About this time two years ago, I was asked to review episode one of season two of And Just Like That… I was a Sex and the City fan, I loved the smart dialogue, the fabulous friendships, the fashion, the romance, the glamour of it all.
But I hated that first episode. I ended the review by writing: “‘Life’s too short not to try something new,’” coos Carrie over her poached fecking egg. It’s also too short to watch this ever again.”
And yet, I couldn’t stop myself tuning in for the first episode of season three. What can I say? I’m an optimist. I was hoping it might redeem itself, get back to the brilliance of the original. And not for the first time, I was wrong. So very wrong. Buckle up, (I wish Aidan had), here’s a recap.
It starts with Carrie sending a vintage postcard of old New York with a single heart on it to Aidan. (Big died last season, she reconnected with Aidan by having copious amounts of jiggy jiggy everywhere but in her apartment because he had bad memories of it, you remember — from back when the show was good? So she sells it, and buys a giant house in Gramercy Park. That’s a lot of real estate wrangling for a man.)
But gasp! New gaff or not, their ‘happily ever after’ is put on pause for Aidan’s got a teenager who’s fond of the gargle, getting in trouble to grab his father’s attention. Ergo, Aidan, aka Country Lurch, has made the perfectly reasonable decision to ask Carrie to stay together, but with absolutely no contact. Huh?
It’s not forever, just a little snap of the fingers, he explains, just until Wyatt the delinquent is out of his teens, you know, just, pffft… five years.
FIVE YEARS?! And bafflingly, Carrie agrees to this. The woman is in her mid-50s, for Christ’s sake, she can’t wait five years for another roll in the hay; she’ll break a hip. ’Tis only Werther’s Originals she’ll want to be sucking by then. What the hell, Aidan?
Anyway, I should have known, the old horn dog couldn’t keep to his own deal, all it takes is three beers for him to sneak off into his truck, and ring Carrie for a bit of sexy time.
In one of the most excruciating scenes I’ve had the misfortune to sit through, he flings open his belt and … Gah! … I had to close my eyes for the rest of it. Meanwhile, poor Carrie is put off by her cat (an actual feline called Shoe, I’m not being coy here. Shoo, Shoe, Shoo!) and just kinda murmurs, ‘oh golly, emmmhmm’, into the phone while your man is ruining the truck back in Virginia. You drive Wyatt around in that thing, Aidan you dirty dog. For shame. I actually wasn’t well after it.
As for the other characters, Miranda has a strange rigor mortis grin plastered on ever since she’s become a lesbian but she’s not having much luck in the single bars.
She explains to the gals that on her last big night out, all she’s managed to do is ring up a bar tab of $37 on mocktails … so like … two mocktails? Girl, try going out in Cork city with 37 buckaroos and see how far it’ll get ya, phoney negronis or not.
She finally gets picked up by Mary (Rosie O’Donnell), who it turns out, is a virgin and a nun and worse still — a TOURIST. This leads to lots of Virgin Mary and Holy Ghosting puns, but it feels like the writers worked their way backwards, and it isn’t funny at all.
They are Mean Girling a nice lady who just wants to see Wicked, visit the M&M store, and cheat on Jesus. Plus they totally missed a water into whine opportunity.
Season three Charlotte is like a weird, wide-eyed cartoon character who looks like she’s playing that party game where someone put their hands into another person’s sleeves and flails them around a lot for comic effect.
Her main story line is her bulldog getting unfairly cancelled by a Chihauhau with a bad back. Charlotte defends canine Richard Burton, repeatedly calling him a ‘sweet baby angel’, when in fact, he looks like … well, a bulldog.
He doesn’t even need to be chewing a wasp to look grotesque. One half of his lip droops, so some misshapen teeth are constantly on show, his tongue lolls and those disgusting red bits under his eyes are always on show. He gets too much air time. He has a face like a painter’s radio. I like him not.
In another utterly relatable story arc, Lisa is forced to throw a party to make her husband look cool, that’s right, the fella running for the esteemed office of city comptroller.
He keeps pulling her aside to affirm that he is, in fact, cool. Your name is Herbert, you goon. You were done dirty the day your mother gave you that name. Get over it.
Seema gets rid of her beau, after he doesn’t pay her enough attention and she falls asleep in the leaba with a fag waiting for his call. She burns her mattress and more unforgivably her hair, which is 90% of her personality, so that’s him getting his P45.
Even though he’s debonair and loaded and does not require a penis pump, like her last guy. So, I started the episode with high hopes, and just like that, it ends with me Googling ‘how to bleach your eyeballs’. Will I tune in next week? Of course. I’m an optimist, after all.
