The ingredients for a hit movie or television show in the streaming age are as follows: derivative storytelling, heightened psychedelic visuals, gratuitous depictions of bodily fluids and theatrical, uncensored sex. Be sure to throw in at least a few cinematic parallels to classic films that can be posted side by side on Instagram to draw obvious throughlines, and bonus points if your plot is ripped from an Israeli TV show or classic English novel.
Only then, if your project is as visually stimulating as a baby sensory video, as obscene as fetish content and as digestible as a children’s book, may it break through to the mainstream and become a topic of conversation. “Euphoria” showrunner Sam Levinson has become a master chef of this formula, and the average viewer thinks themself a connoisseur. If this is what it takes, then maybe reaching pastime status just isn’t worth it in our current attention economy.
“Euphoria” is the closest thing we have to a real, sustained cultural moment amid the takeover of streaming and short-form content. It eats its own tail to come full circle, optimized for discourse and a spectacle unto itself.
Its first season was distinctly different from the latter two. The show began as the first real mainstream mediation between the small screen and the pocket-sized screen. Through heavy use of references like Jules’ “Romeo + Juliet” Halloween costume and strong visual direction supplied by an uncredited Petra Collins, it depicted the cusp of the 2020s. It was a Tumblr page come to life, with characters that leaped off the screen and resonated with viewers.
The show was markedly gratuitous, with on-screen depictions of sexual activity and drug use. Appearing at the tail end of a decade marked by unnecessarily ridiculous and mature plotlines in teen programming such as “Riverdale” and “Pretty Little Liars,” the show had real potential as an albeit early pastiche of 2010s teen dramas.
That first season of “Euphoria” predicted an iGen adolescence predicated on millennial sleaze. Its aesthetics were decidedly forward-thinking, but the characters behaved more like young adults. Its moodboarded sentiment felt honest and somewhat novel. In 2019, we could never have predicted that our teen years would be spent living through Levinson’s kaleidoscopic lens of sign and symbol.
Post-pandemic, these characters no longer felt relatable. Young people have since made headlines for being comparatively chaste and sober. To keep momentum going, the ante had to be upped. In addition, we were screen-addled with significantly lower attention spans following lockdown.
University of Minnesota assistant professor of media and popular culture Ruth DeFoster said she’s fascinated by the idea of “Euphoria” being a vehicle for Generation Z to live through.
“My perception as someone who’s 40 is that this is a kind of accessible, safe way that your generation can sort of explore counterculture or explore risky behaviors in a way that doesn’t actually endanger you,” DeFoster said.
What once made it feel somewhat true-to-life suddenly became a heightened unreality as our generation went from actors to consumers.
The first season was a vestige of a pre-pandemic Gen Z we never got. Then Levinson’s commentary moved from the textual to the metatextual, providing fodder for online discourse as we continued to watch these montages from the safety of our bedrooms. The second season even featured a play within a play.
The show’s real generational commentary is driven more by viewers than the plot itself.
This brings us to the third season, where in only two episodes, we’ve seen both a supporting cast member and a pig defecate on screen.
“There’s something to be said for just the sensation of it,” DeFoster said. “It’s sensational, it’s edgy on purpose, and that’s what keeps Gen Z tuning in.”
Cassie Howard, Sydney Sweeney’s character, is an especially glaring reminder of this metatext, showing that Levinson is willing to rip straight from the headlines this season. Sweeney has faced backlash for her conservative dogwhistling, prolific brand partnerships and sexualized public persona. So what else would her character do but get engaged to Tesla Cybertruck-driving Nate Jacobs and start an OnlyFans to pay for the wedding because she’s desperate for cash?
The show’s promo focuses largely on this character arc, which has already caused significant backlash. Sweeney is a magnet for ire and is slowly becoming an oversexualized love-to-hate internet villain, and her character reflects this.
University second-year student Ellen Smith said she’s disappointed in the way Sweeney’s character has changed.
“That character was amazing, she was flawed,” Smith said. “That’s what ‘Euphoria’ was about, and Season two was OK. She’s still extremely flawed, but I feel like they just took it to the extreme again.”
Despite this, Smith said she’ll continue to tune in for the coming “Euphoria” Sundays.
“I really want to see where they go with the season, truly,” Smith said. “Because I feel like they’re just making s— up for the shock, because where are the stakes now?”
The circus that is the latest season of “Euphoria” would be unremarkable if it hadn’t become what its very existence sought to critique — a soap opera masquerading as coming-of-age programming.
The show used to feel like it was saying something about us, but now our collective eagerness in responding to it says more than it ever could.
