“Emily in Paris,” now back for a second season on Netflix, is stubbornly fluffy, and it behaves as if there are only about 10 people in the Paris fashion and PR worlds, and its French people are as deep as those you’d find on a commercial for Dijon mustard, and the ever-cheerful Emily, played by Lily Collins, is a cypher, and her fashion sense is eminently hate-watchable as she, looking like a conspicuously wrapped gift, tries to one-up the “Sex and the City” gang, and her development as a moral or emotional being — not to mention as a speaker of the language of the country in which she has a high-powered job — is nonexistent, and her new love interest is a bundle of English stereotypes, and her lies to her friend Camille about sleeping with his boyfriend are a turnoff, and her millennial addiction to social media and selfies is tiresome and clichéd.
What can I say? I watched every episode, mostly for the French scenery, which is transfixing and lovely. I knew from watching season one, which was a lockdown hit, that the show, from Darren Star, is in love with surfaces and resistant to any kind of insight, so my expectations were low. I was not disappointed.