When I call my dog, she comes automatically. It’s a compulsion activated by dopamine, a chemical that ignites the brain’s pleasure centers with anticipation, the possibility of some reward. In Sex and the City, it was the possibility that Mr Big might finally commit that kept an obedient Carrie Bradshaw running back for six consecutive seasons. The euphoric rush of dopamine lies at the heart of compulsive behaviors like these, sending dogs faithfully back to their owners, and otherwise intelligent women into the arms of emotionally unavailable financiers. It’s the science behind watching a television show you categorically dislike, solely for the possibility that maybe, eventually, you’ll get a good episode.
We’re talking about And Just Like That, the SATC reboot that, over the last 10 weeks, might have delivered two, maybe three good episodes tops. Audiences spent the majority of its run voicing outrage at the misadventures of Miranda Hobbes, the abandoned plotlines and abrupt character reversals, and most of all, the implausible dialogue of “Miranda! I’ve done a ton of weed.”
Despite their disappointment, however, viewers couldn’t stop tuning in. The reboot represented a former great love that they were committed to rekindling, and every so often, the spark would resurface. The joys and razor-sharp dialogue of the original series appeared in glimmers of Miranda’s familiar feminist realism (see: her refusal to insult Natasha’s flats, or her distaste for Carrie’s belief in the afterlife); Carrie’s enduring, neurotic obsession with Natasha; the trio’s chemistry at every meal; or a newly important question: are you a hollower or a sagger?
In our collective inability to look away, And Just Like That became HBO Max’s most-watched original ever, bringing about the possibility of a second season. Would we watch it? Absolutely – Carrie Bradshaw’s greatest lesson was that we should wait out our toxic relationships and assume that they’ll improve. A second season would be our shot to really make things work, and right this season’s many, many wrongs. Below is a shortlist of recommendations.
Could characters of color be allowed to just exist?
After 10 episodes, all we’ve really seen of Lisa Todd Wexley is her art collection and Moschino jacket. While Charlotte’s new friend adds to the show’s diversity, thus far she’s shown little of her personality, a reversal of SATC’s character-driven formula. In the original series, four white, more or less straight, women resonated with fans on a universal level, representing traits that we explicitly recognized within ourselves. You could be a Carrie, a bubbly, self-centered optimist, or a Samantha, a sexual iconoclast. Today, I can’t help but wonder, what would it mean to be a Lisa? For diversity and relatability to thrive in the second season, AJLT needs to take better care of its Black and brown characters, whose screen time gets wasted on sentimental lessons in diversity. (Seema Patel actually unironically says: “It’s not cultural appropriation, it’s cultural appreciation.”) Reinvest that time in developing their stories; give them identities rather than labels; and relieve them of their teaching duties.
Charlotte needs another dimension
In episode four, Charlotte makes the error of confusing one Black woman for another. “I’m not Gwen,” she responds politely, “but I know who you’re talking about.” What a succinct, lacerating sting. With 10 words, it speaks volumes about the patience with which women of color handle white women’s egos, and how easily white women’s egos will crumble – visibly, a piece of Charlotte dies inside. It’s the smartest depiction of racial dynamics on the show, and Charlotte’s realest moment all season. Please, give us more of these! The original series’ HBO-caliber dialogue has noticeably atrophied to ABC Family sentimentality, particularly with Charlotte, whose life is otherwise one-dimensional conflicts with two-dimensional characters. She would benefit from a more truly challenging narrative arc, less pouting and teaching her children to knock.
More Miranda, Less Che
“We can’t stay who we were,” Miranda says in the first episode, setting the tone of AJLT’s wild experiment with the SATC canon. Her midlife spiral reads like a work of fan fiction, where the infinitely meme-able Che Diaz sweeps her off her feet. (It was inevitable that Miranda would leave Steve, however. She was Steve’s Big all along.) An amalgam of contradictions, Che Diaz is a comic with no jokes but a pilot on Netflix, a celebrity with a huge following but zero friends. Radiating with the fuckboy energy of a young Big, they tell Miranda unequivocally “I can’t give you anything traditional” yet, and there they were, introducing her to their grandparents within the first season. Enough already! The chaotic energy of this couple is more than this audience can stand. Every episode, we’re riddled with the anxiety that Che is finally going to break Miranda’s heart, only to get another stay of execution. Next season, leave Che in California and bring Miranda home.
Be consistent, like Carrie
While Miranda changed too much and Charlotte changed too little, Carrie is proof that showrunners are capable of getting a character just right. She rings true to the original Carrie, only with a decidedly subdued effervescence and more advanced sense of entitlement; she tells Charlotte to shut up more than ever, and even after his death, upholds her lifelong devotion to Big. This is the template of realistic ageing for showrunners to follow next season, when they hopefully cure Miranda’s stunning reversal in character, and fortify Charlotte with the confidence to confront Carrie’s bullying.
Stop with the “Ok boomer” gags
For all its emphasis on positive representation, AJLT really treats mid-life with derision. Leigh Raiford, a UC Berkeley professor, describes the construct perfectly: “Three white ladies go on vacation to the exotic locale of 2022,” not unlike their clueless trip to Abu Dhabi in 2010. Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda seem to visit us from some foreign time and place, where 55 is the new 80, podcasts are a novelty, and no one watches standup – no, they go to comedy concerts. “That’s what your mom would call it!” the AJLT writers explained in a recent interview, only to highlight the underlying ageism of this show; these are Gen Xers telling boomer jokes written by millennials. Rather than punish Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda for the tone-deafness of the early aughts, it would be infinitely more compelling to meet versions of them who had evolved offscreen with the rest of us. Imagine a New York-based, fashion-forward iteration of the Golden Girls, whose central focus was rarely on “getting old” but the broader concerns of loyalty, intimacy and friendship. They could also tell good jokes and have good sex. Rose Nylund has more sex in her first three episodes than Carrie Bradshaw has all season.
Next time, take us to Cleveland
In the finale, when Carrie started kissing the hot producer who said two lines nine episodes ago – did anyone catch his name? In AJLT, major developments tend to come out of nowhere, friendships form overnight, and storylines are established just to be abandoned. I swore Miranda was on her way to Cleveland to see Che, but then again, it was never shown and never acknowledged. The narrative arcs would benefit from more rigorous construction; SATC truly excelled at growing chemistry between characters and furthering the plot, taking its audience on the full rollercoaster of exposition, tension and climax.
More Anthony, please
Unhampered by menopause, children, or monogamy, Anthony might be the sole character who maintains the same energy he had 20 years ago. In season two, more erotic bread delivery and caustic wit.
