Nahla Zayed Let’s start with a small confession.
When Emily in Paris dropped its fifth season last month, we didn’t rush to analyze it — we slipped into it. No expectations. No pressure. Just one episode that somehow turned into three, then five, then a quiet “okay, fine” as the next episode auto-played.
Because by season five, this show isn’t something you evaluate anymore. It’s something you return to.
This time, the return comes with a twist. Paris steps slightly out of focus, and Rome steps in — sun-drenched, cinematic, and unapologetically romantic. Italian piazzas replace café terraces, fountains replace balconies, and suddenly the show feels lighter, airier, almost like it needed a change of scenery as much as Emily did.
Visually, the shift works. It really does.
And fashion-wise, there’s a noticeable evolution. Emily’s wardrobe feels calmer this season — more refined, more intentional. Less chaos, fewer costume-like moments. It’s as if the show is gently reminding us that its heroine isn’t the same girl who arrived wide-eyed in Paris five seasons ago. Or at least, she’s trying very hard not to be.
But here’s where things get interesting.
For all its beauty, season five feels emotionally scattered. Storylines drift rather than collide. Scenes float by without always landing where you expect them to. And nowhere is that more evident than in Gabriel’s storyline.
Once the emotional anchor of the series, Gabriel now feels… distant. He appears just enough to remind us of his importance, but never enough to feel essential. Is the show slowly letting him go? Is it holding the door open? Even it doesn’t seem entirely sure. And that uncertainty lingers.
Rome introduces Marcello — charming, handsome, and very much an Italian fantasy. He looks perfect on screen. He sounds perfect on paper. But chemistry can’t be styled, and despite the romance promised by the setting, their connection never fully sparks. It feels like a postcard romance — beautiful, fleeting, and ultimately lightweight.
Unexpectedly, the most emotionally grounded storyline belongs to Mindy and Alfie. Their dynamic feels warmer, messier, and far more human than Emily’s central love story. There’s vulnerability there. Awkwardness. Real consequences. And watching them, you can’t help but notice what the show sometimes forgets: when Emily in Paris allows discomfort and imperfection, it actually works best.
The supporting cast continues to carry the series with ease.
Luc remains delightfully chaotic — fully aware of the show’s absurdity and leaning into it with charm. Sylvie, as always, is magnetic. Stylish. Unapologetic. But this season, her endless carousel of lovers edges closer to exaggeration than intrigue. At some point, even glamour can feel repetitive.
And then there’s the work — or rather, the fantasy of it.
Emily insists she’s constantly overwhelmed, yet we mostly see lunches, dinners, cocktails, and meaningful conversations over wine. Every crisis is resolved with a single idea, a single conversation, or a conveniently viral moment. Reality, once again, is left somewhere off-screen — probably between outfit changes.
By the time the season ends, you’re left with a familiar feeling. You weren’t bored. You weren’t disappointed. But you also weren’t surprised. Earlier seasons felt sharper, more playful, more chaotic in a way that worked. Season five feels softer — content to coast on its own reputation.
And perhaps that’s why Netflix didn’t hesitate to announce season six just a month after release. Emily in Paris has officially crossed into cult territory. The kind of show we critique freely, roll our eyes at lovingly, and still return to without hesitation.
So yes, we’ll watch again.
Not because we expect transformation — but because sometimes, beauty, familiarity, and a little escapism are more than enough.
See you in season six.
