Sex and the City’s new spinoff promotes the same irrational spending as its predecessor – but how much does the content we consume shape our financial habits?
Despite being just one year old when HBO’s juggernaut Sex and the City first aired, I probably devoted the majority of my teenage years to Carrie Bradshaw’s tumultuous love affairs – emotionally unavailable businessmen and bejewelled underwear included.
Sure, certain storylines have since aged like milk (the treatment of bisexuals promptly springs to mind), and it’s best we forget the movie sequel ever happened.
But Darren Star’s hit took prime-time television where it had never dared roam before: into the heads, hearts, and sex lives of thirty-something women.
Sex and the City (or SATC as it’s often truncated) has since paved the way for other women-led success stories like Girls, yet I still carry the wisdom of Star’s main show well into my twenties, navigating heartbreak and career-breaks with an apparition of Miranda Hobbes looming over my shoulder.
Now, the show is returning to its spiritual home. HBO’s limited series And Just Like That intends to pick up where its predecessor left off, as the women navigate ‘the reality of life and friendship in their 50’s’. Casting news indicates those friendships will be more diverse, too.
It’s the first time Gen Z audiences will meet Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda outside of a dubious cinematic adaptation. And with the re-boot’s first trailer dropping this week, I knocked back a cosmopolitan and binge-watched the original series.
As always, I squirmed at outdated one-liners and cried whenever Charlotte made a suitably profound comment about love. But for the first time since my inaugural viewing, something stuck out like Carrie’s abs at a Hamptons hoedown.
Maybe it’s that I’ve since reckoned with the trauma of a post-grad overdraft, or that we’ve simply grown pragmatic during the pandemic, but I found myself disillusioned by the same on-screen lifestyles I’d sought to emulate in my teens.
I watched as Carrie squandered her pennies on Manolos and cocktail parties, brushed shoulders with politicians, and – at least once per season – stood proudly at the helm of her overflowing wardrobe.
Any writer on a freelance salary will snort at Carrie’s gorgeous Manhattan apartment and ‘FOUR dollars a word at Vogue!’, let alone the mass of free time she spends pondering a column over the drags of a Marlboro Light.