During my recent week-long vacation, which involved two stubborn 2-year-olds who refused to sleep and limited access to French Netflix, I found myself engrossed in Designated Survivor, a rather nonsensical TV show. The plot revolves around a terrorist attack during the State of the Union, resulting in the death of the president, most of Congress, and the Cabinet. The only survivor left to govern is the unassuming Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, portrayed by Kiefer Sutherland. The show is packed with action and twists, which strangely brought me a sense of comfort amidst my exhausted and jittery state. The constant stream of armed shooters, bioterrorism threats, and insurrection ironically provided a soothing distraction from my anxiety, offering a predictable form of disaster every five minutes.
Designated Survivor represents one end of the mindless television spectrum, while And Just Like That, the Sex and the City reboot from Max (formerly HBO Max) that recently returned for its second season, sits on the opposite end. I’ve watched the first seven episodes of the reboot, each lasting a mind-numbing 45 minutes, and it’s astonishing how little actually happens. The episodes feature trivial narratives, almost like miniatures of the original show. In one episode, Carrie learns how to poach an egg from a YouTube tutorial. In another, Miranda loses her phone on the beach. And in a third, Carrie pretends to have COVID to avoid recording her own audiobook. The stories are incredibly minute, as if the show has been distilled into a vivid but miniature replica. An entire episode revolves around Charlotte and Harry dressing up as Philip and Elizabeth Jennings from The Americans for Halloween, only to realize that no one recognizes the reference. Harry insists that the show won numerous awards and was on FX for seven seasons, but his efforts are in vain as nobody around him cares. The fact that the writers thought this would be amusing highlights the lack of substance in the reboot.
This lack of creativity begs the question: Is it the inevitable consequence of a fictional universe so afraid of being conventional that it simply cannot imagine middle age, especially when it concerns the lives of women? Or is there something else at play? Despite its dullness and cringe-worthy moments (such as the poorly delivered joke about “currylingus”), I binge-watched every episode. And Just Like That is, unequivocally, not good. However, sporadically, it offers glimpses of what made Sex and the City captivating. The reboot evokes the same feelings as scrolling through Instagram – beauty, color, familiar faces – with the tantalizing possibility of infinite potential around the corner.
As noted in a recent New York Times essay, the current surge of revivals faces a creative dilemma. A reboot that changes nothing becomes lifeless and eerie, while one that attempts to outsmart its predecessor turns cynical and bitter. The first season of And Just Like That undeniably fell into the latter category – a prolonged punishment for the perceived flaws of the original show that transformed its characters into joyless, socially irrelevant Karens. Carrie, who was once the embodiment of sexual freedom, became a prudish figure on a podcast ironically named X, Y, and Me. Miranda, the skeptical and practical voice of reason, developed a drinking problem during the pandemic, made racist assumptions about her human rights law professor, and impulsively left her husband Steve for a “queer nonbinary Mexican Irish diva” comedian named Che Diaz. Charlotte obsessed over the fact that she only had one Black friend. Samantha, due to Kim Cattrall’s refusal to join the show, was reduced to a few sassy text messages. In an attempt to rectify the show’s long-standing focus on white characters, each woman was paired with a new character of color, which, although potentially tokenistic, introduced a talented cast including Nicole Ari Parker, Karen Pittman, and Sarita Choudhury.
Thankfully, in its second season, And Just Like That stops apologizing for its existence. Yet, this only exposes the show’s lack of purpose, making it feel eerie and lifeless. The opening episode showcases the characters returning to their sexual escapades, reminiscent of the show’s early days. However, the thrill quickly dissipates when Carrie and her podcast producer, Franklyn, engage in banal pillow talk about his preference for watching cooking shows in bed. The dialogue is devoid of artistry and spirit, oozing with mediocrity to the extent that it threatens to undermine the entire project. Carrie’s response to a caller seeking advice on building a deeper connection with her partner – “First of all, ‘Relationship Place’ would make a great restaurant name” – exemplifies the show’s feeble attempts at humor. Nya, when complimented on her absorbing book by an attractive man at a bar, replies, “Well, Skip Gates always is, but since I’m on my second glass of Malbec, I’m having a hard time concentrating.” These exchanges left me feeling slightly dazed, as if the unsettling emptiness of the show was somehow my fault. Superfluous details float around like dandelion seeds in the wind: Che’s new sitcom titled Che Pasa, Charlotte’s child Rock being discovered by a modeling agent but deciding not to pursue it, and Harry’s loss of ejaculation ability, leading Carrie to utter the regrettable phrase “Casper the friendly cum.”
Didn’t these women used to have meaningful professions? Wasn’t there a purpose behind their non-sexual adventures? Is this what happens when financial concerns are no longer relevant? At times, I wished I wasn’t watching this ghost of a once groundbreaking show, yearning to emulate my colleague who refuses to watch, likening it to witnessing the destruction of a beloved bar. And yet, this is the curse of our era of reboots. We watch because it’s easy. We watch because the barrier to entry is low. We watch because, despite the multitude of shows available, it’s challenging to find something accessible, artistic, and inspirational. And just like that, I reluctantly succumbed.
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