By Denise K. James
I grew up with Sex and the City. I know all the trivia; I’ve rated the romantic partners (Berger: zero); I forgave Carrie for her flaws. Hell, I liked her flaws, including her cigarettes and her ongoing drama with Big. And while I was occasionally disappointed, I held on. Each season of the original series helped me understand the four main characters, their goals, and the depth of their friendships. And at the same time, I was learning to understand myself.
When my favorite show’s follow-up, And Just Like That…, hit HBO Max a few years ago, I tuned in to see how the women had evolved in their 50s. After reeling at the death of John “Mr. Big” Preston, I kept watching, just as I did the original series. Only this time, the payoff I hoped for never came.
Like other steadfast fans of the franchise, I watched all three seasons of AJLT. Yes, I mourned the loss of Samantha, but it was plausible that she’d fade from the main characters’ lives. I’m in my 40s, and I’ve lost a few previously close friends. Perhaps the show would redeem itself in other ways. But wait – why was Miranda suddenly unsure of herself? And why had Charlotte been reduced to a series of ridiculous facial expressions?
Years ago, whenever my boyfriends or male friends would turn their noses up at SATC, I’d vehemently defend it. “It’s about the women and how they change throughout the years,” I insisted. I would point out Charlotte’s fight for partnership; Samantha opening her heart to Smith; Carrie’s declaration to Petrovsky that she was looking for a can’t-live-without-each-other love; Miranda overcoming avoidance and cynicism for Steve. They fought battles, climbed the career ladder, and became stronger – together.
We didn’t get any of this from AJLT. Instead, our old heroes were stuck in weird loops. The writers missed the fact that we, the OG fans, have grown decades since the original show and were looking for fresh, inspiring takes. Not unbelievable storylines with a has-been from Carrie’s romantic history!
In the original series, women’s work was front and center. Miranda made partner in a law firm, Samantha owned her own PR company, Carrie was a columnist and author solicited by Vogue, and Charlotte was a respected gallerist. I was surprised to see little of that storyline in AJLT. Instead, all the characters seemed to be fumbling in their endeavors, rather than enjoying their hard-fought professional achievements. The women all had money now, but they lacked power.
Ultimately, And Just Like That failed to provide the character development I craved to make sense of my own middle-age years. There were too many bad plots and threads that went nowhere. I wanted Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda to go down new paths. It felt like a missed opportunity.
Perhaps most insulting, though, was that chaotic, scatalogical conclusion. (“Are we supposed to believe that this was planned to be the finale?!” my friend Laura griped over text.) No, we die-hard fans knew better. The show had been cut short because it was a flop. Three seasons led us nowhere. Unlike Sex and the City, this lackluster reboot taught us nothing about navigating life. Could it have taken a better turn if it kept going? We’ll never know now.
However, I will admit one thing. A silver lining, if you will.
All of the original women were archetypes, except Carrie. Compared to Samantha the vixen, Charlotte the traditionalist, and Miranda the cynic, Carrie was more difficult to pinpoint.
But now, after musing on the end of the franchise, I will offer the theory that Carrie’s archetype is the romantic. She’s been in serious relationships, but she’s also okay alone. And she wants real love for its own sake, not for the picket fence happily-ever-after.
What the reboot gave me was a different lens for the original series. Now, whenever I watch those early episodes, I see Carrie was always a romantic. And just like that, I see I’m one, too.