‘Emily in Paris’: From Dumpster Fire to Dumpster Fireworks

Everything we can't stop loving, hating, and thinking about this week in pop culture.

Manage newsletters View in browser with Kevin Fallon Everything we can't stop loving, hating, and thinking about this week in pop culture. This week:  My nemesis in Paris returns. Aaron Sorkin totally missing the point. All hail the sad Christmas. The reign of Mariah continues. Happy holidays to most of you!  Emily in Paris Is Back to Ruin My Life I don't mean to be alarmist or hyperbolic, but Netflix is an insidious beast with dastardly designs and we should all be aware and in fear of its algorithmic reign of terror.    I'm not saying that Netflix invented the Omicron variant in order to make sure that we'd all be stuck at home this week with nothing to do but watch Emily in Paris—a television series whose mere existence constitutes an act of evil—but also be in such a state of despair and dread that we would actually be grateful for it. That we'd appreciate its distraction. That we'd even want or love its frothy nonsense feel-good vibes.  But I'm also not saying that Netflix didn't not do that. How diabolical is the streaming service in this mission? Against all odds, against the very fabric of what Emily in Paris is and every human instinct we have to discern what is good vs. what is bad, this plan has worked. After weathering a narrative as one of the most derided series and pop-culture phenomena in recent years during its first season, the second batch of episodes, released this week, have people genuinely liking this show. Could I possibly—for the love of all that is good and holy—be one of them?    Emily in Paris shouldn't be the cultural lightning rod it's become. About an attractive girl from Chicago who is sent to work in Paris for a year, it was innocuous and inoffensive, though unequivocally bad. That's OK! Bad TV is fun to watch, and that's what Emily in Paris was, to be most generous: Fun. Pretty shots of Paris. A very hot French love interest. Clothes that were absolutely hideous, but in a way that makes you know that it's "fashion."    When it premiered last fall, it became instantly popular. Everyone was watching it. Tweets about it flurried on the social media site like a blizzard, all with a version of the same message: "This show is so annoying. I can't wait for more."    Lily Collins' Emily was as if the most unappealing character traits of the four Sex and the City women manifested themselves into one person. The show had a sentient rodent's understanding of influencer culture and social media, which was a major issue considering the crux of the series is that Emily is a social media expert whose own Instagram account goes viral. Then there was the fact that, for all the stunning Parisian shooting locations and the aforementioned impossibly hot French boy, this was less a love letter to the city than a total mockery of it.    The French, especially, got so pissed off by the show's portrayal of their culture that it became somewhat of an international crisis. Studies started to come out explaining away the series' popularity as part of a trend of TV series that are made to play while viewers pay them little to no attention, merely a colorful background to fleetingly glance at while sporadically looking up from scrolling through your phone.    But then the unthinkable happened. Inexplicably, the series earned a Best Comedy Series nomination from the Golden Globes, arguably the first domino leading to the disgrace and demise of the once-popular award show and the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, the body that votes for it. People couldn't imagine how any discerning voter could consider Emily in Paris the "best" anything, other than Best Silly Thing You Binged on That One Rainy Weekend. But then it soon came to light that the voters had essentially been bribed, receiving an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris to visit the set during production.    Emily in Paris became the beret that broke the camel's back for the HFPA. Its long history of corruption had a comeuppance, alongside a scandal over its history of racism and the fact that none of its members were Black. Even one of the Emily in Paris writers was embarrassed by the underserved nominations. "I tried to avoid reading its criticism, but I don't live under a rock. It never occurred to me that our show would be nominated," she wrote. She also issued a public apology to Michaela Coel, whose I May Destroy You was snubbed by the Globes    The more undeserved accolades the show received—somehow, after all that Globes backlash, Emmy voters also nominated it for Best Comedy Series—the more the show became this dark force of entertainment to be understood and reckoned with. And, because this is America, the more people made a point of saying something like Emily in Paris is bad, the more aggressive its fans and defenders became in insisting that it was good.    "You can't tell me what's good and what's bad." Liking Emily in Paris became a political act. Make America Paris Again.    It's with that energy, the idea that proclaiming to enjoy the new season of Emily in Paris was in some way renegade or provocative, that so many people have started watching these new episodes.    It helps that life circumstances gave them the perfect defense to bolster their argument—whether or not they were engineered by the Netflix overlords. The world is so harrowing right now. We are perhaps lucky to have this lunatic terrorizing all of her Parisian friends and coworkers as a diversion. It's a passport at just the right time, with all of us stuck at home either quarantining after a positive COVID test result or hunkered down in order to prevent infection.   For these people, to criticize the show would be cruel. The snarky cool kids aren't the Emily haters now. They're its unabashed enthusiasts.    I can't believe I'm saying this but, in some respects, they're right.    I watched the new season of Emily in Paris and it is an unequivocal improvement—albeit still, yes, a very bad show. Maybe it's the resigned pleasure of knowing what you're in for this time, but I found myself far less allergic to this maniacal doofus of a character and her tyrannical narcissism.    The show's much more appealing supporting cast is given more to do this go around. Sure, they're all still caricatures of what Americans assume the French would be like. The effect is an aspiring Carrie Bradshaw surrounded by a bunch of Lumieres from Beauty and the Beast. On a base level, that's arguably enjoyable.    There are still copious issues. For how stunning so much of the cinematography and scenery is, and considering that this is a romantic comedy at its core, it's confusingly unromantic. I think people are wrong to assume that this is some sort of millennial successor to Sex and the City. It's all the fantasy without any of the real talk, which is what Sex and the City had in spades. And, honestly, And Just Like That, too.   That said, the Hot French Chef is somehow even hotter. Emily's outfits have become even more outrageous and embarrassing, which is a delight to see. There are running jokes at the French's expense that will be humorous for us, if hateful for them. There's one refrain about it being illegal for the French to work on the weekend, and how Emily can't wrap her head around it. I laughed a lot, as I watched five hours of screeners over the weekend so that I could write this piece. This show may still be my nemesis, but that's a good thing. I often argue that the greatest thing a show can be is the best version of itself. Too many series don't even know what they're trying to be, let alone what tone to achieve or how to execute it. That was the big miss of Emily in Paris' first season. It was a lot of frills that amounted to nothing. This season has reconfigured itself as a "friends hanging out in Paris" glossy soap opera. It's immensely watchable, even in its badness.    And so, voila, here we are admitting the incomprehensible: Oui, I recommend Emily in Paris season two.  The Gays Are Not Having It With Aaron Sorkin  No one does a better job making people not want to see an Aaron Sorkin movie than Aaron Sorkin.    Maybe we should be grateful that the award-winning writer is, unlike so many people in Hollywood, unfiltered and candid about his views, no matter what consternation they might cause, when he's asked pointed questions. Or maybe he's just a straight white guy who assumes there'd be little consequence to whatever he says.  In any case, Sorkin has been on a long press tour for Being the Ricardos, the film about Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz that hit theaters earlier this month, but is back in the news this week because it was made available on Amazon Prime. In other words, humans are actually now seeing it.    There's been a lot of conversation around whether Javier Bardem, who is Spanish, should have been cast as Desi Arnaz, who is Cuban. That's an important discourse about representation and the way we historically conflate culture and ethnicity with language. Rather than engage thoughtfully on this debate, any time he's been asked about it Sorkin has appeared to be angry that this is a question at all.    "It's heartbreaking, and a little chilling to see members of the artistic community resegregating ourselves," he told The Times in the U.K. "You can act being attracted to someone, but can't act gay or straight. So this notion that only gay actors should play gay characters? That only a Cuban actor should play Desi? Honestly, I think it's the mother of all empty gestures and a bad idea."   This is such a disappointing, bad-faith response to a legitimate concern. One, it's a dismissal of the idea of cultural representation and its significance, and perpetuates the erasure of distinct identities within the Latin and Spanish communities. But it's also a gross conflation of two distinct issues in Hollywood: the casting of straight actors in gay roles, and cultural representation.   I have lots of thoughts about whether or not straight actors should be cast in gay roles. I'm actually more forgiving of this than a lot of LGBT critics. But the ignorance in Sorkin's statement is that he's so clearly unaware that the issue has long since evolved past "who is right for a part" and "it's acting, it's pretend, so it doesn't matter." It's a problem of opportunity.    There is still no such thing as out gay leading man in Hollywood, a gay actor who is cast in blockbusters, as action heroes, and as straight characters in romances. There are still a woefully limited number of robust, fully realized gay characters on screen. If we are still casting gay actors only in gay roles, that's an egregious lack of opportunity to begin with—a problem that is exacerbated when straight actors are given the juiciest parts, usually because of their name recognition… which, again, they're afforded because of the opprotunities they are given that gay actors do not have.    I wish Sorkin would have given more consideration to the question about Bardem. I wish he hadn't made a false equivalence between ethnicity and sexual orientation in Hollywood. I wish he would realize that he is a straight white male and therefore perhaps ill-equipped to speak so authoritatively on any of this.   Billy Eichner, who is currently making history filming the first gay rom-com by a major movie studio and has cast every principal role, gay or straight, with a LGBT actor, had a great take on this: Have Yourself A Merry (Sad, Depressing) Little Christmas My favorite Christmas song in the "Not by Mariah Carey or Kelly Clarkson" category is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." This is because I like to cry on Christmas, and this is a song that makes you want to load your pockets with stone and recreate the Virginia Woolf scene from the end of The Hours, marching stoically into the sea as Judy Garland's mournful contralto reverberates.    Yes, this is such a loving and rejuvenating time of the year. It is also painful and lonely. The best of holiday pop culture understands the bittersweetness of it all, choosing that as the emotion to celebrate.  That is why I was enraged to discover a few years ago a piece of trivia that I have since become obsessed with. The reason the song, which was originally performed by Garland in 1944's Meet Me in St. Louis, works is because of its melancholy, its emotional ambivalence. And because it is our human mandate to ignore such emotions, especially at a time like Christmas when we're gaslit into mainlining holiday cheer, some people began to reject those elements of the song.    Frank Sinatra was one of the first to release a version with a rewrite of what is the film's most consequential, most powerful lyric, "until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow" to "hang a shining star upon the highest bow." It's such an ill fit, like the narrator of the song had been prescribed candy-cane happy pills because the acknowledgment of real emotions was bumming all the holiday partiers out.    That lyric has since popped up in countless other versions of the song, sparking a war so to speak between purists and those who appreciate the more optimistic lyrics. It's become popular in recent years to lay down the law: Under no circumstances will we tolerate a rendition of the song that excises the "muddle through" lyric. Rightfully so.   I've noticed something interesting on social media in the past few days, especially. With more and more people landing positive test results for COVID and being forced to cancel their holiday plans—and with the dismal vibes ending a year that was supposed to mark a return to normal and a brighter post-pandemic future—that "Have Yourself…" lyric has been popping up everywhere. "Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow." Never has the act of muddling through seemed so apt, especially during a holiday season. But now everytime I hear that song or read that lyric, I keep getting struck by a different word: "Somehow."    Muddle through? I've been doing a version of that for so long, especially these last two years. We all have to the point of wondering whether the muddling, the getting through, is even possible anymore. How many times can we face hopelessness and still be foolish enough to push through it? The word "somehow" strikes me now because it seems so impossible, so audacious.    That's why I think this is the perfect song for this Christmas. It's the holiday of "somehow." The "somehow of it all" is the miracle of the season. Mariah Carey's Reign Continues, With a Glow-Up Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" went to number one again this week, as it should. But that's not the only victory. This truly batshit Christmas ornament of her likeness that went viral has finally gotten an upgrade. It's what she deserves. Merry Christmas to Everyone Except Them Maybe they shouldn't have given us the right to marry. (H/T @FleetwoodMax_)  What to watch this week:  Encanto: It hits Disney+ this week and is perfect family viewing for the holidays. (Fri. on Disney+) Insecure: The finale of this show is this weekend, and it's not spoiling anything to say that I've seen it, and it is beautiful. (Sun. on HBO) The Matrix Resurrections: It's obviously a mess, but obviously a blast to watch. (Now in theaters and on HBO Max) What to skip this week: The King's Man: Imagine getting COVID because you had to see The King's Man. (Now in theaters) Advertisement © Copyright 2021 The Daily Beast Company LLC 555 W. 18th Street, New York NY 10011 Privacy Policy If you are on a mobile device or cannot view the images in this message, click here to view this email in your browser. 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