Emily in Paris - A review from a French viewer

Last night I ended up binge watching the whole series of Emily in Paris on Netflix, after spotting on twitter someone live-tweeting their viewing of the first episode, which is, admittedly, pretty bad. 

The series, which comes from the creators of Sex and the City, is the story of Emily, a girl from Chicago who ends up being given a job as her PR company's envoy to its newly acquired French subsidiary. Her role is to tell that bunch of feckless frogs how to do their job. Something they prove surprisingly not very keen on... 

Because this is all about luxury, glamour and attracting the yoofs, she is a Gen Z marketeer specialising in social media, even though she only has 48 followers on IG when the show starts(!). 

She also doesn't speak French, which should probably disqualify her but that is not the case, because Emily, played by Lily Collins, daughter of Phil, is a pretty girl reaping the benefits of her white privilege, in her inordinately spacious, company-paid(?) "chambre de bonne" (that isn't actually a chambre de bonne). 

A big bonus for me, in addition of how good everyone (making generous use of the tired stereotypes of the Femme Française and the French Lover), and everything (In case we forget, Emily takes good care to remind us at least once per episode how beautiful and romantic and exciting Paris really is. It's just a shame it is populated with French people, being the unspoken sequitur) looks in the series, is that it appears to have actually been filmed in France, with actual French actors, which has historically rarely been the case for this sort of vehicle. 

The series is however also a rich collection of clichés and idiotic moments. 

Emily is possibly not as bright as we are supposed to think. It takes her no less than three times knocking on the door of her hunky downstairs neighbour *clumsy plot device alert* to figure out and/or remember that the "floor numbering here makes absolutely no sense", even though she has plenty of time to think about it, since her building is archaic enough not to have a lift. 

Something else she has problem seeing, through the rose-tinted glasses of her self-centredness, is that French people don't owe her anything and are therefore perfectly entitled to carry on doing things the French way, even at the unfathomably disrespectful risk of inconveniencing our heroine. 

A tiny part of the "fun" when watching this, at least in the early episodes, is in the spotting of the familiar tropes of the "American fish in the French pond" narrative. 

A lot of them are there, and a few of them are thankfully missing. 

Missing is the accordion as background music so people are really sure we are in France. Missing also are Citroen DSs (which have virtually disappeared from French roads for some time now). Missing are characters called Jean or Madeleine (1940's names, although the obligatory reference to D-Day isn't missing). They even managed to hold off till the 3rd episode for bidet "jokes"... such restraint! 

Since this is Netflix, there is at least one tiny nod to diversity, in this case in the person of one  (1) black man (in the whole series). A certain campness and sartorial flamboyance indicate that this male collaborator of Emily's could possibly be gay, but this paper-thin character is only there for "comedy" and to sometime move the plot forward, so he doesn't get even a whiff of a storyline to himself. It's not even clear what his role in the company is. 

All that said, whether it ends up actually getting better as the episodes roll on, or I got a merciful attack of Stockholm syndrome, I ended up enjoying the series and I'm quite ready for season 2. If that doesn't prove the power of American cultural imperialism, I don't know what will... 

The Independent gives a good overview of the situation: Emily in Paris: Critics hate it, French people are mocking it – but fans are obsessed