And Just Like That…The Uncanny Valley of Nostalgia
TL;DR: And Just Like That… is a whole mess for various reasons, including my own nostalgia, but despite everything the show doesn’t have going for it, there’s still a bit hope.
SPOILERS WARNING: I openly discuss plot points and events in both Sex and the City and And Just Like That…
Part I: Darkened Rooms
From the ages of seventeen to twenty-two, I feverishly watched Sex and the City through the duration of its original broadcast. While on vacation as a teenager, I randomly caught an episode from the first season entitled “The Turtle and the Hare” and upon my return successfully convinced my parents that we needed to subscribe to HBO. Sex and the City quickly became a family event. It was a rare joy to find a show that my parents, my younger brother, and I all equally loved. As a hopeful writer, I longed for Carrie’s life, vicariously living through her character as she mined her friends for material, donned both the kookiest and most fashionable clothes ever to grace the small screen, and existed independently in a city that poet Stan Rice once likened to being in a giant engine. We all looked forward to Sunday night, and like millions of others, my friends and I assigned ourselves characters; I smugly proclaimed to be the half-way point between Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha Jones. The show was a happening, a jewel in the zeitgeist that provided succor not only to me but to an era painfully punctuated by 9/11.
That said, this show was not without its problems. As a culture we are now much more informed and attuned to representation, and from its genesis SATC was always a show about the lives of upper-middle class, white women, an issue the show runners of the reboot And Just Like That… attempt to rectify with varying, mostly annoying, results. There are also the sexual misconduct allegations brought against the actor who portrayed Mr. Big, detestable behavior we would not learn of until the first season of AJLT. Beyond these more glaring blemishes, I also have a theory that the confluence of SATC and the sudden proliferation of the internet all but destroyed freelance, written media as a life-sustaining profession, if it ever had been to begin with. An entire generation of women and gay men (myself wholly included) believed they could live Carrie Bradshaw’s life by writing. When the twenty-first century began, there was an explosion of online outlets providing an instant landing pad for a tsunami of sudden content. It’s not lost on me that nearly twenty years after the show’s finale I’m currently writing a personal essay I intend to publish for free on a website to minimal readership.
Before we get to And Just Like That…a memory: It’s Sunday, Feb 22, 2004, less than a month since I saw my grandmother die, the end of an out-of-nowhere, three-week saga that has changed the lives of my family. For whatever reason, our HBO subscription includes channels for both the East and West coast feeds, so my parents and I (still in the throes of sudden grief) secretly gather at 6PM to watch the finale episode of Sex and the City before our official viewing which we’ve turned into an event with a few guests. (I don’t mind spoilers. In fact, sometimes I prefer them because there have been moments when I’ve become so excited by a surprise that I mentally blackout. I abide by this same philosophy for concerts. I want to enjoy the show, not be so stunned into shock that I’m rendered vegetal.) So, three hours early, my parents and I watch Carrie realize her Paris dream is not what she hoped it would be. After flaking on a dinner thrown in her honor because of her boyfriend’s anxiety attack, discovering she actually didn’t lose her famous “Carrie” necklace when she fell in Dior, and sprinting across Paris in her signature heels, Carrie runs into Mr. Big in the lobby of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, both realizing they’re supposed to be together forever. They return to New York; she reunites with the gals at lunch; and we finally learn Mr. Big’s real name, as Carrie struts down Fifth Ave. in her famous thrift-store fur while the Now Voyager Mix of The Source’s “You’ve Got The Love” crescendos. My mother and I are crying, and all I can think about is the catharsis of endings.
In the twenty-two years of existence I’d lived by that point, I hadn’t realized what happens to a person when they see someone they love die. I wasn’t prepared for the flashbacks, the nightmares, the obsessive thoughts, the negotiations of grief. My brother was in his first year at USC, and with our grandmother also gone now, a house of five became a house of three. Before my brother moved into his dorm, the light of our shared room had always been on, the sounds of video games or The Offspring or Flogging Molly filling that side of the house. Before my grandmother passed, the light in her room had usually been on as well, the voices and music of her spanish-speaking talk shows and telenovelas emanating. But with neither of them in residence, only the rooms my parents and I were in (very often the same room) were ever lit at any one moment. What had been a house of light and life became a house of dark rooms and the past tense. I needed the decadent splendor of Carrie Bradshaw and her world, and while I was sad Sex and the City was ending, I was immensely grateful there had been something, anything, that brought a little light to our newly dimmed home.
Part II: Time Passes
An internship at Vogue UK (23)
Another internship at Angeleno Magazine (25)
Two-and-a-half years as Research Editor for Fit Pregnancy (25 - 27)
Sex and the City: The Movie (26)
Going back to community college after getting laid off (27)
Sex and the City 2 (28)
My other grandmother (and last living grandparent) dying on my 29th birthday (29)
Two years at Humboldt State University (now Cal Poly Humboldt) to finish my undergrad degree thirteen years after beginning (29 - 31)
Three years at San Francisco State University for an MFA in Fiction (33 - 36)
Meeting and entering a relationship with Marc, my current boyfriend (35 - present)
Deciding to stay in the Bay Area and moving four more times over the next three years (36 - 39)
Becoming a college-essay tutor, a day job to pay for my Bay Area life (36 - present)
Ten inches of necrotic colon, four months with an ileostomy. (37)
The Covid-19 Pandemic
Part III: The Tsunami
The first Sex and the City movie was passably good, but I’ve only ever been able to reconcile the second’s existence by pretending it’s a SciFi movie. I took both in passing, mainly because outside of the television format viewing them was a specific event: quick, drop-in reunions with old friends who had no idea I existed. I didn’t form an attachment to these iterations like I had with the television series also in large part due to an unfamiliar discomfort that arose when viewing the first film. I recognized these characters, their lives, their relationships, but I didn’t recognize these characters. They had become caricatures of themselves, no longer fresh expressions but instead collections of traits and catchphrases trotted out for quota. Still, while this discomfort grew during my experience of the second film, I enjoyed these two trips down memory lane, perfectly happy that the story of Carrie and her friends was finally over, especially considering the debacle of the second film. I also felt that HBO should have just run two more seasons of the show instead of making these movies which would have felt more genuine.
Remember in Part I when I discussed the dawn of the internet providing a landing pad for a tsunami of sudden content? Well, this gave gargantuan life to an entire culture of commentary that quickly spread from desktop computers to smartphones and tablets; twenty-three years into the new millennium, millions of people now provide their opinions about everything literally twenty-four hours a day, a riptide of content that forms a discourse and public opinion that demands (and sometimes threatens?) relevance and acknowledgment. This intellectual behemoth of unstable perspectives was in its infancy when the original Sex and the City series aired. Rumors traveled slower; extra content was distributed as “bonus features'' by proprietors; reviews and critique were filtered through seemingly trustworthy publications. Facebook didn’t exist. Twitter didn’t exist. Instagram didn’t exist. TikTok didn’t exist. Snapchat didn’t exist. Remember the peace? Yeah, me neither.
Now, for every show, book, movie, song, painting, sculpture, video game, opera, play, whatever, there is more than just its criticism, formal and/or otherwise; there is now the shadow life of its online discourse, often volatile and reactionary, lingerie in hot takes and comment threads, threatening on occasion to overtake even the creation itself. Work can no longer be created without a concomitant doppelganger born of the tsunami. And with a popular IP like Sex and the City, even as it lay dormant in its sadly diluted syndicated life while the movies bounced among streaming platforms, dedicated fans kept the flow of its attention alive, reporting on the drama of Sarah Jessica Parker and Kim Catrall’s friendship, reacting to older episodes, and crafting theories in countless think pieces. So, towards the end of the pandemic when it was announced that Sex and the City would be coming back (!) in the form of “a new chapter” entitled And Just Like That… I was excited but also nervous to see how a show so delightfully wacky as the original would fare in a media landscape that still includes The New York Times but now also includes career trolls and Reddit threads dedicated to men ejaculating on photos of their favorite celebrities.
After plans for a third movie dissolved among a public battle among cast, production, and Kim Catrall, it was widely reported that the script for the third movie included Mr. Big’s death. I was an instant fan of this narrative choice. For me, the point of the original show was always the life of the single woman. While everything I wrote at the end of Part I was true, I’ve also thought many times over the last two decades that ending the series with each of the four women partnered didn’t honor the show’s heart. So much of the writing had espoused how it was all right to be single, how one needn’t a partner to survive, and yet, happily ever after for the four main characters was in part defined by their coupling. The possibility of Mr. Big’s death presented And Just Like That… with an opportunity. What better way to truly explore singledom than to remove the fifty-something main character’s primary partner from the narrative coil? How would the culture’s most famous single gal since Mary Tyler Moore fare in a post-Mr. Big world over the age of fifty? And because of the all-but-confirmed rumors referencing his death, I highly expected and suspected that killing off Mr. Big would be a major part of the reboot’s first season. This suspicion was confirmed when he did in fact die at the end of the first episode. What I did not expect was my emotional reaction. I basically knew it was going to happen (especially after that last shot of him, sitting in a sun-lit window, smoking his cigar, smiling at Carrie) but frankly, I was surprised when I began to cry. I hadn’t expected tears, but when I thought about everything I’d lived through over the last twenty years, when I realized that I hadn’t been in any serious relationships between 17 and 20, when I realized that I was older than Carrie had been when the original series ended in 2004, when I looked over and saw my boyfriend of the last seven years with whom I share a 500 sq ft studio in the Bay Area, when I thought about how my own medical episodes had taught me that death was real, something I blithely ignored at 19, when I remembered the death of my grandmothers—my sobs became the tsunami.
Part IV: The Uncanny Valley
The first season of And Just Like That… was not easy to get through in part because my standard for quality programming has shifted in the last twenty years. For something to set my soul aflame, it must now be so good that I subconsciously ignore the shadow life of its cultural discourse. However, I’m a cheap date, so I’ll also occasionally, gladly, consume media for the purpose of understanding the context of a viral meme. Those of us who got through all of that first (and only, blessedly) season of The Idol understand this. But, when it came to AJLT, I really wanted to love it. And maybe this was my mistake. I wanted it to be 2003 again. I wanted to be in my early twenties. I wanted to ignore reality. Alas, this was just not possible, especially since we entered the show glaringly aware of Kim Catrall’s absence. Despite their off-screen rift, the on-screen chemistry between Sarah Jessica Parker and Kim Catrall was one of the hallmarks of Sex and the City. In a story rightfully absent of family members, Samantha was Carrie’s stand-in fabulous older sister, the one who gave her permission to be messy without judgment. Samantha was the one who told Charlotte to chill the fuck out when we the audience couldn’t. Samantha brought a fun, heartfelt, often humbling, light to the show, and without her in the reboot, the discomfort of not recognizing this narrative world—the same discomfort I mentioned blooming in Part III—destabilized my viewing experience to the point of near surrender, especially considering how juicy the real-life fall out between SJP and Kim Catrall had been compared to the bland story they gave us about why Samantha now lives in London.
Also, the influx of so many new characters was so obviously a blatant reaction to Sex and the City’s lack of BIPOC representation that the choice to include Seema Patel, Lisa Todd Wexley, Dr. Nya Wallace, and Che Diaz spilled into cringe pandering. There had to have been a better way of introducing Dr. Wallace’s character than Miranda not believing she was a professor because of her braids. If the original series was a misstep in representation, part of what made those characters fun to watch was how cool each of them was, even in their uncoolness. While Miranda was definitely the least cool of the four lead characters, I just don’t buy that she wouldn’t have remained abreast of the cultural shifts marked by the MeToo and BLM movements, let alone the rise of Trans visibility, over the last half decade. This is what I mean by both recognizing the characters but not recognizing the characters. It feels like the creators and writers of AJLT chose to meet current cultural movements by transforming the three lead characters into perpetrators of misstepped, reactionary ignorance. Once delightfully awkward in their coolness, these characters had been transformed into Karens. Perhaps this is a commentary on their privilege as white women, but if this is the way the show deals with this privilege, eeeeeesh. One would think Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda had never encountered a person of color—in twenty-first century Manhattan.
Another complicated component of the show, and I know this may seem frivolous to some, but you’ve made it this far, so just bare with me, is the fashion. If the lack of Kim Catrall disoriented my experience of AJLT, the absence of Pat Field as costume designer plunged me directly into the uncanny valley. Is the Carrie Bradshaw stalking her dead husband’s ex wife in a nameless paisley-print maxi dress worn over a denim shirt with a Gucci x Balenciaga bag and Terry de Havilland disco wedges the same Carrie Bradshaw who confronted the very same ex-wife at lunch in that timeless, iconic Dior newsprint dress in 2001? Is the Carrie Bradshaw in a denim jumpsuit and carrying a realist pigeon clutch (by J.W. Anderson, who kicked his dog to death, btw) the same Carrie Bradshaw who sparked the it-bag craze two decades ago with the Fendi baguette? Is the Carrie Bradshaw who once “married” herself so she could reclaim a silver pair of Manolo Blahnik sandals with rhinestone and crystal detailing that were stolen during a friend’s party the same Carrie Bradshaw who now walks the streets of New York in Birkenstocks and socks? Yes. Yes, this is supposed to be the same Carrie Bradshaw. Like, huh? The suspension of belief regarding Carrie’s wardrobe was always part of SATC’s fun. She once donned a burgundy, crocodile Hermès Birkin just to keep Samantha company during chemo. This bag, priced at about 100 thousand dollars, would never make it into another moment of either the original series, the movies, or the reboot thus far. These sorts of irrational fashion choices became especially fun when the writers began including moments of other characters commenting on Carrie’s ensembles. Sometimes, a look was enough to register a person’s bewilderment. I’m thinking specifically of the episode “Unoriginal Sin” in Season 5 when Steve’s mom (played by the glorious Anne Meara) catches a glimpse of Carrier’s outfit (stunning black coat and dress, pink fascinator that might literally be a loofah) and looks at her like she’s nuts. But even when Carrie’s outfits were at their wackiest, they still sorta made sense in a way that seemed true to Carrie’s fashion logic and sensibility. But when it comes to the fashion in And Just Like That… I’m simply befuddled. If I’m to believe the Carrie in AJLT is the same Carrie from Sex and the City, then I’m to believe that the grief of losing her husband to a heart attack has invoked a love of tartan and madras print. We all grieve in different ways, but when I saw one grandmother die, and the other died on my birthday six years later, I didn’t suddenly start wearing jumpsuits and carrying my debit card and driver's license around in a fake pigeon. Also, and this is another way in which the reality of the show’s shadow life continues to breach, Carrie has worn shoes from Sarah Jessica Parker’s own shoe line, disguised so as not to be too meta, but recognizable nonetheless.
And finally, after not being able to pinpoint exactly what makes And Just Like That… feel so unmoored, I realized that the absence of Carrie’s column as a narrative framework makes the show feel as uncontained as a cosmopolitan spilled on the parquet floor of an upper east side brownstone. Without Sarah Jessica Parker’s voice as Carrie detailing the actions of its main characters, the viewer is left alone to glean understanding and meaning from the actions of characters we don’t yet know, characters we do know but dress and behave in ways our mind has no purchase for, and a reality outside of the show’s reality that in some ways feels too big to see past. I understand why they created the reboot, and despite what I’ve written here, I’m grateful they did it because it has made me grow up in ways I hadn’t expected, or at least, now that I’ve grown up, it’s nice to experience the discomfort, uncertainty, and disappointment of being an adult played out by characters I’ve loved since I was seventeen, even if the show dealt with Willie Garson’s death by sending Stanford to Japan to become a Shinto monk.
Coda: The Light
Seven episodes into season 2 of And Just Like That… I had a conversation with my parents over FaceTime. We discussed the fake pigeon, the scathing meme-ificaton of Che Diaz, the seemingly random choice to bring back Aiden, the unhinged behavior of Charlotte, and how, sadly, watching the show now felt more like homework than something to look forward to. Nearly twenty years after Sex and the City, being able to still discuss AJLT with my parents, who were there with me the night SATC ended back in 2004, is an absolute treasure. In this, I know I am lucky, and while our enjoyment of the show has teetered along, we know that we’ll keep watching. We are too invested, too much of our lives spent with these fictional characters, to abandon ship now.
What has also helped is the lovely experience of introducing the world of Sex and the City to my boyfriend Marc. He never saw the original series and only half-watched the first season and a half while playing video games and going about his business. A savvy man, he kept an eye and ear on the show as I lamented its disappointments, and he delighted in all of the show's memes and online shade. Throughout, I’ve explained the inside jokes and characters’ histories to him. Without any of the context I’ve written about here, he summed up the series pretty succinctly one night as Miranda chatted up a Jane Austen enthusiast in a red suit: “Is this show supposed to be this cringe?”
“No,” I replied. “But it can’t help itself.”
So you can imagine my surprise when the last four episodes of the second season were actually good! The focus is back on Carrie and her relationship! The last episode (with its Pat Field designed cameo by Kim Catrall herself!) took place primarily in Carrie’s apartment, each of the new cast members finally looking natural in Carrie’s world! Carrie now even has a cat she has named Shoe! The clothes, while still a tad askew, even seem to be making narrative sense: Carrie in Oscar de la Renta! Charlotte in Thierry Mugler! I found myself remaining quiet through the episodes instead of snarkily commenting on their laughable missteps. Marc even sat down to watch them with me, both of us rather riveted. There is hope, and just as it’s not the same as its progenitor, it’s finally forming into an entity of its own in the present day, something I continue to hope for myself twenty years after grief struck my family. In fact, I can actually pinpoint the moment the show pivoted toward becoming better. One particular scene cemented And Just Like That… as something more than an ironic attempt at recapturing the nostalgia of the past. This occurs about halfway through season 2’s episode 8, entitled “A Hundred Years Ago.” Aiden is back; Carrie is smitten all over again. What she forgets is that she has promised Seema that she’ll be spending the summer with her in the Hamptons. They’ve even rented a house together. With Aiden’s resurrection, Seema, who has no context for this dude swooping in to ruin her summer plans, realizes that she doesn’t want to be a third-wheel at the beach all summer. She interrupts a salon appointment to confesses this to Carrie in the rain as she smokes a cigarette. Their hair is wet, and they both stand in their spike heels on a gray sidewalk on an even grayer New York afternoon. Giant umbrellas are balanced on their shoulders, their black smocks cloaking their expensive outfits. Sarita Choudhury’s acting is honest and vulnerable. Sarah Jessica Parker, always knowing the assignment, delivers her lines like the icon she is. Here is Carrie Bradshaw, standing in a dark, almost brutalist future as a fifty-something woman. After all this time, Sex and the City feels new again.
“Whoa,” Marc said. “This is like something out of Blade Runner.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fucking awesome.”
