Amidst the lively debate about whether “And Just Like That,” the 2021 follow-up to “Sex And The City,” does or doesn’t live up to its promise (not to mention the horrific allegations against actor Chris Noth aka Mr. Big), there’s another important conversation the show illuminates.
The instability of uncertainty (not to mention during a pandemic surge) undoubtedly serves as a cultural context for how society will view the 2021 sequel. And viewed through the lens of Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte’s lives and loves, AJLK thematically revolves around the idea of loss, and often, the loss of control.
Mr. Big’s death-by-Peloton epitomizes the show’s commitment to examining loss, and its close companion, grief. “Change is hard,” says Miranda, with the profundity of stating the obvious as if it were new.
But the series also cleverly weaves its real-life loss, the absence of Kim Cattrall, who played the original show’s most colorful and memorable character Samantha, into a storyline reflecting the dissolution of friendships that the pandemic has inflicted on many real platonic relationships, as people recalibrate their social priorities.
Only three episodes in, AJLT manages to look at loss, and how we deal with it, in almost every aspect of the characters’ lives. What can we learn from it?
- Loss signifies an opportunity to align relationships as they evolve. Miranda is facing a double crisis in her family: losing her son to adolescence (and his budding sexuality), as well as her ardor for her nebbishy husband Steve. As many longtime couples will admit, familiarity often breeds resentment — even Disney princess Charlotte is going through a similar shattering of her rose-colored Prada sunglasses with her husband Harry. All relationships evolve; the important thing is to grow together.
- Loss of youth can be liberating. Today, these beloved characters are entering menopause, bemoaning the grey in their hair and other horomonal signifiers of age. But like many older women today, they find themselves at an inflection point — a chance to redefine themselves, cast aside their pasts, no longer carrying the youthful baggage of worrying what people think.
- Deal with unexpected change by thinking beyond traditional structures. When her daughter Rose comes out to her as nonbinary, Charlotte’s first inclination is to ignore it, hoping it will go away. But an increasing number of families are choosing to not impose traditional gender structures. By adopting a child-led parenting approach, they remain open to letting their kids grow into the adults they were meant to be.
- Put the past behind you. Unlike most shows, whose characters exist in bubbles unaffected by COVID-19, AJLT cleverly lives in the present, tossing in just enough references to masks and lockdowns to provide a temporal wink to its audience. They’re decidedly forward-looking, but not delusional.
- Being white now feels like a loss of certainty. In perhaps one of the most pointed storylines of the new series, Miranda suffers a series of humiliating exchanges with the show’s new POC characters. Her well-meaning shows of “wokeness” backfire spectacularly into painting her as the “Karen” she was always wired to be. If it feels confusing to be white today, it’s because, well, it is.
- Trust needs to be rebuilt. Carrie’s posthumous jealousy over Big’s relationship with his ex-wife Natasha speaks to the greater loss of trust in authority in culture today. Misinformation, worries about privacy, and the potentially harmful effects of social media have created a crisis of faith.
That’s a lot of loss to process. But amidst the mourning and shell-shock of so much change at once, it’s starting to come clear that AJLT also gains inspiration — and progressive new characters and storylines — from this era.
Most notable among the newly diverse cast additions is the fearsome, exquisitely multi-ethnic, multitalented, “queer nonbinary Mexican-Irish diva”/standup/podcaster played by Sara Ramirez (who identifies as nonbinary)— on full display at the end of a promising episode 3. That should count against criticism by overheated SATC stans.
Despite Charlotte’s toxic positivity, the show also serves as a sort of modern-day protopia, serving to help viewers move forward amidst turbulence with a sense of progress. The same holds true with the joyful post-apocalyptic drama STATION ELEVEN, also on HBO MAX. Finding ways to thrive after a virus-fueled near devastation, a troupe of Shakespearean artists ply their talents across barren landscapes, bringing cheer by retelling some of civilization’s oldest tales.
Maybe someday, future civilizations will look to the stories of “And Just Like That” for clues to how one society’s loss became a new one’s reality.
