“And just like that” Season 3: Wokeness won’t help anymore

Six seasons of "Sex and the City" didn't seem enough at the time. Millions of people, presumably a large proportion of them women, watched protagonist Carrie Bradshaw (played by Sarah Jessica Parker) as she searched for her true love and enjoyed life in New York City with her three best friends. The series culminated in the ultimate happy ending. Then came the first film, which was largely celebrated by critics and fans. Years after we all recovered from the unspeakable second blockbuster, "And Just Like That" came along with a new series and the old characters. Without Kim Catrall (Samantha Jones), who was probably also finished off in the second film. Who can blame her?

Sometimes a series reboot can work well. Take the four extra episodes of Gilmore Girls, for example, which gave fans everything they wanted. Or the sitcom "The Conners," the reboot of the 90s series "Roseanne." It's reaching old and new fans alike and has already run for seven seasons. The vampire series "Buffy" and the 70s cult series "Little House on the Prairie" are also currently in the planning stages. Fingers crossed for a good remake.

But what was attempted in "And just like that" should not serve as a model for new and old series. (Warning - spoilers ahead!) Even the first season of "And just like that" left viewers puzzled. Very early on, one got the impression that the writers were trying to cram as much wokeness and enlightened coolness into the script as possible. Yes, there is significantly more visible diversity in the series and that's a good thing - but does it always have to be done with a sledgehammer? Does the previously heterosexual Miranda have to have her homosexual awakening with a non-binary person in a kitchen while Carrie is lying in bed around the corner? The word cringe has already taken on a whole new meaning.

The first four episodes of the third season have so far been released on the streaming service WOW and are in no way inferior to the viewing experience of the first two seasons. Every now and then you want to pull the covers over your eyes, like when the new/old man Aidan licks his fingers in his truck outside his farmhouse before cozying up to Carrie on the phone. (Ugh!) Or when Carrie, normally a strong and intelligent woman, receives an empty postcard from her lover – and celebrates this nonsense as if he had just proposed to her. The storyline as a whole is completely far-fetched. Her former boyfriend Aidan came back into her life in the second season. The season ended with him needing time for his children, and Carrie is prepared to wait for years. Are we back in the Middle Ages? A time jump back? No, she, the understanding, submissive girlfriend she is, gives him this space.

Why? You don't understand it, and the desire that she would finally send this boring country boy into the desert grows stronger with each episode. Aren't there more interesting stories to tell about women over 50? It's hard to imagine, because even at that age, life, desire, curiosity, and adventure aren't over. Carrie, however, turns out to be a woman in the shadow of an overgrown family father who lives so far away that she has to fly to him. And so she does – without knowing whether he will ask her to stay for a few days. Where is her self-determination? Where is her own will?

Carrie and Miranda in New York. imago

What you have to give the series credit for is its consistently inspiring and at times grotesque fashion. It's fun to watch the women, like Carrie strutting through Central Park in a dress and a hat that looks like a pillowcase. The combinations are bold and experimental—just how a German woman imagines life as a New Yorker. This worked very well in the original series and the films; you could almost think that fashion was an additional protagonist of the series.

And yet the great fashion doesn't make up for what the writers also failed to do in the third season: make the main characters and their decisions understandable. To simulate that they are real friends, that they feel love and closeness to one another. Every now and then there are scenes where you have to ask yourself: what was that all about? Like when Harry, Charlotte's husband, can't open his trousers in time to get to the toilet and wets himself. In slapstick formats that can be funny, but here it just seems embarrassing and predictable. Or when Miranda sleeps with a woman who reveals to her the next morning that she is a nun and a virgin. Could it be any more absurd? And her reaction to this isn't serene and cool, but she is overwhelmed and finds it funny. Where has the wokeness gone?

It's time to put an end to this nonsense. Let Carrie go in peace and perhaps with a tiny shred of dignity. She'll sit in her garden writing until the end of her days, meet her friends for superficialities and cocktails, maybe date occasionally. But let her go.

Still, it's like a car accident. You don't want to look, everything bristles, even the adverts for the show are so hyper-cringe that they give you goosebumps. You could simply not turn it on, ignore the next new episode. And then you do it anyway. Because it's like seeing old friends again. Because you want to know how Carrie manages to get through life. After all, we've followed her and her friends since they were in their early 30s. In the end, there's the bittersweet realisation: sometimes you just have to go, even if the party isn't over yet.