One could easily pinpoint two pivotal components missing from the inaugural season of "And Just Like That…," rendering the "Sex and the City" sequel series somewhat… let's delicately phrase it, disconnected from its roots: Samantha Jones and the sexual spark. The "AJLT" team, given the circumstances, has navigated the Samantha void as best they could (one presumes), and my heart skips a beat with anticipation yet sinks with a hint of disappointment upon hearing we'll only receive a fleeting, tangible phone call with Samantha this season.
As for the sex, its absence in season one was palpable, save for the collective nightmare that was Che Diaz digitally painting Miranda's kitchen walls while a recovering Carrie was reduced to urinating in an empty peach-flavored Diet Snapple bottle, only to spill it all over her bed amidst her bestie's patented Bradshaw oven-closet escapades. The mere memory sends shivers down my spine even now. Recall how Che bestowed upon Miranda the moniker "Rambo," which she gleefully adopted? Though unrelated to sex, I refuse to believe I'm the sole soul who still finds it mind-boggling that such an occurrence transpired. You're welcome for the reminder.
Season two bursts onto the scene with a bold, unmissable message: We haven't forgotten about the sex. Enter a montage showcasing our leading ladies either receiving or administering some loving. Carrie and her podcast producer, Franklyn, have escalated their elevator makeouts to the bedroom, Charlotte and Harry keep the heat on, Lisa Todd Wexley and Herbert remain a blazing hot married couple, Seema and club owner Zed continue their hookups, and Miranda and Che soak in an L.A. hot tub, cozy as can be. I'm overjoyed to witness everyone deservingly indulging in some passion. My sole critique is the montage's inclusion of Nya, desolate after her husband jetted off on tour amid marital strife, forlornly watching a sex scene on TV. Her plight appears pathetic, yet isn't this precisely what we're doing right now – watching others engage in sexual escapades on screen? Why must "And Just Like That…" hit me so hard right out of the gate? It's hilarious, yet, "How dare you?" Only time will tell if season two embraces sex more openly or if this montage marks the show's premature climax within its first three minutes. Fingers crossed for the former.
Honestly, I can't discern if season one's cringe-worthy moments have worn me down or if we've merely grown accustomed to its offerings (and omissions). This premiere suggests the series has settled into its skin somewhat. That's not to imply it's resolved all its issues. If you approach season two expecting it to have somehow evolved into a prestige dramedy, prepare for disappointment. Yet, it's alright; it remains just that – alright. The premiere, replete with sex and levity, hints at a lighter tone than season one's grief-laden opening stretch. Carrie's grief lingers – an honest portrayal of life – but there's a palpable sense of the show having more fun this go-around.
Picture this: Miranda, stark naked, clawing her way out of a sensory-deprivation tank, her voice ringing with defiance as she exclaims, "Fuck the new me!" in regards to her fresh Los Angeles perspective on life. Now, that's entertaining. It captures the essence of the old-school Miranda Hobbes we all know and love. Then there's the East Coast gang, gearing up for the Met Gala, invitations secured thanks to LTW and her vast wealth. It's a scene brimming with excitement.
The episode's grand set piece presents us with fashion emergencies galore – Carrie hires Jackie's rising designer wife, Smoke, to craft her gown, only for everything to unravel mere hours before the event. And let's not forget the nostalgic fashion moments, like Carrie pairing Smoke's cape with her iconic Vivienne Westwood wedding dress and veil. Yes, that's pure fun! We're also treated to some truly outrageous fashion choices – think Charlotte's cotton-candy My Fair Lady-Burlesque hybrid ensemble and LTW's wild headpiece. To be fair to her, the theme is "Veiled Beauty," and she owns it with confidence. And just as And Just Like That…acknowledges the absurdity by having LTW explain to her husband, "It's not crazy. It's Valentino." You see? Fun!
Then there's the recurring joke about Anthony being someone's plus-one only to be continually ditched. Isn't that a hoot? No one's dying after a Peloton ride in this season – we're having a blast! While the Met Gala storyline teems with promise for season two, it also shines a spotlight on some lingering issues from season one, particularly the abundance of half-baked plotlines. Admittedly, Sex and the City was never renowned for its robust story structure, nor was it highly serialized, especially in its early days. However, on And Just Like That…, it feels more pronounced. Or perhaps beneath the sex and fashion, many subplots simply lack pizzazz?
Charlotte's entire storyline in this episode boils down to a comedy of errors involving plus-ones: Harry mistakenly believes he's Charlotte's date, prompting her to uninvite Anthony. But when Harry learns normals don't walk the stairs and no one at work will know he attended, he bails, leaving Charlotte to reinvite Anthony. She has precious little else to do. Lisa's storyline revolves around her being stressed by juggling everything for her family while also striving to make her next big documentary. When she lets go for the eight minutes it takes Herbert to give her an orgasm before the gala, she forgets to confirm their ride, leading them to walk ten blocks to the museum. (This does result in a stunning shot of Nicole Ari Parker and Chris Jackson crossing the street.)
In a baffling twist, Seema surrenders her spot as Carrie's plus-one to lunch with Zed and his son, who's only in town for a day, accompanied by Zed's ex-wife. But when she discovers Zed still lives with his ex, she balks at the mess and dashes off to make the Met Gala just in time. Her gold ensemble and metal mask steal the show. None of these storylines is terrible, but they're flimsy.
Carrie fares slightly better: When Franklyn attempts to transform their casual, once-a-week hookup into something more, she musters the courage to be honest, informing him she's not ready for anything beyond "exit-out-of-grief sex." This at least demonstrates character development and forward momentum. The same goes for Nya, who, after spiraling over being abandoned by Andre Rashad, treats herself to dinner and catches the eye of another man. While she seems quite interested (weren't you privy to the sex montage? Nya's horny!), she informs Toussaint she's married. Back home, drunk and clad in lingerie, she hopes to video-chat with Andre Rashad but learns he's "writing songs" in his hotel room with a backup singer named Heidi. Nya promptly ends things there and then.
Perhaps it's just a premiere hiccup – we're reacclimating to the ensemble's current emotional landscapes. Or perhaps we're striking a balance: This time around, the characters feel more rounded, more lived-in, but no one has sufficient time to accomplish much. And we haven't even ventured to Los Angeles yet.
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It's undeniable; I completely buried the lead here. In my defense, my tiny brain is still grappling with perhaps the most groundbreaking news to emerge from the season-two premiere: Che's ambitious network pilot, an Mexican-Irish nonbinary TV adaptation of themselves, bears the moniker "Che Pasa." When this seemingly inconsequential snippet was casually mentioned, I had to hit pause and take a brief, contemplative stroll around my living room. "Che Pasa." Not a soul thought, "Couldn't we just call it 'Che,' you know?" Nevertheless, here we are—a blessing or a curse; I'm still undecided. I adore it. Or maybe I despise it. Jury's still out.
If I'm being charitable, a title as cheesetastic as that might just be the initial inkling that Che's dreams aren't unfolding as smoothly as they'd hoped. It certainly feels like we're heading in that direction. The crux of the Miranda-Che storyline in this episode revolves around their deepening vulnerability with each other. And by that, I don't solely mean Miranda grappling with how to don an elaborate strap-on—although, let's not discount that aspect either.
Miranda is embracing her impulsive summer relocation to Los Angeles and appears slightly less manic than in the previous season. However, she starts to stress when Che behaves oddly around her. They keep shying away when Miranda tries to embrace them in public, leading her to worry that Che views their relationship purely as sexual, devoid of any deeper connection. Eventually, Che opens up about their ordeal: During a harrowing costume fitting, several individuals made hurtful comments about Che's size. Though they didn't want it to affect them, it undeniably did. Che Diaz, of all people, shed tears! They didn't want Miranda to witness their hurt over such a trivial matter. Miranda reassures Che that they are the most beautiful person they've ever seen, and it's genuinely heartwarming. Perhaps this is the first time I've truly believed in them as a couple.
Even after they conclude their scene with a joke about taking an Uber from the bedroom to the bathroom—which, scientifically speaking, should extinguish all sexual attraction forever—Miranda remains infatuated with Che. These two疯孩子 might just make it! Or perhaps disaster lurks around the corner, ready to blow up in their faces. Most likely the latter. Nonetheless, it was refreshing not to be utterly perplexed by AJLT's Miranda-and-Che decisions for once. As I said, we're having a blast!
