Emily in Paris

At the end of the day, we have to appreciate Emily in Paris for what it is. Whether you love it, hate it, or hate to love it, it has proudly marched onward since it premiered and has not changed for anyone.

But despite its quirks, Emily in Paris ultimately succeeds because, like Emily herself, it is oddly likable, despite all our better judgment. It’s breezy, stylish, and stupid—and proud of it, which is somehow rather charming.

The main characters express their concern, disappointment, and desire to change, ultimately demonstrating that the show's writers are, in fact, listening to the feedback from their devoted audience.

It’s curated to turn off your brain so you can enjoy the stylish French settings (if you can ignore the glaring stereotypes). But you can’t really fault the show for knowing exactly what it is and giving viewers what they want.

This season’s tonal dissonance draws attention to the shallowness of the social commentary—and distracts from the self-aware frivolity that first endeared Emily in Paris to audiences. .... Emily in Paris isn’t equipped to offer clear-eyed analysis of the real world in bite-size releases, and that’s fine.

The plots remain akin to being trapped, screaming, in an air-tight perfume bottle. Emily persists in being garbed like a sherbet-inspired Anna Wintour fever dream.

Even “Emily in Paris” seems a little bored by romance, spending the first act of Season 4 either dutifully advancing the predictable plot or casually abandoning its few major twists. Much like Emily herself, the focus of the show is squarely on work, where the withering gaze of agency boss Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu) creates enough friction to give the proceedings some spark.

But now we’re in season four, and the concept has worn thin. Its self-awareness that it is a demonstrably bad programme isn’t enough any more.

The only truly compelling thread this season, so far, follows Emily’s boss Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu). .... Her scenes, as always, feel like they’re part of a different, more mature show for actual adults—one that makes the rest of Emily in Paris look like Cocomelon. Really, the best reason to keep watching is to see all the nutty outfits Lily Collins is saddled with this time around.

While the show’s silliness has a certain limited charm, the cumulative effect is akin to eating too much sugar too quickly: it leaves you feeling a bit queasy and vowing to swear off this stuff in future.

The leads, Lily Collins and Lucas Bravo, seem weary. There is barely a plot, just actors appearing in scenes that you could shuffle into a random order without affecting the narrative flow, like a bunch of TikTok posts.