Well, here we are, confronted with a reboot of "Sex and the City" that is decidedly not the sequel I envisioned when its return was announced. Let's address the elephant in the room right off the bat: by episode's end, Mr. Big, Carrie's soulmate, her eternal love, the one who cherished her as deeply as she did him, succumbs to a heart attack and passes away in Carrie's arms, on the cold tiles of their shower. "And just like that, Big died," she laments, encapsulating the show's daring creative pivot and steering it onto a path few could have foreseen amidst the pre-release hype.
Throughout the episode, Big's demise is subtly, yet unmistakably foreshadowed. For those tuning in to "And Just Like That…" hoping to witness Carrie and Big living their happily ever after, the fleeting moments of bliss they share serve as a poignant prelude to tragedy. Their scenes together overflow with a serene joy so pure it almost seems surreal. There's no discord, just the two of them cooking dinner (yes, Carrie now wields a spatula with ease!), dancing in the kitchen, and Big crooning sweet nothings to his beloved. Their intimate moments are tender and filled with adoration, painting a picture of unadulterated happiness.
These idyllic scenes, coupled with the emphasis on Carrie altering their plans to attend Lily Goldenblatt's piano recital, and Big's repeated mentions of staying in to achieve his milestone 1,000th Peloton ride with instructor Allegra, all hint at impending doom. When will humanity learn that Pelotons are harbingers of misfortune and that excessive exercise is futile?
Yet, the true blow strikes in the final, poignant interaction between Carrie and Big. As she prepares to leave for Lily's recital, she notes Big indulging in his "weekly cigar" on the very night of his workout and playfully asks if he notices anything special about her. He does indeed: she's donned her blue Manolo Blahniks, her wedding shoes. If that weren't a surefire omen, Big's adoring gaze as she exits should serve as a heart-wrenching portent. Listen well, for whenever a beloved one says, "I'm just looking at you," as you step out the door, it's a premonition of loss. It's a rule etched in stone, or rather, in the annals of heartache. Just... never utter those words to your loved ones, alright?
So, while Lily steals the show at her piano recital (a musical prodigy, we are all in awe), we're repeatedly drawn back to Big's workout, and subsequently, to the harrowing moment he drops his phone in the shower and collapses in agony. His face etches the knowledge of his impending demise. Knowing it was coming doesn't diminish the heart-wrenching scene where Carrie returns to their apartment, ready for their Hamptons getaway, only to find Big slumped against the shower wall. He's still breathing, barely, beyond saving. He clings to life long enough to lock eyes with Carrie. Then her screams echo as she cradles him, and it's over. All I can think of are those shoes. Those cursed shoes! Now forever etched in her memory, worn on both the happiest and the most sorrowful days of her life. In all honesty, I implore you, with every fiber of my being, fuck you, Peloton.
And lo and behold, the revival of "Sex and the City" will transcend the fairy-tale ending of Carrie and Big, diving deep into the aftermath of such a profound loss for Carrie. While viewers may initially harbor some resentment, embracing such a bold risk in the premiere episodes sets the stage brilliantly for the series. Firstly, it propels "And Just Like That…" with remarkable momentum throughout the season. Carrie is bestowed with a plethora of compelling narratives, not to mention how Big's demise could potentially ignite or alter the trajectories of other characters and relationships. Moreover, it underscores the show's autonomy and evolution from its original iteration. This isn't merely "Sex and the City 2.0"; it's a sophisticated evolution, aging gracefully alongside its characters. Welcome to a brand-new universe, whether you embrace it or resist it.
Yet, the premiere doesn't solely revolve around Carrie and Big. It stands as a robust pilot episode in its own right. Though devoid of major, groundbreaking storylines, it masterfully immerses us into the contemporary lives of Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte, while introducing an array of fresh faces poised for substantial screen time. The familiarity is comforting, yet undeniably tinged with the realization that much has shifted, extending beyond Miranda's revamped hair color (as Carrie remarks, her silver strands gleam magnificently). Let's delve into some of these transformations.
Miranda embarks on an academic journey back to school, driven to depart from corporate law after witnessing the impact of the Muslim ban during her volunteer work. She now pursues a Master's degree in human rights, a decision befitting Miranda's intense nature. However, her complete humiliation on the very first day stretches credibility. Could Miranda truly be so paralyzed by the fear of uttering the wrong thing "in this climate" that she indulges in an embarrassing verbal diarrhea, waxing lyrical about her professor Dr. Nya Wallace's braids and her excitement for a Black educator? She's usually far more composed. It's evident that Miranda's storyline tackles the racial insensitivity of the original series. Perhaps the awkwardness is intentional?
On Park Avenue, Charlotte seems content, living the life one might anticipate after so many years. Her universe revolves around her daughters, Lily and Rose, and the opulence of Park Avenue's private school mom existence. The York-Goldenblatt clan's current focal point is Lily's piano recital at the Manhattan School of Music. Carrie, take note – it's a monumental occasion, and Charlotte and Harry beam with pride over their eldest daughter's musical prowess. However, tensions might simmer regarding their younger daughter Rose, who'd much rather skateboard with Harry than admire the Oscar de la Renta gown Charlotte bought for the event. Clearly, Charlotte and Rose speak different languages. Mark this discrepancy well.
Elsewhere in Charlotte's vibrant life, she has befriended a remarkable individual whom she eagerly wishes to introduce into their circle: Lisa Todd Wexley, or simply LTW for those in the know. Lisa, another parent at their children's school, shares a piano tutor with Lily's son, Henry. Lisa exudes a cool, laid-back vibe: she indulges in fries, adorns herself with statement-making necklaces, and, along with her husband, enjoys a playful flouting of rules by smuggling wine into their kids' musical performances. We've taken an instant liking to her, and her poignant tale of struggling under the shadow of her overpowering, internationally acclaimed pianist mother-in-law promises to blend seamlessly with the narratives of the other ladies.
As for the fourth member of their quartet, it's a well-documented fact that Kim Cattrall will not be gracing this season of 'And Just Like That…'. The show addresses her absence head-on: following Carrie's decision to part ways with Samantha as her publicist, ostensibly due to the ever-evolving landscape of the publishing world, Samantha was deeply hurt and responded by severing ties with Carrie and eventually relocating to London for a new job. Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte have all attempted to reconnect, but Samantha has shut them out entirely. Do I find it plausible that Samantha would be so wounded as to run away? Not entirely, but some rationale for her absence was necessary—especially in the wake of Big's passing—leaving the door ajar for a potential return should circumstances change. The void left by Samantha's absence is undeniable, yet it's bearable. We'll all muddle through, perhaps. That is, once I can shake off the haunting memory of those infernal wedding shoes.
