Back in 2020, Euphoria was met with an interesting predicament. Following a breakout first season, the COVID-19 pandemic shut down production and left its future in uncertainty. What followed were two hour-long specials centered on a limited cast in intimate settings, discussing where life had taken them. The minutiae allowed for greater depth and a fleshing out of characters. Most of all, the second one (“Fuck Anybody Who’s Not A Sea Blob”) sought to humanize a character whose actions were otherwise misunderstood. After ending season one on a harrowing cliffhanger, audiences were treated to Hunter Schafer delivering a self-examination that has gone on to be considered a high point in the series.
What made these work had as much to do with practicality as it did a sense of reinvention for the series. While creator Sam Levinson had taken to giving every episode a cold open that expanded on a different character’s backstory, the idea of pushing further in allowed Euphoria to dig deeper into its emotional core. It was, after all, the crux of why people loved the show. These were complicated teenagers who reflected the modern age. Why not have more standalone moments to really dig in? Schafer’s solo episode amplified her role on the show and even featured a writing credit that reflected the value of collaboration.
That was five years ago. In that time, the show returned to basics for season two before taking a four year hiatus that has seen the cast’s personal careers blossom. Two of the actors have become Oscar nominees while lead Zendaya has recently been hailed as one of the heroes of indie cinema. Suggestion that everyone had outgrown the show would not be inaccurate, but the extent to which differs depending on who you ask. Watching the finale, it’s a mix of a greater idea poking through the cracks among a cast of exhausted actors and a creator who, if anything, has grown distant from those around him.
An easy reference point is Schafer’s role as Jules. In 2021, the actress wrote an episode that spoke to the anxieties of a trans girl who had grown addicted to online relationships to combat a fraught personal life. Her humanity contrasted perfectly with the insecurities of protagonist Rue as she continues to try and fight drug addiction. Even if these ideas aren’t directly expressed to Rue, the audience’s awareness of the flawed world around her allowed the conflict to feel more human. It’s an emotional hour for many reasons, let alone that it was the show finally acknowledging the many pros and cons of loving an addict.
Cut to 2026, and the story looks much different. To consult anyone on social media is to realize that the once hallowed center of Euphoria has been turned into a punchline. Among the more popular jokes is about how Jules received less screen time than the Coke product placement. There’s also been observation about how she didn’t have any lines in the final 90 minute episode when almost everyone else had some lengthy monologue to wrap a thematic bow around. While she paints a portrait of Rue in tribute, it’s one of those narrative moments that feels too little too late, as if Levinson forgot to flesh out the pathos.
Part of that is because she is the most poorly conceived character in a season where everyone was stuck in character assassination. She had no arc. Her role as a sex worker for a sugar daddy to pay for her art school was not explored, and most of her relationship with Rue had been reduced to surface level distancing. When she was given a chance to flesh out the role, she was offered a chance to paint background art for a TV series that resulted in her drawing a phallocentric piece. Why? The only practical answer could be anger at her employer – though the motivation is not present. Her role has felt begrudging, as if Schafer was on the casting call more out of obligation than genuine passion. Not only that, but the defense that her pièce de resistance was a byproduct of her being trans only laid on the sense that Levinson had given up on empathy altogether. Whereas in 2021 we would’ve gotten a greater reasoning for her acting out while delving into her growing isolation and career stagnation. Instead, we get fans joking that a supporting character’s BBL had more of an arc in the final season.
Something that will always be frustrating is the insistence from Levinson that this was the “realistic” depiction of drug addiction. While it’s sensible to jump forward in time to allow for character development, the open-ended potential went haywire. Initial touches of camp were forgivable because there was still trust that the creator would eventually have every path intersect at a crossroads, allowing every subject covered so far to culminate in this greater thesis about America’s indulgent nature.
If there’s an issue, it’s that “realistic” didn’t exist from the jump. While Rue being a drug mule is still practical, Levinson’s insistence on making every character part of dangerous industries feels a bit strained. Along with the drug smuggling were several subplots centered around sex work that allowed the show to reach an overload of objectification. The only roles outside of them were Nate’s housing scheme that quickly imploded into a violently fetishistic relationship with the mob, and Lexi being a movie studio assistant. While this offers a chance for exciting drama, it doesn’t feel “realistic” to say all of these people had such salacious careers. Where’s the burnout working retail? When everyone is a sex worker or drug mule, it ceases to feel honest and more like a fantasy building to one of the most notorious finales in modern HBO history.
The most tragic part of this series is how clearly Levinson didn’t care about things by the end. Even if the way he concluded Rue’s arc felt sincere, it was still a cynical and somewhat empty ploy to make the season matter. Despite happening midway through the episode, what follows lacked any introspection into the moment. There are lengthy scenes of conversation that shift from larger explorations about indulgence and more of a strange insistence that the contrast to their dark pasts was to read the bible. That was, of course, if Levinson wasn’t interested in having a large portion of the final moments center around characters who hadn’t mattered before this year acting out a literal guns-blazing vengeance plot. Forget the nuance and somber reflection. This is a symbolic death to the drug-using beloved character Ali as a stereotypical violent Black man.
To be fair, this was clearly the story that Levinson wanted to tell, but… why? With all of the conversation around realism, why did he need to flesh out the plot with dozens of new characters that add no emotional heft? There are better ways to communicate how indulgence impacts a young adult’s life than centering around rival drug gangs and D.E.A. agents that turned Rue mostly into a pawn for nonstop Western cinema tropes. Why not even give your protagonist a few moments of relief as the previous seasons did? Why was the only time humor felt incorporated when Cassie became an OnlyFans model and went on an Attack of the 50 Foot Woman (1958) spree through town? Again, why not really dig into her interiority as you did with drug addiction? Take some creative risks that matter.
Maybe the issue altogether for this viewer is that the plot as a whole felt entirely preventable. There was no point in telling the story like this, and it feels like the slow realization that people either didn’t care or no longer had the resources to make provocative art. The easy absence is composer Labrinth, whose echoic sound was part of the show’s DNA, and the Hans Zimmer touches undercut what was missing. Rumors of cast members having limited shooting schedules also likely explain why this feels so soporific and half-baked. Given the suggestion of behind-the-scenes rumors of disputes with Levinson, it explains why certain voices were missing, again undercutting any symmetrical poignancy. Could this show have used additional writers other than its “visionary” leader? Ah-doy.
Euphoria will ultimately go down as a testament to the shortcomings of auteurship. By having one voice helm a project this unlofty, it risks turning everyone against them and keeping a greater story from emerging. It’s clear that Levinson, by the end, had a limited scope that no extended hiatus could save. There’s something joyless and insincere from the jump here that makes it a difficult watch. Maybe it could be salvaged as the emotional comedown from two superior seasons where your most delirious ideas take root, but that’s giving too much credit. It’s also not allowing the cast to have a diverse crescendo, where some stories are happy and others sad. Levinson is a man who insists that everyone is bummed out because their one friend died.
As an emotional crux, that moment lands beautifully. However, as someone who lost a friend to an overdose in 2021, the closing stretch felt more telling. Instead of turning to each other and collaborating on a way for unique forms of closure (such as a funeral), he’s insistent on a shootout that feels like a tired pastiche of Quentin Tarantino. It’s misplaced empathy that never goes anywhere meaningful, or it does but only after the preceding act contradicts any poetry the final image is supposed to carry. What was this journey all about? For Levinson, it was probably coping with a denial he has yet to fully process. Shame he couldn’t do it while the people who meant the most were there for him.
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