I Couldn’t Help But Wonder … Was ‘And Just Like That’ Just Three Seasons of Fan Disservice?

Way back in 2022, my colleague Meghan O’Keefe wrote an article lamenting the ruin of Miranda Hobbes, the cynical best friend of Carrie Bradshaw whose entire personality seemed to have changed when the show transformed from Sex and the City to And Just Like That. The Miranda that we had come to adore, played by Cynthia Nixon, the one whose honest-to-a-fault personality was the character you wanted to most identify as in the Cosmo quiz about which one you were, was unrecognizable after divorcing Steve, and somehow becoming not just selfish but also meek and vulnerable when she fell for Che Diaz during AJLT Seasons 1 and 2.

Now that And Just Like That has come to an end, I personally feel like Miranda reverted, at least somewhat, back to her old self thanks to her budding relationship with Joy (Dolly Wells), a professional equal who was mature, smart, witty, and, even though she doesn’t like kids, seemed to have a rapport with Miranda’s son Brady, even if it was entirely dog-based. But throughout the past three seasons, we had to endure so many variations of Bizarro Miranda before she came around. The Miranda that forced karaoke on everyone, the Miranda who had sex with Che while Carrie was recovering from surgery, the Miranda who referred to herself as “alcoholish” to justify wanting a drink – this all felt out of character for a woman who has always been put-together and self-aware.

Miranda is not the only character we once loved on this show that went through a similar process of character reinvention – I pity Aidan Shaw, who earned all of our collective goodwill after being a victim of Carrie’s selfishness in the past when she cheated on him with Big, but who I now have no love for whatsoever. John Corbett has never not played a nice guy with a little bit of country in him, and yet this season when Aidan and Carrie really tried to make a go of their relationship, he was not just too country, but too needy, too whiny, too male, as Carrie once said. He created a lot of obstacles for the relationship, and it wasn’t until he admitted that he was still hurt by Carrie’s former cheating ways that we got rid of him. But we had to endure all kinds of frustrating behavior: calling her for weird phone sex, sleeping with his ex-wife, getting into a dick-swinging contest with Duncan, breaking her window with a rock, stuff that rewrote his legacy and made him no longer lovable, but annoying.

And Just Like That made us question whether Carrie’s romance with Big was the be-all, end-all to her love life. After killing him off and making her wonder if Aidan was actually her one true love, the show rewrote history a bit to see where that would go. (While I appreciate that a man is not necessary for a happy ending, I hate to say it but maybe the more satisfying end would have been for Carrie ended up with a nice, affable version of Aidan who was written as a supportive guy who gave her space and respected her work and finally got his son some medication. The writers had the power to control that narrative!)

The concept of “fan service” feels like it rose to prominence when sequels, prequels, and reboots became the norm. If you’re unfamiliar with the the terminology, it refers to the practice of true fans of any given property being rewarded when certain references or characters would reappear; the real ones would know the significance, but new converts wouldn’t be left in the dust. I have an AJLT-specific text thread with friends that’s labeled “Fan Disservice” and it’s just for discussing the way the show’s episodes annoyed us and how we kinda wish they should have left well enough alone. (Things you do not want to get us started on: Carrie’s novel where the woman remains unnamed, Mia’s farts, the way “they/them” pronouns have been used as a punchline for three seasons, and Herbert Wexley). These are all new introductions to the show that we deemed annoying, but the biggest fan disservice of all is the way it’s made us fall out of love with characters. Ultimately, it’s about us losing our trust that the writers know best.

My friends on the text chain and I had a love-hate relationship with the show; we have delightedly watched every episode and then complained afterward about why certain characters should or would never behave that way. We’ve adhered strictly to the mythical canon of the series; any deviations are blasphemy. Maybe we just had exceptionally high expectations? Maybe we’re so devoted to the nostalgia and the feelings the first series evoked, as we were all twentysomething New Yorkers for whom the original SATC was Sunday night appointment television. But this show was personal to us, and its flaws were enraging. (We would also obsessively listen to the show’s writers, like Michael Patrick King, on HBO’s Writer’s Room podcast and be further enraged when they proudly defended the creative decisions we found annoying. LOLOL, I know, how dare they stand by their work!?)

But, like Carrie in those final episodes, we had to make peace with the fact that you really can’t go home again. It’s impossible to reclaim the exact feeling of a totally different time. And while I do begrudge the show’s writers for making certain characters intolerable (Aidan, Herbert, Mia, Che, Patti LuPone, I don’t want to go on) I don’t begrudge them the fact that they couldn’t recapture what made the original so special. The passing of time makes that impossible. The fact that Samantha is not a part of the show makes that impossible. Our evolving social norms have made that impossible.

I was so excited for this reboot, and with every passing episode, that excitement waned to the point that the show’s cancellation felt like the right move. Like Carrie and Aidan’s relationship, I’ve come to realize that you shouldn’t confuse or conflate what worked in the past with the reality of the present.

Liz Kocan is a pop culture writer living in Massachusetts. Her biggest claim to fame is the time she won on the game show Chain Reaction.