The Bitter End: Why 'And Just Like That' Had to Die
📷 Image source: i.guim.co.uk
A Eulogy for a Show That Never Quite Lived
The long, painful goodbye no one asked for
Let’s be honest: 'And Just Like That' was a zombie from the start. The 'Sex and the City' spin-off limped onto our screens in 2021, a full 17 years after the original series wrapped, and it never shook the stench of desperation. HBO Max’s announcement that season 3 would be its last felt less like a cancellation and more like a mercy killing.
Even the most die-hard SATC fans—the ones who still quote ‘Abso-fucking-lutely’ unironically—struggled to defend this mess. The show’s attempts at ‘modernizing’ the franchise—awkwardly shoehorning in non-binary characters, clumsy racial commentary, and that bizarre Che Diaz storyline—felt like watching your boomer aunt try to use TikTok.
The Cast Knew It Too
Even Sarah Jessica Parker couldn’t fake the enthusiasm
Remember that Vanity Fair interview where Parker called the revival 'a challenge'? That was code. By season 2, the cracks were undeniable: Cynthia Nixon (Miranda) looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, Kristin Davis (Charlotte) became a parody of herself, and Kim Cattrall’s absence loomed larger than ever. The show’s attempts to replace Samantha with new characters (Seema, Lisa Todd Wexley) were like serving store-brand cola at a champagne brunch.
Behind the scenes, the drama was juicier than anything on screen. Writers cycled in and out, showrunner Michael Patrick King admitted to ‘course-correcting’ mid-season, and the budget ballooned to $12M per episode—for what? Endless shots of Carrie’s Manolo Blahniks and cringe-worthy podcast scenes?
The Cultural Reckoning
Why 2025 was the final nail
Timing matters. The original 'Sex and the City' premiered in 1998, when feminism was still digestible as four white women talking about vibrators over cosmos. But in 2025? After #MeToo, after intersectional feminism went mainstream, after 'The Idol' crashed and burned? The show’s tone-deaf treatment of money (Carrie’s $10K/month apartment while ‘struggling’), sex (Miranda’s midlife lesbian awakening played for laughs), and race (remember the ‘diversity seminar’ episode?) felt grotesque.
Even the fashion—once the show’s saving grace—couldn’t save it. Patricia Field’s absence was glaring; the replacement stylists dressed the cast like Rich Auntie Halloween costumes. That viral tweet said it best: ‘AJLT is what happens when your 2003 self-help book gets a Netflix adaptation.’
What’s Left in the Wreckage
The legacy no one wants to claim
The real tragedy? Tarnishing a cultural touchstone. SATC wasn’t perfect, but it was revolutionary for its time—giving women permission to talk about sex, ambition, and friendship without apology. AJLT reduced all that to a soulless algorithm: take nostalgia, add ‘woke’ buzzwords, stir in product placements.
Maybe there’s a lesson here. Not every story needs a second act. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for a legacy is let it rest—preferably before you’re reduced to writing a storyline where Carrie Bradshaw tries VR dating. As the credits roll on this disaster, one thing’s clear: the only thing worse than goodbye is overstaying your welcome.
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