jacket, floral knee-high socks and a headscarf while Mindy is in a gold metallic pantsuit. Emily is the ultimate American in Paris. Just like those Pinterest boards of yore, Emily’s life doesn’t have to be based in reality. So as I viewer, why should mine? It’s purely for aesthetic enjoyment and fluff at this point as I sit in my living room the regular American gal that I am. Oh look, an aerial shot of a lavender field in Provence to match a purple McLaren car? Excellent. Emily is heading to rejoin her old boss at a new office wearing a gingham bra, blazer and red pants? No problem.
I will always appreciate art that challenges us and gives us a way to make sense of life that sometimes seems senseless. But as I get older, I also want to allow myself a few things purely for the sake of enjoyment, without the pressure of learning along the way. Netflix had the will to keep giving us Emily based solely on popularity and capitalism, critics be damned. I mean is there anything more truly American that that? C’est bon.