#107 Excuse My French
18/08/24 17:28
Je veux commencer par dire que Emily in Paris est prononcé ‘Emily in Paris’, pas ‘Emily in Paris’. C’est une rime! JE SAIS 🤯
Everything about Emily in Paris, including the title, is confounding, n’est ce pas? I have a confession, which is that je n’aime pas l’actual Paris, because it scares me and makes me feel uncool. However, I do like Emily in Paris, because her Paris isn’t Paris, but some rose-tinted, minted, unhinged American oasis entirely unconnected to reality – Pareeeeeeeeeeee, if you will. As you probably know, I like things that aren’t real, because they’re much nicer and more comfortable than the grim truth, so I embrace Emily’s Paris, which is clean and warm and rich and exquisitely pretty and deeply unserious. Formidable!
Quick set-up for those of you who’ve lived in une grotte since 2020. Emily was in Chicago, but upped sticks and moved to La Ville Lumière pour travailler in the blink of un oeil, unable to parle la langue and serenely oblivious her new French colleagues’ disdain. I wrote a blog about the first series, which started as a bit of a hate-watch but evolved into something magnifique and meme-y. J’adore.
We’ve now reached season four, and I would be happy to have forty more – just keep ‘em coming, with their kooky little plotlines, swiftly-resolved dilemmas, absurd romantic entanglements, outfits absolutement ridicule, and Sylvie, ma vrai reine. Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu, who plays Emily’s boss, Mme Grateau, is a goddess, her presence elevating the show beyond mere silliness. She’s just so goddamn classy. Everyone else is fine – doing the job, looking like they get the joke. Which is mostly on them, but not always. The series is a strange mix of clunky and knowing, shit and weirdly SATC-sassy. Dotted about ça et là is some smart office bantz, a pointed reference to abortion, a MeToo storyline, the odd snarky aside or unfeigned grimace that hints at something edgier in play. There are some sharp gags, a few pleasingly barbed exchanges amidst the strained romantic encounters. It’s not LOL but it is amusant.
Romance-wise, there is zero chemistry in this show. That’s how you know it’s not remotely French. It’s sanitised American friss-non, with very little consequence; drama without drama. Emily’s affair with Alfie is the erotic equivalent of a grounded hot air balloon. Her illicit rooftop sex with Gabriel is never shown, but ooo la la, the way they talk about it afterwards, you’d think they’d gone full bukkake on the Champs-Élysées. Relationships begin and end in the time it takes to upload an Insta reel, hearts are broken but only on a perfume bottle - c’est tout. Then it’s back to glam PR parties, Eiffel-high heels, Michelin-starred meals and the occasional sojourn (en masse) to a ravishing French chateau.
It’s all tremendous fun, looks great, romps along, is eminently bingeable. But there’s one thing that really gets my chèvre. It’s the français. Specifically, Emily’s français, or the lack of it. What’s really interesting about this fluffy show is that it’s bilingual. About half the scenes are subtitled – when it’s just French characters on screen, they speak French, like they would; like they should. It’s cool and sexy and unusual in a mainstream American series. But Emily has lived there for AGES now. Really, the ratio of French to English should be at least 80/20. What the hell is she doing, the dumb bint? Pull your fucking doigt out and make an effort!
This is purportedly a woman who lives to work, who loves Paris, and is fully committed to her new life there. Yet we see endless meetings, where she’s the only English-speaker, conducted exclusively in English for her benefit. Why doesn’t she essaie un peu? In earlier series we saw her taking lessons, but they don’t seem to have rubbed off at all. Hasn’t she absorbed ANYTHING? IT MAKES ME FURIEUSE.
Emily in Paris has the potential to be a truly radical, ground-breaking show. It could evolve to be properly subversive, naughty, clever and – crucially - wholly French. Make the whole thing go 100% Gallic! Emilie à Paris, s’il vous plait. Sort it, Darren Star. And then just make it continuer encore et encore.
Merci beaucoup, mon ami.
Everything about Emily in Paris, including the title, is confounding, n’est ce pas? I have a confession, which is that je n’aime pas l’actual Paris, because it scares me and makes me feel uncool. However, I do like Emily in Paris, because her Paris isn’t Paris, but some rose-tinted, minted, unhinged American oasis entirely unconnected to reality – Pareeeeeeeeeeee, if you will. As you probably know, I like things that aren’t real, because they’re much nicer and more comfortable than the grim truth, so I embrace Emily’s Paris, which is clean and warm and rich and exquisitely pretty and deeply unserious. Formidable!
Quick set-up for those of you who’ve lived in une grotte since 2020. Emily was in Chicago, but upped sticks and moved to La Ville Lumière pour travailler in the blink of un oeil, unable to parle la langue and serenely oblivious her new French colleagues’ disdain. I wrote a blog about the first series, which started as a bit of a hate-watch but evolved into something magnifique and meme-y. J’adore.
We’ve now reached season four, and I would be happy to have forty more – just keep ‘em coming, with their kooky little plotlines, swiftly-resolved dilemmas, absurd romantic entanglements, outfits absolutement ridicule, and Sylvie, ma vrai reine. Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu, who plays Emily’s boss, Mme Grateau, is a goddess, her presence elevating the show beyond mere silliness. She’s just so goddamn classy. Everyone else is fine – doing the job, looking like they get the joke. Which is mostly on them, but not always. The series is a strange mix of clunky and knowing, shit and weirdly SATC-sassy. Dotted about ça et là is some smart office bantz, a pointed reference to abortion, a MeToo storyline, the odd snarky aside or unfeigned grimace that hints at something edgier in play. There are some sharp gags, a few pleasingly barbed exchanges amidst the strained romantic encounters. It’s not LOL but it is amusant.
Romance-wise, there is zero chemistry in this show. That’s how you know it’s not remotely French. It’s sanitised American friss-non, with very little consequence; drama without drama. Emily’s affair with Alfie is the erotic equivalent of a grounded hot air balloon. Her illicit rooftop sex with Gabriel is never shown, but ooo la la, the way they talk about it afterwards, you’d think they’d gone full bukkake on the Champs-Élysées. Relationships begin and end in the time it takes to upload an Insta reel, hearts are broken but only on a perfume bottle - c’est tout. Then it’s back to glam PR parties, Eiffel-high heels, Michelin-starred meals and the occasional sojourn (en masse) to a ravishing French chateau.
It’s all tremendous fun, looks great, romps along, is eminently bingeable. But there’s one thing that really gets my chèvre. It’s the français. Specifically, Emily’s français, or the lack of it. What’s really interesting about this fluffy show is that it’s bilingual. About half the scenes are subtitled – when it’s just French characters on screen, they speak French, like they would; like they should. It’s cool and sexy and unusual in a mainstream American series. But Emily has lived there for AGES now. Really, the ratio of French to English should be at least 80/20. What the hell is she doing, the dumb bint? Pull your fucking doigt out and make an effort!
This is purportedly a woman who lives to work, who loves Paris, and is fully committed to her new life there. Yet we see endless meetings, where she’s the only English-speaker, conducted exclusively in English for her benefit. Why doesn’t she essaie un peu? In earlier series we saw her taking lessons, but they don’t seem to have rubbed off at all. Hasn’t she absorbed ANYTHING? IT MAKES ME FURIEUSE.
Emily in Paris has the potential to be a truly radical, ground-breaking show. It could evolve to be properly subversive, naughty, clever and – crucially - wholly French. Make the whole thing go 100% Gallic! Emilie à Paris, s’il vous plait. Sort it, Darren Star. And then just make it continuer encore et encore.
Merci beaucoup, mon ami.
- Emily in Paris, season 4, 5 episodes, Netflix
