The Wrong Paris

The Wrong Paris, or How to Lose a Reality Show in 107 Minutes

I’ll admit it: I went into The Wrong Paris expecting a fluffy, forgettable Netflix rom-com—something to half-watch while folding laundry. What I didn’t expect was how aggressively it would resist even that low bar. Not because it’s bad in the way a trainwreck is bad, but because it’s so determined to be nothing at all.

It’s the cinematic equivalent of a microwave meal: warm, vaguely satisfying, and gone from your memory before the plate hits the sink.

The premise is a rom-com writer’s dream: Dawn (Miranda Cosgrove), a struggling Texas waitress and aspiring metal sculptor, auditions for a dating show called The Honeypot, believing it’s set in Paris, France. Instead, she’s whisked off to Paris, Texas, where she’s expected to compete for the affections of Trey McAllen III (Pierson Fodé), a cowboy bachelor with abs so chiseled they could cut glass.

Dawn’s plan is simple: get eliminated early, collect the appearance fee, and use the money to fund her art school dreams in the real Paris. But—plot twist!—she starts to fall for Trey, forcing her to choose between love and ambition.

It’s a setup that should crackle with fish-out-of-water energy, especially given the stark contrast between Dawn’s artistic, city-girl aspirations and Trey’s rugged, small-town charm. And yet, the film never quite commits to the bit. The "wrong Paris" gag is trotted out early and then abandoned, as if the writers realized they’d already used up their one good joke.

The reality-TV framing—complete with confessionals, producer interference, and over-the-top challenges—feels like a half-hearted nod to UnReal without any of the bite. Even the supporting contestants, who should be the film’s lifeblood, are reduced to one-dimensional archetypes: the princess, the badass biker, the awkward nerd, the Christian girl with baby fever. They’re not characters; they’re placeholders, there to fill screen time between Dawn and Trey’s increasingly unconvincing will-they-won’t-they.

The chemistry between Cosgrove and Fodé is the film’s biggest mystery. On paper, they should work. Cosgrove, with her iCarly pedigree, brings a relatable, girl-next-door energy, while Fodé’s Trey is all smoldering glances and cowboy swagger.

But their scenes together feel like they were stitched together from separate takes. There’s no spark, no tension—just two people reciting lines at each other. Cosgrove, in particular, seems trapped in a performance that oscillates between overly earnest and oddly detached.