And Just Like That… is my favorite hate-watch show (now that The Idol has ended its run) because it seems so hellbent on ruining any goodwill that Sex and the City had left. It’s a terrible historian of its own past, the characters in no way resemble actual human beings, and the storylines are laughable. The jokes, not so much. This iteration of the show focuses far more on the character’s interpersonal relationships amongst their core group of out-of-touch rich people, with a handful of new characters to boot. Long gone are the days when the show delved into common dating or relationship themes. You know, relatable content. This show hates itself for existing, seems hellbent on ruining every character— except Seema (Sarita Choudhury), who is inexplicably fabulous—and hates us all for watching, too. I want one million episodes of this dumpster fire. I cannot get enough of it.
Now, some might say that you shouldn’t waste your time watching anything out of hate. But to them, I say if you don’t get enjoyment out of watching a slo-mo car crash of epic proportions, I feel sorry for you. I revel in how terrible this show is and get great enjoyment out of it. Take for example how much the show uses Che Diaz (Sara RamĂrez), an almost universally reviled character that I have since come to love as the harbinger of terrible storylines. The show shoves Che down our throats and then accuses us of having a problem with queer characters when the feedback is less than stellar. LOL. That’s like serving up a steaming hot pile of garbage to your guests at dinner and then telling them that they’re the problem. It’s so out of touch with itself and the audience that it’s delicious.
With that in mind, the most recent episode of the second season really leaned into loathing of every kind. I would be remiss if I didn’t first mention the failed threesome between Che, Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), and Lyle (Oliver Hudson). This started after Che decided to wake up Miranda with some frisky groping on the bed the three characters were sharing together. Naturally, this woke up Lyle, who then decided to join in on the action. First and foremost, call me a prude, but what in the name of college dorm living was that? It surely is a breach of etiquette to institute sexy times in a shared bed with a third person asleep right next to you. Samantha Jones would never! Maybe I’m just old now, but that gave me major ick.
Miranda’s sexual awakening via Che has been the clunkiest storyline in a show that is akin to driving 90 on the freeway with four flat tires, blindfolded. Especially because of what they did to Miranda’s estranged ex Steve (David Eigenberg). They turned him into a doddering sexless disappointment of a husband when the whole appeal of him was that he was so great in bed. She’d have him come over at 2 AM (despite having to get up in a few hours) just to have sex. This is not about breaking up Miranda and Steve. It’s about character assassination and ignoring the past to shove the current story down our throats. And Just Like That… is a terrible historian of its past in general. In the second episode of this season, Harry (Evan Handler) has a throwaway line about how his mother has been dead for ten years. But true fans know that when Charlotte initially got together with him in Sex and the City (about 20 years ago), his mother was already dead. Sloppy!
This leads me to my next plot point from the episode: the dick pic, which is one of the few shots of a penis in the entire Sex and the City universe. Personally, I felt as violated as Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) did when it just popped up on her phone. Give a gal some warning next time! Pulling in a deep cut, Carrie’s old friend Bitsy (Julie Halston) sends the shot to entice Carrie into dating her old hookup. As a millennial woman who’s no stranger to the dating app scene, I have been sent my fair share of that kind of thing. But there’s something dare I say problematic about a woman sending unsolicited pics of someone else’s junk who cannot consent to it being further shared. This is juxtaposed with Gloria Steinem giving a speech to a group of older women about how ageism is the next fight in the feminist discourse. Excuse me, what? The godmother of second-wave feminism is speaking and you’re sending that?! Act your age and not your shoe size! The entire storyline ends when Carrie’s old publisher Enid (Candice Bergen) inadvertently sees the pic on Carrie’s phone and asks her why she has a picture of her boyfriend’s dick! People simply do not act like this. Why is this show so hell-bent on humiliating everyone?
Finally, there’s Charlotte’s storyline, which is that her husband Harry (Evan Handler) is having dry orgasms, and she misses his jizz. Oh, and she gets called a “c*m sl*t” in the process. Deep sigh. I genuinely don’t know where to begin here. I’ve tried to hone in on why I found this storyline so terrible. Obviously, a major problem is in its execution because the show has none of the charm its predecessor had. Additionally, a storyline like this only reminds you how desperately lacking the show is without Samantha. This is a storyline where she would have thrived and provided comedic relief. The addition of Anthony (Mario Cantone) during the discussion between Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte is a pale imitation of the joyful and sex-positive attitude that Samantha brought to the table.
Ultimately, I watch this show because I enjoy how terrible it is, and how destructive it is to its own legacy. This is a reboot I don’t think anyone was asking for, and it’s sticking around like a bad party guest listing in great detail all the faults that it’s noticed in you and itself. Instead of creating compelling and relatable storylines, the series keeps trotting out a deep roster of previous characters just to get a “remember them?” response. It’s the worst kind of fan service. Honestly, it makes me feel better about myself. Because no matter how much I screw up in my life, I haven’t tarnished the legacy of a much-loved show to the point where people wish I’d just go away. There’s something to be said for that.
(featured image: Craig Blankenhorn/Max)
