Opinion piece by Barbara Lee
Like a lot of people, I was genuinely excited for the new season of Euphoria. I even had a soft spot for season two, despite its flaws. But season one? That one pulled me under completely. There was something rare about it — a dark, bruising tenderness in the way it looked at young people. Every scene carried weight. Every quiet moment held something unspoken just beneath the surface.
I knew recreating that specific feeling wouldn't be easy. I went in with cautious expectations. What I didn't expect was to feel this let down.
Shock for shock's sake
The first thing that hits you is how directionless it all feels. The show no longer seems to know what it wants to say. That careful balance between provocation and genuine emotional sensitivity — the thing that made Euphoria feel urgent and alive — has completely collapsed.
What used to feel raw and honest now often feels purely gratuitous. Every scene seems to be asking "how far can we go?" rather than "what does this actually mean?" Shock has stopped being a tool and become the whole point. And when there's nothing behind the gut-punch imagery — no emotional payoff, no reason you needed to see that — it becomes very hard to sit with.
Which matters even more because, frankly, almost nothing happens this season. There are no real narrative arcs, no consequences, no genuine turning points. Just scenes strung together — sometimes visually striking, sometimes jarring, but rarely meaningful.
Characters going nowhere
And there's no one to carry the story forward, because none of the characters have grown. Years have passed in the show's world, yet everyone is exactly where we left them in high school.
Nate is still performing toughness he doesn't feel. Cassie is still drifting on the surface, desperate for validation from anyone who'll give it. Rue is still caught in the same self-destructive spiral — just with fewer new layers to peel back. These aren't characters anymore. They're sketches. Broad outlines trapped inside their own archetypes, unable — or unwilling — to break free.
Jules is perhaps the most painful example. What made her so compelling in earlier seasons — that strange, fragile combination of vulnerability and strength — has all but vanished. One of the show's most fascinating characters has been flattened into a simple stereotype.
Episodes you forget before they're over
After season one, I'd find myself thinking about specific scenes for days. Lines would come back to me unprompted. Moments would resurface. There was always something to sit with.
After season three's episodes, the main thing that comes back is a low-grade nausea — like when Faye's scene with the dog flashes into my mind uninvited. And the way the show handles Chloe Cherry — an actress with obvious talent who worked hard to move beyond her past — is genuinely disheartening. The show now uses her in the most reductive way imaginable, without a shred of creativity or care.
If this season has made me think about anything, it's the nature of talent itself. After season one, I had no doubt that Sam Levinson was genuinely gifted. Exceptional, even. But if I'd only seen this new season, I'd call him a self-indulgent filmmaker who was handed too much freedom and didn't know what to do with it.
The truth is probably somewhere in between. Talent isn't a fixed, permanent quality — and creative output rises and falls. Sometimes the same person creates one of the most defining shows of a generation and also one of the most forgettable. Sometimes it's the same show, just two seasons apart.
That might be the saddest thing about Euphoria season 3. Not that it's bad. But that you can still see, faintly, what it used to be.
