After four years, Euphoria is back, as tawdry and titillating as ever. And yet also, somehow, better.
With its first two seasons, Sam Levinson perfected a particular brand of high-gloss trash, cramming every possible scary, sleazy, screamy, sexed-up teen issue into a multipronged story that was dialed to 100 and pitched as the most pretentious show in television history.
The creator/writer/director never met a young girl he didn’t want to droolingly ogle and/or put through hell, and with his HBO hit, he lustily indulged in goofy, inane, exploitative maximalism. Yet for all the grating posturing, its self-conscious over-the-topness occasionally resulted in bracing drama. The show was totally phony, lurid, gross, and look-at-me ridiculous, except on those intermittent occasions when it was startling, invigorating, and real.
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