For Sex and the City superfans, the And Just Like That finale may just offer redemption

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This column contains spoilers

There was a point in the first (and only?) season of And Just Like That when I thought the series might do something interesting, might redeem itself from its cringey first episode. In Hello It’s Me, Miranda, who is supposed to be an extremely intelligent woman in her mid-50s, a lawyer getting her master’s degree in human rights, declared she drew the line at listening to podcasts. Those newfangled things! And we, the Sex and the City nation, balked: Miranda, of all people would have been addicted to podcasts – The Daily, NPR News Now.

It was episode two that gave me hope: an honest, for the most part, exploration of grief and friendship. The way Carrie’s friends rallied around her after Big’s sudden death, Miranda and Charlotte taking turns sleeping in the bed with her. Charlotte’s self-blame, her self-centred tears. All of that felt raw, real. Although, cut to the funeral: Susan Sharon and Bitsy Von Muffling managed to make it, but neither of Big’s ex-wives did?

On the matter of ex-wives, episode three took on a tough subject: What is it like after your spouse dies to realize you weren’t exactly sure what he was up to and oh my god he had a dog and a Pinkberry yogurt punch card and maybe was he also having an affair? These things really happen. But this episode devolved into silliness not worthy of these characters – the Natasha stalking, the improbable moment in the coffee shop bathroom. And let’s give Natasha some credit. She’s a mother now, she would have moved on long ago – and been more gracious.

And why in all of this – the funeral, the will reading, the entire episode about Natasha – was there not even a single mention of Big’s first ex-wife, the publishing executive that Carrie tried to spy-befriend by pretending she wanted to write a children’s book about smoking? I can’t have been the only superfan yelling “What about Barbara?!” at my TV screen.

Speaking of yelling at the TV, a chorus of “Call 911!” may have been audible from space back on Dec. 9, when the highly anticipated first episode aired – with that bombshell ending.

I was so young and naive then. So hopeful that this series would live up to the original; would take me out of my pandemic malaise, even for just 35 to 44 minutes every Thursday.

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On the pandemic, I reject the notion that these women would have been going to nightclubs or “comedy concerts” jammed with strangers and nary a mask in sight. Maybe that speaks to the fantasy of the show, but it just felt wrong – and weird.

There’s one scene where Carrie, recovered from hip surgery, is lying on her chaise longue reading a book under a cozy blanket. And she says out loud, “This isn’t healthy.” What is not healthy about this situation? This seems to me to be the very definition of a healthy way to recover from grief and surgery.

And I know shoes are Carrie’s thing, but come on: Grief-walking around Manhattan is relatable; doing it in four-inch heels is just folly. And painting the walls of a women’s shelter in them? Her main postsurgery physiotherapy goal of getting back into heels seemed not oh, Carrie funny – but shallow.

While we’re on fashion: writers, read the room. It was one thing for Carrie to be obsessed with fashion in the good old nineties and aughts. But the world is not only going through multiple horrible things – climate change, a pandemic – but also a social-justice reckoning that makes Carrie’s closet(s) seem tone deaf.

Of all the egregious inauthenticity, though, the absolute worst had to be the restaurant scene where Miranda shares with her best friends that she is going to tell Steve, later that day, that she is leaving him. Any person who has ever been a friend understands that this would immediately turn into a summit; the only thing on the table would be talking this through, maybe playing out scenarios and asking some tough questions: can you afford it – you’ve left your job and you’re back at school; who’s going to live where; how is your son going to take this? And other such practicalities.

Instead, the conversation veers off into the ridiculous, focusing on Charlotte’s sex life with Harry, one particular aspect of it. Even Miranda chimes in, interested. I promise you: Miranda would not give a hoot about what Charlotte and Harry were up to (with the door open, with at least one kid home – which would also never happen). Miranda’s stomach would have been churning, her heart racing, her entire body in knots, knowing what was ahead of her that day.

This may have been the moment when I finally gave up on the show. (Although, of course, I kept watching.)

We need to talk about Stanford. The writers sent him off to Japan with a Dear John note for Anthony (and Carrie). Stanny deserves better and so do the show’s fans – all of whom know that the actor who played Stanford Blatch, Willie Garson, died during the season’s filming. I don’t want to downplay the grief and shock that the creative team must have been feeling; this was horrible. But eventually, Stanford deserved a better ending, a better way to be written out.

On the other hand, I might be the only person on the planet who thinks the Samantha stuff was handled well (other than that manipulative first line from the first episode, where Charlotte says, “She’s no longer with us,” meant to panic viewers into thinking for a moment that Samantha was dead). The funeral flowers, the text messages, the silence. The plan they make to meet up in Paris. These things happen between women, as we know. As the actors playing these characters know.

And maybe this is part of the challenge with this show: information saturation. We, as viewers, are in on far more real-life developments than we were back in the pre-social media Sex and the City era. We know Willie Garson is dead, we know Kim Cattrall is feuding with Sarah Jessica Parker, we (now) know about allegations of sexual assault against Chris Noth, who played Mr. Big.

So, in the wee hours of Thursday morning, I tuned into the season finale with low expectations. What would the show do now to disappoint me, I wondered?

Then, surprise. It was good. Carrie goes back to Paris, Charlotte becomes a woman, Miranda embraces change, and Franklyn, the podcast producer, makes his move (we always knew that was coming; he was far too good looking to just be a bit character).

Miranda’s arc – the most interesting thing about the season – saw her give up a coveted internship, give up New York, give up the grey – for love? Really? Carrie rushes to judgment – and we probably would too. But I liked the suggestion that change is possible, excitement is possible, yes, even in mid-life.

There were still some iffy moments (for instance, the rabbi emerging from the bathroom stall with her instant wise take on things). But overall, there was a lot of beauty to this episode.

Immediately afterward I watched And Just Like That… The Documentary (which is terrific) and thought: please let there be a season two. I love these women, I’ve missed them, I like having them back in my life, I like having this show back in my life, flaws and all.

And just like that, redemption.

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