Emily in Paris: frivolous fairy tale or capitalist wolf in sheep’s clothing? by Thomas Harrison

“I’d bone appétit him” – just one example of the many sophisticated French puns and quips to be found in the popular Netflix show Emily in Paris.

The following article may make me the next focus of a Jeremy Clarkson-style call to “shame”, a snowflake finding issue with a harmless romantic comedy, but when watching the latest season of the Parisian set show, I found myself asking whether the exploits of the titular character, her friends and colleagues, were mere entertainment or something more insidious. Is Emily in Paris harmless fantasy or dangerous fiction? A frivolous fairy tale or a capitalist wolf in sheep’s clothing?

“…fantastical dreams and pink ambitions for little girls the world over”

Beauty and the Beast. Aladdin. Sleeping Beauty. The Little Mermaid. On the face of it, these tales are nothing more than love conquering evil, heroic men saving women in peril, light versus darkness - but, on a deeper level, what do these stories have in common? What thread connects them? Belle falls in love with her abusive captor; Jasmine is imprisoned by a royal patriarch; Aurora is saved by an unconscious, and therefore non-consensual, kiss; Ariel trades her voice – her identity and personality - for a man she has never met. And each of these stories have been sold for decades as fantastical dreams and pink ambitions for little girls the world over: a girl hurt, a girl trapped, a girl in an unknown place, all sacrificing something about herself for a man, for so called love. Was this intentional on Walt Disney’s part, or are these gentle and cartoonish stories of good against evil being unfairly re-evaluated in a post #metoo world? Harmless fantasy or dangerous fiction? And is Emily in Paris any different to the likes of Belle et al?

Emily, portrayed by Lily Collins, is thrust into a world unusual: an American in Paris. Through various foibles and escapades, she finds herself making gaffes in front of co-workers, falling for handsome French men, messing up the language with (questionably) hilarious results, and ultimately battling other women for the romantic leads in her life. In 2022, on the cusp of 2023, shouldn’t we by now have moved on from these same tropes of women hopelessly falling for men whilst losing a part of themselves? Haven’t we have been forced to digest these stories for long enough? In the first season of Emily in Paris our ingenue is pitted against an older matriarch of a fashion firm, harkening back to both the wicked stepmother who loathes the pure beauty of 1937’s Snow White, and the hatred felt by Ursula (the single Miss Havisham-esque - and therefore bitter, overweight, ugly - antagonist) who is hellbent upon ruining the virginal Ariel in the aforementioned The Little Mermaid. Nearly a century later, surely stories about women have improved? Shouldn’t shows like Emily in Paris, put simply, be better by now? And if not, why not? Again, I raise the question: harmless fantasy or dangerous fiction?

“…scathingly reviewed by critics whilst being a huge ratings win for Netflix”

Upon its release in 2020, Emily in Paris created an immediate cultural dichotomy: loved by fans yet openly mocked by those same viewers claiming it to be the perfect love/hate watch to get us through the winter months of Covid; scathingly reviewed by critics whilst being a huge ratings win for Netflix; detested by French audiences for its stereotypical presentation of Parisian life, whilst reigniting a similar ‘aspirational lifestyle’ flame somewhat lost on television since Darren Star’s other phenom Sex and the City ended in 2004. Indeed, an article by Arshia Chaudhary entitled ‘This Is Why Critics Find Emily in Paris Problematic’ criticises the show for showcasing French “cliches” with characters appearing “rude and lazy” whilst having “extramarital affairs” alongside Emily, who appears to teach the French company she works for a better “American way”. A 2022 article by Amy West raised similar concerns about “caricatures” of European characters in the show’s second season. However as recently as December 2022, even The Guardian’s Rebecca Nicholson reviewed the show stating that despite its “nonsense” nature she can’t help but admit: “whisper it – it’s really fun…”

And then there is the bizarre contrast between its initial critical mauling and unexpected success at both the Golden Globes and Primetime Emmy Awards in 2021, receiving nominations for Outstanding Comedy Series. This was controversial not only because it was widely reported that members of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association were wined and dined in Paris by the show’s developer Paramount Network prior to nominations, but also because of its inclusion in various categories at the expense of other more worthy black led projects, such as I May Destroy You. This arguably led to the widespread boycott of the 2022 awards ceremony. But what did this tell the industry? That awards cannot be bought? That viewers will no longer be duped by shows so vacuous? Or, since the Golden Globes ceremony is due to return in early 2023 as normal and Emily in Paris has been picked up for a fourth season, nothing at all?

“… shouldn’t shows like ‘Emily in Paris’, put simply, be better by now?”

But wait… hasn’t this fish out of water storyline been done before? And if so, what am I complaining about?

For example, Darren Star’s Sex and the City, when seen through a post pandemic lens, is problematic in terms of its ignorant portrayal of white cisgendered females and their upper-class privilege – but can it be argued that it didn’t break social, professional and sexual barriers for women on television at the time? Certainly not. Wasn’t, though, 2008’s The Devil Wears Prada another example of a supposedly simple looking girl (because Anne Hathaway is hideous, right?) fighting for a high-powered career only to succeed when she lost weight and got a makeover? Yes. And isn’t Emily in Paris doing the same? Yes. And wasn’t the underseen 2008 Sarah Michelle Gellar vehicle of Suburban Girl also portraying an up-and-coming woman only able to access the highlights of New York when paid for by an older gent, in this case Alec Baldwin? Yes. And doesn’t Emily flirt her way to deals and promotions with various patriarchs of the fashion industry? Also, yes. So what point am I trying to make?

The referenced Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada and Suburban Girl were all part of a lighting-in-a-bottle cultural moment of women being powerful on screen for the newly internet savvy era – whether that meant being sexually dominant, battling women to get a job, losing weight to go to a function – but, vitally, this was before the allegations of sexism and abuse that broke Hollywood after The New York Times investigation of Meghan Twohey and Jodi Kantor. Therefore I have to question: if not after decades of Disney gender propaganda, then surely after reported and criminialised sexual politics, coverups and backhanders, the media industry could – and should - reward us, and its women, by creating shows with stronger female identifying leads. Again, shouldn’t shows like Emily in Paris, put simply, be better by now?

On one hand we have had ground-breaking shows, from Netflix’s own Orange Is the New Black which celebrated all body sizes, cultural backgrounds and gender identities, to the recent horror film Bodies, Bodies, Bodies which cleverly exposed the pitfalls of internet fame with a diverse female led cast. So, you may ask, shouldn’t seemingly fun shows like Emily in Paris be cut some slack? To answer that, let’s think again about the fairy tale nature of the show.

“… Emily’s exclusive lifestyle seems to come to her as easily as getting by in Paris without actually bothering to learn French”

A young woman in a big city finding her feet, what’s wrong with that? But Emily in Paris sells its viewers a falsehood about success, a rose-tinted vision of living. Emily arrives in Paris with, despite being hired as an ‘influencer’ (a term which evokes instant nausea), very few followers, whilst somehow managing to afford an apartment, dine and drink out most nights, and never wear the same outfit twice. When according to a 2022 report Paris is not only the most expensive city in France, but 88% more costly than other European cities, one must question the validity of our heroine’s onscreen lifestyle. Again, the Piers Morgan’s of the world will bemoan the likes of me for creating this debate around a piece of television fluff, but on another level what Emily in Paris sells is a dream unattainable, a life unrelatable.

Unlike the characters of Gossip Girl who come from old money and the likes of Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie Bradshaw who openly use credit cards to fund shopping habits, Emily’s exclusive lifestyle seems to come to her as easily as getting by in Paris without actually bothering to learn French – apart from the odd ‘merde’ and pun about eating ‘coq au vin’, of course. In fact, Hannah J. Thompson, in an article for theconversation.com, refers to a condition termed the "Paris Syndrome", meaning “the shock experienced by tourists when Paris does not live up to expectations” – something perhaps unknowingly perpetuated by Emily in Paris.

“By all means have a character dining out every night, but you need to show the character actually eating.”

But, for me, the dangers of presenting such a perfect lifestyle are not merely restricted to the financial fallacies shown onscreen, but the expectations created around body image and appearance. By all means have a character dining out every night, but you need to show the character actually eating. Emily rarely eats at social gatherings, instead serving food at a friend’s party; she is seen in a Parisian McDonald’s sipping water; she holds popcorn at an outdoor cinema without crunching away at the snack; she has multiple picturesque park lunches with friends drinking coffee but never gets past merely holding the cup. In fact, in a season three episode she accepts an Instagram challenge from a follower to try various food outlets around the city: she holds a spoon of chocolate mousse above a bowl literally larger than her head… but does not taste it. During the three seasons of the show Emily is seen jogging twice (once stopping midway to answer a phone call) but somehow, to the simple observer, is able to maintain a petite figure whilst eating the very best of French cuisine. Even her on/off love interest neighbour is chef!

Personally, this seems particularly insensitive due to Lily Collins’ own real-life struggle with an eating disorder; she herself documented this in her 2017 memoir, Unfiltered, as well as the excellent To the Bone, a film looking at the harrowing effects of disordered eating upon teenagers. Perhaps if the show was brave enough to tackle such issues knowingly rather than expect viewers, including impressionable girls and boys, to ignore this constant omission, it could add something to a much-needed conversation. There are a handful of other moments highlighting potential social issues such as mentor/nemesis Sylvie vaguely referring to - on one of her many lunch meetings without any actual lunch - a questionable male colleague she used to work with, and a male co-worker stating he is allowed fast food for lunch because he did “cardio” that morning. But without the show ever taking these albeit brief moments to open a larger discussion around sexual abuse in the workplace or eating disorders across all genders, (such as Netflix’s controversial teen drama 13 Reasons Why which at least guided viewers to suicide prevention charities), it makes Emily in Paris seem either ignorant to the issues it presents or unwilling to address them head on. If Emily does not suffer from some type of body dysmorphia, then why not show us her eating a bloody baguette once in a while? Or, could it be, as cynical as this sounds, because thinner is still seen as being better? Are we still in an era of television when a leading lady needs to be of a certain size?

“Are we watching ‘Emily in Paris’ or ‘Emily and Diet Culture’?”

In November of 2022, Jameela Jamil penned a piece for Paper entitled ‘The Hunger Game: Hollywood’s Heroin Chic Revival’. Jamil is an outspoken advocate against the diet industry and outdated expectations around body types and societal pressures created by the media machine. In the article, Jamil refers to the term “Heroin Chic” being used by publications in the 1990s, with it “glor(ifying) mostly women who were painfully thin and sick looking”, with the media’s obsession with female thinness as something capable of “re-infect(ing) the current population”. Jamil continues to argue that even after the pandemic of 2020 women are still being “handed a dossier every decade of the new body and bone structure they must attain”. With this issue in mind, is it then a coincidence that not only do we have in Emily in Paris a female lead of an almost unattainable body size but also a series that has a release date over the Christmas period when – let’s face it – we are bombarded by contradictory messages of eating and drinking and merriment hand in hand with new year diet trends?

According to website cnbc.com the most popular diet trend of 2023 is set to be Plenity, a new weight loss pill which promises to “reduce the number of calories that are absorbed by the body”. What better advertising for the diet industry is there than releasing a television show packed with thin women and buff men (none of whom are shown to eat or exercise regularly) to viewers already feeling guilty about indulging over the festive period and feeling anxious about being so-called “beach body ready” – a term coined by Protein World as part of ‘The Weight Loss Collection’, a product advertised on the London Underground back in 2015. The fact that this new standard of female thinness, alongside male fitness, is presented in a show whose main character is (again, sorry) a global ‘influencer’, makes the pill even more bitter to swallow – pun intended.

The dangers of such influencer led culture is in fact referenced by Jameela Jamil in her ‘I Weigh’ podcast during an interview with writer Rina Raphael. Even Weight Watchers ditched the word “Weight” in 2018 in favour of just WW with the tagline “Wellness that works”, in order to seemingly distance itself from the pejoratively associated-with word “Weight”. And in a year when Taylor Swift’s video for Anti-Hero had to be edited for depicting her own struggles with weight (a devilish version of Swift shows her the word “fat” on a weight scale, highlighting the pressures experienced by Swift as a woman in the music industry) shouldn’t we be asking other global franchises, shows, films and media to be held to the same standard? Again, is Emily in Paris a frivolous fairy tale of aspirational careers, friends and clothing, or a diet industry wolf in a sitcom sheep’s clothing? Are we watching Emily in Paris or Emily and Diet Culture? It is Emily in Paris or Emily and Capitalism? Emily in Paris or Disordered Eating in Paris?

“…loses sight of the real?city”

After the first series premiered in October of 2020, Jon Henley wrote an article for irishtimes.com simply stating “French critics do not like Emily in Paris”, followed by a list of irritations French viewers had with the show: "The berets. The croissants. The baguettes. The hostile waiters. The irascible concierges. The inveterate philanderers. The lovers and the mistresses. Name a cliché about France and the French, you'll find it in Emily in Paris."? One may also question why Emily in Paris chose to not only ignore the pandemic of 2020 in both seasons two and three, but completely snub the tragic destruction of the Notre Dame, an issue again noted by Hannah J. Thompson, believing that the Netflix show “loses sight of the real?city”. Like any piece of entertainment there of course needs to be an element of escapism – after all, we watch film to forget about our lives for an hour or two, don’t we? But is the carefree nature of Emily in Paris there to help viewers flee the darkness of the last few years or blindly paint a capitalist lifestyle unattainable?

Returning then to my opening question about Emily in Paris being a slice of harmless fantasy or cut of problematic fiction, perhaps it is best to end on an idea posed by Emily herself: “Has anyone noticed, this is a very dysfunctional place?”