This article contains spoilers through Season 2 Episode 10 of And Just Like That.
And Just Like That, unlike any other show in our currently limited television landscape, is a captivating combination of riotous entertainment, disarray, and a chaotic mix of intimate storytelling and high-end fashion. Each episode presents at least three scenes that leave us dumbfounded, with nothing to say except, “What?!?” About five weeks ago, The New Yorker published a humorous piece proposing absurdly mundane storylines the show could explore. Surprisingly, two of those ideas have actually come to life. Last week, Miranda and Charlotte found themselves perplexed by Chipotle’s fast-casual ordering system. And is it possible that Carrie now owns a cat? Che, a former popular podcaster and comedian, currently finds themselves working overtime at a veterinarian’s office. It seems that in this world, the only two financial classes that exist are the Hudson Yards rich and those working grueling shifts.
Money plays a significant role in television shows because striving drives compelling storytelling. Yet, when most of your characters belong to the 0.001 percent, the narrative loses its sense of urgency, resulting in storylines about Airbnbs lacking salad tongs or children forgetting their notebooks. Sex and the City was a thrilling show because of its relatability, even if it was through a distorted lens. On the other hand, And Just Like That dwells in such a remote socioeconomic universe that watching it can feel like observing an exotic species in a nature documentary. (“Here we witness a 57-year-old female receiving an unsolicited explicit image during a fundraising lunch with Gloria Steinem. Observe her display of feathers! Witness the disorientation in her eyes.”)
That is precisely why this week’s episode, awkwardly titled “The Last Supper Part One: Appetizer,” stands out as the best of the season thus far. It seamlessly combines the absurdity that we’ve grown to adore (such as discovering that Stanford, who left for Japan last season, has become a Shinto monk, leading Anthony to make an ill-conceived “gay-sha” joke) with a surprisingly contemplative and poignant exploration of modern parenting. I’m not referring to Charlotte, whose storyline this week involved selling a painting to Sam Smith and indulging in happy hour drinks. Rather, it was Lisa Todd Wexley—whose three-name mention feels requisite, as if she were a pop icon or a Supreme Court Justice—who encounters an unplanned pregnancy, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, and resentment towards her husband for not undergoing a vasectomy. This narrative thread brings something to the show that it has sorely lacked: authenticity.
The episode’s most compelling moments, aptly sandwiched between questionable snippets of dialogue, include Miranda’s boss returning to work after giving birth and saying, “Five weeks of maternity leave is sufficient during times of crisis, right?” Miranda proclaims that zucchini chips are worth living for. Che delivers a stand-up routine that mercilessly mocks Miranda, jeopardizing the progress their character has made this season. But first, during brunch, Charlotte informs the others—although it feels inappropriate to call them “girls”—that Lisa’s documentary project has been expanded into a 10-part series by PBS. “They’re Ken Burns–ing you!” exclaims Miranda, while Lisa nods with a hint of weariness. Later, she confides in Charlotte, revealing why she lacks enthusiasm. How can she get excited about a project she doubts she’ll be able to complete? “I’ll be missing deadlines, working around the clock, and failing at both responsibilities,” she declares. “Damn it. I thought it was finally my time, Charlotte.”
She’s absolutely right. Midlife is meant to be a time when we can pursue all the dreams we deferred—for example, Steve opening his clams-and-hot-dogs joint in Coney Island, reclaiming his sense of self after a challenging divorce. Or Miranda realizing that her thirty-year career as a corporate lawyer grants her enough credibility to seize the opportunities presented to her, without worrying about the women stuck doing menial tasks. Or Charlotte rediscovering “me” time through a blender overflowing with margaritas. Or Stanford finding solace in a Kyoto temple, even if the late and great Willie Garson deserved a better Photoshop job. However, Lisa, abruptly confronted with another 18 years of childcare, recognizes that her flourishing career and creative aspirations may be pushed past the point of no return. “Should we reconsider?” poses her husband, Herbert. (Bless you, Herbert, for affirming a woman’s right to shoes and the power to choose.) “I’ve considered it, but I can’t,” Lisa responds. “I mean, I’m grateful that I have that choice, but … I need time to accept this new reality. I will. I always do.”
The weight behind her final line, delivered quietly and away from Herbert, is significant—an acknowledgment of sacrifice, sorrow, and an understanding that you can cherish every aspect of being a parent while recognizing the costs that come with it. By the end of the episode, even the child-free Carrie feels the weight of parenting when Aidan breaks down in tears outside the hospital where his 14-year-old son, Wyatt, has been admitted due to a car accident. In another series, Wyatt’s accident might not necessitate changes. Aidan and Carrie could continue their long-distance love story, albeit with caution. The show could even expand its geographic scope by having Carrie visit Aidan on his Virginia farm. (According to showrunner Michael Patrick King in HBO’s companion podcast, they pondered this idea, but filming during winter would have posed logistical challenges.) However, in the world of the show, it’s apparent that this incident may lead to the end of Aidan, as his guilt for not being present amplifies his reluctance to leave. In a series where every character possesses main-character syndrome, it’s refreshing to see some of them coming back down to Earth.
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