December is shaping up to be a rough month for France. First, defeat in the World Cup final. Now Netflix unleashes season three of Emily in Paris. Will the horreur ever cease?
Not on Emily in Paris, it won’t. When Darren Star, who also created Sex and the City, unveiled his bonbon of a romcom, in 2020, France united in apoplexy. Netflix had taken a proud and ancient European civilisation and reduced it to a parade of stinky caricatures and terrible accents (to which Irish audiences might offer a resigned “Moi aussi”).
Netflix’s response to French fury has been the equivalent of a Gallic shrug. Series three (streaming on Netflix from today) steamrolls onwards like Kylian Mbappé hurtling into the penalty area, its blend of soapy comedy and unhinged fashion sure to charm fans and appal Francophiles.
We are reunited with the eponymous Emily (Lily Collins) as she is caught once again in tug of love. In seasons one and two the emotional triangle was between Emily, her friend Camille (Camille Rabat) and Camille’s boyfriend/Emily’s romantic interest, Gabriel (Lucas Bravo) – before Emily sorted herself out with Alfie (Lucien Laviscount), her cheeky-chappie English squeeze.
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We had sex maybe once a month. The constant rejection was soul-crushing, it felt like my ex didn’t even like me
This time Emily is torn not between lovers but between employers. Should she stay with her heavily pregnant American boss, Madeleine (Kate Walsh), or reunite with her acid-tongued French mentor, Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu), as she and Emily’s Paris colleagues try to launch a marketing agency?
The dilemma drives Emily to distraction. Viewers may have a similar reaction as they are assailed by the lead character’s increasingly wacky and whacked-out fashion choices. These invariably involve colour-clashing outfits that look like something from an Instagram feed that has taken alarming leave of its senses.
In episode one alone she dons lime green boots, a champagne pink dress adjacent to that sported by Jodie Comer in Killing Eve, and a jacket the colour of a child’s melting lollipop. Gazing into the jacket, I felt I was accelerating through time and space towards an event horizon, a bit like Matthew McConaughey at the end of Interstellar.
The complications pile up as quickly as Emily’s sartorial clangers. As if her work woes weren’t bad enough, she must also deal with Alfie’s move back to the UK. So stressed is Emily that she lops off her fringe and debuts a bangs hairstyle. Meanwhile, her other best pal, the aspiring singer Mindy (Ashley Park), wrestles with her loyalty to her band when offered a solo gig singing at a hip new club.
Emily in Paris is keen to do for the City of Light what Sex and the City did for New York. It remains true to that mission in series three. There are smarter, savvier romcoms to stream (and some viewers may gag at the shameless product placement of a prominent fast-food chain). But Collins is full of charm, and when it comes to carefree fun in fantasyland France, Emily in Paris – even with its bingo card of baguettes and berets – remains the one to beat.
