As a student from France, I am often asked to comment on Emily in Paris. For the first two seasons, I gladly defended the series and its eponymous protagonist, a twenty-something Midwesterner sent to Paris by her PR company to provide an American perspective to its newly acquired French office.
As I wrote in The Sun last year, I found Emily in Paris to be light-hearted and awfully predictable, but also quite funny and often on the mark when it came to comparing French and American cultures. I dismissed the critics who attacked the show’s depiction of Paris as a city where it never rains, where people never take the métro and where you can live for months without speaking a word of French. Not all television has to be realistic, I would say. Emily in Paris was what you binged when you wanted to escape, to decompress and to watch attractive people adorned in glamorously over-the-top clothing.