Euphoria Is a Monument to Sam Levinson’s Lack of Creativity Rather than imagine a real future, season three does little more than reference the series’ past.

By Roxana Hadadi

Photo: Patrick Wymore/HBO

In Euphoria’s long-awaited third season, Rue is an arms dealer. Emmy winner Zendaya plays the scene like an enthusiastic YouTuber asking you to like and subscribe, all sunny smiles and overblown bravado as she shows off guns to potential buyers and describes their destructive capabilities. It’s a shock moment in a season full of them, most of which reduce characters to bodies for debasement and scintillation rather than means of storytelling — nipples coated in ice cream and cocaine, faces slick with blood, a dog licking the shit spilling out from a drug mule’s underwear. (Metatextually shocking: how thin all of these actresses have become.) And just like Rue’s transformation into an AR-15 salesperson, so much of this early phase of Euphoria’s return feels completely airless. As Euphoria’s creator, writer, and director, Sam Levinson wants to craft a show about the pervasiveness of fentanyl, the dangers of addiction, and the lawlessness of the American West. Instead, what he’s made — yet again — is a cannily shot phantasmagoria that’s as beautifully lit as it is emotionally hollow.

Subscribe now to get unlimited access to everything New York, including subscriber-only newsletters, exclusive perks, the New York app, and more.

Subscribe Now