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“Ringarde!”

Meaning “basic” in French, the word is often used to describe the titular Emily Cooper (Lily Collins) in Netflix’s “Emily in Paris.” Thankfully, for a show about an expat American fashion designer, the series isn’t quite as “ringarde” as it may seem.

Emily, a marketing executive from Chicago, moves to a Parisian marketing firm to provide an American perspective. The show’s plot is, for the most part, what one expects. Emily’s encounters with French men, the trajectory of her work, and her general attitude towards Parisian life feel like an overplayed rom-com. And yet, while it is not the most binge-worthy show, there are small moments of enjoyment and humor — Emily fumbling to pay in coins at a bakery, technical hiccups during cybersex, a family dinner full of unintended innuendos — that keep one invested in the show.

The show has its fair share of flaws, not least of which is its implausibility. It conforms to the typical, overdramatic nature of rom-coms, and some plot points are just too coincidental. Emily’s character is unrealistically cheerful, seemingly unfazed by either a new country or a new boss who despises her. What makes the show even less believable are the constant coincidences in the plot. Whether it’s a stranger helping Emily buy flowers or a nanny whose kids knock down her baguette, a good chunk of Emily’s friendships are products of pure chance.

It’s not just the relationships themselves that are a little too coincidental. With few exceptions, characters seem to drift in and out of the story, temporary “filler” characters whose sole purpose seems to be to (very blatantly) catalyze some event or put Emily through some struggle. Whether it be her coworkers, her boss from the American office, or a man Emily meets at a party that only wants to get in her pants, a surprisingly large amount of the cast lacks multidimensional personality and their relationships with Emily feel half-baked.

In fact, half-baked is the threadline of Emily’s character development — she almost seems to move backwards. Despite several positive influences (including her boss, Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu)) Emily falls into many sticky situations by the end of the show, betraying many of her friends. Her failure to learn from Sylvie’s confidence and guidance or to respect her friends make Emily’s growth counterproductive and her character (a supposed innocent, goody-two-shoes) harder to trust.

The portrayal of social media is also deeply superficial; Emily magically gains followers from boring (frankly, very mediocre) captions and pretty “ringarde” selfies. Though Emily is a marketing genius for the clients she aids at the firm, she doesn’t seem to apply any of that creativity to her own account. Social media does, however, add a fresh new layer to the typical rom-com formula. The show emphasizes the effect of marketing on a product’s success and the role of social media, despite many older clients being hesitant to instill these efforts — even if Emily’s older coworkers don’t buy in. Emily herself, when prompted to delete her Instagram account for work, fondly referred to her account as a way of guidance and documentation: “I’m not sure who I am in this city without ‘@emilyinparis.’”

The show also reveals several differences between French and American culture, some of which hold merit and some of which conform to cringey clichés. In the first episode, Emily’s new coworker, Luc (Bruno Gouery), approaches her with a pointed observation: “I think the Americans have the wrong balance. You live to work. We work to live.” Other aspects of French culture, from the termination process which discourages workers from getting fired to French wives acknowledging their husband’s mistresses, are well-incorporated. Yet, other facets fall short in their execution: clichés like hostile waiters, berets, and lustful French men reveal the show to be a very limited American idea of French culture. These clichés fail to make meaningful commentary on the difference between French and American culture and rarely go deeper than a stereotype.

The show also seems to comment on its own banality in episode seven, when Luc and Julien (Samuel Arnold) are uninterested in the arrival of an American actress. They call American rom-coms “dishonest,” explaining that French endings in film are much more “tragic” and thus “more like life,” concluding, “Happy endings are very American.” Emily says that this is the point of movies — to escape life — and Luc calls this the American problem: “You can never escape life. Never.”

Perhaps, then, “Emily in Paris” is meant to be just what Emily defines rom-coms to be — an escape from life. It’s not an incredibly existentialist, what’s-the-meaning-of-life show, and neither is it particularly realistic. Her overly-colorful, not-very-French outfits, designed by “Sex and the City” costume designer Patricia Field, add to this cliché. And yet, the show still has its charming moments, particularly when it doesn’t take itself seriously. At its best, Emily’s adventure paints a rosier picture of life, one which she sweeps us along into.

Though it might not quite earn it, the show — as an avenue of escape from reality — is one that holds value when the world falls to chaos. And in a time where we’re so isolated, we could all stand to be transported to Paris and enjoy a little cheesy, rom-com fun.