Season four of Emily in Paris is here, and as everyone knows, to be able to get through yet another season we must turn a blind eye to what the showrunners deem fashionable. Once again, Emily Cooper (played by Lily Collins) has unleashed her assault on French fashion with a wardrobe that can only be described as a colour-blind preschooler’s fever dream. Far from the elegant minimalism we associate with French style, Emily’s outfits scream louder than said preschooler in a packed restaurant, leaving us wondering if she’s living in Paris or an alternate dimension where clashing prints and neon feathers reign supreme.
Let’s talk about those daily strolls to work in sky-high heels. Emily struts through Paris like she’s auditioning for Gigi Hadid’s job, oblivious to the fact that her retina-searing ensembles are likely responsible for a spike in optometry appointments citywide. Instead of the chic black business casual you’d expect from someone in PR, she opts for fashion choices that can only be described as a collision of prints, ruffles, and inexplicable accessories. Tiny whimsical handbags? Check. Hats that serve no purpose other than to bewilder? Double-check. Gloves that render your phone’s touch screen useless? You bet.
Saying ‘oui’ to over-the-top
When Emily in Paris first graced Netflix in 2020, her wardrobe became as infamous as the character herself. It was as if the show had set out to redefine the term “French girl chic” by turning it on its head and then stomping on it in a pair of neon stilettos.
Over the past decade, social media has been largely responsible for the emergence of the French girl stereotype – think Breton stripes, casual elegance, and lots of neutral colours – positioning it-girls like Marion Cotillard, Audrey Tautou and Camille Rowe as go-to fashion inspirations. On TikTok, searches for “French girl style” have approximately 400 million views, while the hashtag #frenchgirlstyle has amassed over 47 million.
When a show about an American’s stints in Paris was announced, we expected class and maybe a little bit of experimentation courtesy of the costume department – at most. Which is why critics were quick to pounce on the outrageous fashion, with Vogue dubbing Emily’s clothes the “most cringe-worthy trigger of them all,” while Elle shamed her “frenzied dress sense.” And as the seasons have progressed, costume designers Patricia Fields and Marylin Fitoussi have only doubled down, creating outfits that make us question not just Emily’s taste but possibly our own.
It shouldn’t surprise anyone that Fields, the mastermind behind Sex and the City’s iconic wardrobe, is the brains behind this sartorial catastrophe. Fields herself told Refinery29 that Emily’s over-the-top style is a deliberate choice to highlight her bubbly American identity in a sea of those with more reserved French sensibilities. But let’s be honest—her wardrobe feels less like a fashion statement and more like an unsubtle reminder that she’s living her own fantasy, which is often the case for lets-make-everything-about-me Emily.
Top of the list for fashion jail
Now, let’s break down some of her most egregious offences. Season one’s green metallic leather jacket paired with a multicoloured animal print mini skirt was a visual crime scene. The metallic alone was bad enough, but throwing animal print into the mix took it from bad to fashion felony.
If there’s one thing Emily loves more than making our eyes bleed, it’s mixing prints in ways that defy logic. Case in point: a season three outfit consisting of striped shorts, a polka dot turtleneck, and a gold duster jacket. This was less business casual and more circus master.
And then there’s the themed dressing. Season three saw Emily attending a press trip to a lavender field dressed head-to-toe in lavender. But instead of channelling the elegance of, say, ace theme dresser Zendaya, Emily looked like a human lavender bush gone rogue.
The showstopper (not in a good way), however, came in the latest season when Emily showed up to a brand activation ball in what can only be described as a black and white striped catsuit-dress hybrid straight out of a Tim Burton production. Collins herself called it her “hands down favorite costume of the season,” which frankly made us question if we were watching the same show. The outfit was more “bank robber in a French silent film” than romantic masquerade ball.
Method to madness
But wait—there’s method to this madness. According to Fitoussi, these outfits aren’t just pulled from a malfunctioning random outfit generator. They’re meant to reflect Emily’s evolving character and the influences around her. For instance, that hot pink feather cape in season three’s opening scene where Emily is pushed off the Eiffel Tower? It’s a symbolic farewell to the old, overly feminine Emily as she begins to embrace a more subdued style. Well, “subdued” might be a stretch, but the shift to a head-to-toe yellow suit, complete with matching platform heels and printed scarf, does suggest that Emily is at least trying to tone it down to one colour per fit.
Not to be outdone, Sylvie—the epitome of Parisian chic—has also started experimenting with colour and prints. Gone are her days of strictly black and white; now, she’s sporting vibrant oranges and corals, signalling that even she isn’t immune to the sartorial madness that Emily has brought into their lives. Fitoussi cleverly dresses Sylvie in Schiaparelli, a nod to the brand’s eccentric history and surrealist designer, and a parallel to Sylvie’s own evolving character; both strong women.
So, where does that leave us? With a show that continues to push the boundaries of what can be considered fashion and occasionally ponder our own questionable style choices. In the end, Emily in Paris may not be a masterclass in French fashion, but it certainly knows how to keep us coming back for more—if only to see what monstrosity Emily will don next.
