Emily in Paris

Unproblematic, stupid, and fun. ... Nothing makes sense. And thank goodness.

Whether you watch (or hate watch) for the quintessential American in Paris, the eye-popping costumes, or the frothy low-stakes relationship conflicts — whether work or romances — “Emily in Paris” confidently strides forward.

Narratively, Emily in Paris is a dud, taking us to a dead-end in a purple McLaren. But it looks pretty and there are standout moments (sometimes for the wrong reasons: Mindy’s take on a performance suitable for a small, historic jazz club is truly something to behold). But Emily in Paris has lost its magic.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it is so relentlessly chirpy it doesn’t really need to. The clothes are bright and hypnotically garish, to the extent that, like its ancestor Sex and the City, you just want a new episode to start so you can see what everyone is wearing.

What once felt like a fun drift through a magical alternate universe, by Season Three, has come to feel like a stagnant decision that no one is willing to make. ... Star, by not choosing to go harder on his characters, lets them ambivalently coast through their world: still technicolor, still camp, but without the sense of adventure that made the show such a delight to begin with.

At least it captures a stunning French vibe, even if the show portrays the culture and its people in laughably stereotypical ways. Emily In Paris is obviously a form of escapism; for that, it gets the credit, even if it doesn’t deserve much else.

On the nose? You ain’t seen nothing yet. In Emily in Paris, an exposition-heavy script makes sure nothing is left open to interpretation. ... The high fashion world of Emily in Paris (aka her mildly ridiculous wardrobe) continues to be the best thing about this show.

The writers are stringing us along, and spending Netflix’s money, because they know another series is in the bag. It’s lazy and will leave fans feeling short-changed.