Many years ago I had a very informal meeting with an HBO executive in which I pitched her a sort of dirtier, darker Gossip Girl. She politely declined further discussion, saying the network didn’t really skew that young. I’ve always thought about that when considering the success of Euphoria, Sam Levinson’s stylish series about Southern California wastoids and schemers flouncing their way through high school. I guess the network did figure out a way to go that young, by making youth seem actually not that youthful. 

In its first two seasons, Euphoria was a shock machine, amping up the sex and drugs and profanity to buzzily contrast its high school setting. No Glee was this, no Gossip Girl either. Levinson’s vision for these kids—played by new discoveries like Hunter Schafer, Sydney Sweeney, Alexa Demie, Jacob Elordi, and the boldly repurposed Disney Channel star Zendaya—was one of depravity and scuzz, with a little humanity poking up through the grime. It was an instant hit, Levinson was dubbed a new sort of television auteur, and several of its leads became bona fide movie stars.

It’s easy to see why. The show, especially in its first season, is really compelling, an intricately crafted imagining—with some hyperbole, of course—of what the smartphone and opiate generation might be doing behind closed doors. (Or, out in the open sometimes.) There is a cautionary aspect to it, but also a come hither invitation to enter into it, to enjoy its bleak hedonism. The show arrived just in time, as a respite from the safer, more politically pious teen fare of its day, posing its elaborate nihilism as the necessary, hard-reality truth.

Of course, there is a silliness there, too. The show’s grand visual and aural affectation can be over-egged, a heavily relied on tool used to occlude goofy plotting. Its sexual gaze is often pretty juvenile—though, one might think that’s deliberate, because this is, after all, a show mostly about teenagers. But then Levinson took a detour to The Idol and it became dreadfully clear that, oh dear, Levinson’s outlook on sex might actually be just that stilted and basic and pornified. 

He got away with it on Euphoria, sort of. Plenty of criticisms have been hurled at the show over the years, rooted in worry for its young actors. But seasons have been spaced far enough apart—2019, 2022, now 2026—that those quibbles all but disappear in the gaps. What lingers is an appreciation for the show’s couture form, for its young talent (who are all pretty good, even those who have not been good elsewhere), for its giddy salaciousness. When it’s not on the air, which is most of the time, Euphoria’s edge is missed.

Now it’s back and, well, a lot has changed. Levinson really couldn’t have his actors pretending they are still in their teens, so he’s moved the action of the show up five years and locates his characters in their post-grad diaspora. The sex and nastiness and all that is there, but now we’re dealing with little adults, stumbling and bustling through the world. An interesting thing happens in that conversion: everything feels a lot dumber. Turns out, the shock of Euphoria’s teen taboo was pretty necessary to its appeal.