In 1951, the young and dashing painter Jerry Mulligan arrives in Paris to become an artist, and not quite get there, despite all the love, the true love, the one that occurs only on the banks of the Seine on a summer evening fog. This is An American in Paris, we’re in 1951, and the Parisians are nice fellas, hygienic and correct to the apartments already really tiny.
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In 2020, the young and beautiful corporate Emily Cooper arrives in Paris to learn corporatism with the French, and without quite achieving it, despite all the love, the true love, the one that she decides to fly to his good friend Camille because “ménage à trois” it is said in French in all languages. This is Emily in Paris, we are in 2020, and the Parisians are dark assholes sexist who do not wash after fucking and call it “good rooms” of the penthouse in the 8th arrondissement.
If it is a mirror that is not befitting of the new series by Darren Star (Sex and the City, and a few other soap junk), it is well stretched by Vincente Minelli 70 years ago: there was nothing of the real Paris in cardboard pulp an American in Paris, but there was nothing either of imperialism annoying, if not obscene, the bitch of competition embodied by Lily Collins in Emily in Paris. Real Valérie Damidot of social justice in neo-liberal here to rub like a frantic all the asperities of the French culture that she meets on her way.
Difficult to hold it against them as specimens of local it ceases to meet seem to come out of the imagination of Catherine Deneuve: the poor pitcher spends his time making “disturbing” by big disgusting costume, Zara and handsomely harass the work of Paris of middle age who come to work in a cocktail dress. Country of trade unions and industrial tribunals, Emily is in a bubble at this point retrograde that she comes to believe that offering lingerie La Perla™ by a client is commonplace in naughty this side of the Atlantic.
This is obviously not the only affront inflicted on this Cosette CSP+: insulting the work, putting in the closet, harassment or bullying on the part of his employer, sexual harassment on the part of its customers… No, this is not a film by Michael Haneke, this is Emily in Paris who discovers the true Paris.
Because, according to her friend (the fun Ashley Park in the role of the quota Asian, Mindy) : “the Chinese are bad on your back. The French are bad in your face. “But that is of course! Why, then, write words on one person when you can write about two?
Emily can, fortunately, find comfort in the other Paris, one of the berets (she puts a lot), croissants (she eats a lot), and the beautiful and spirited young men (her fuck her a lot). The one she wants, a very disturbing infringement local Armie Hammer, Gabriel, is unfortunately already taken. This is not serious, the canons of beauty and well-prepared manner catalogue Balibaris make the tail in front of his ” maid’s room “, since this is France, madame: the pleasure in continuous service, or as Mindy the verbalise very nicely, “the English “D”.
Because if the French are assholes finished, Emily in Paris tells us that they are also individuals ethereal completely out of the world and to the knowledge of quasi-mystical feelings and physical pleasure. To see such as the new wild, the French way of Darren Star is a creature both repulsive and irresistible, fetish and exotic at the immediate periphery of American culture.
Some would say, perhaps with reason, that the aim of the game is here to make fun of the Americans. Not missing after all Emily that “a pair of boots with zippers” to remind the normal Gabriel of the sweet memories of the landing (it is even the subject of their first conversation) : Emily does not move not in France, she walks on France, and with a tenacity which, let’s face it, often force the hilarity to default to force compliance.
But the series, in a succession of furious stereotypes, never happens to a form of words. If the physical union between America and France is regularly consumed (although the series is surprisingly prudish), each of the two parties remains a mystery to the other. And this is not the intrusion old-fashioned of the virtual in the form of an account Instagram also named #EmilyinParis (that, all proud of their varnish pre-university, Les Inrocks qualify as ” vertigo meta “) that allows the real Emily in Paris to be more than a guided tour, on the whole particularly murky, in the imagination paraphilique of the American francophile way.