The latest installment of a TV guilty pleasure resurfaces the author's deranged inner child
Amongst the purported “crown jewels” of HBO’s streaming platform, recently revamped as simply "Max," has been the hotly-anticipated Sex and the City reboot …And Just Like That. The limited series, currently winding down its second and potentially final season, was quickly recognized by both critics and dyed-in-the-wool (or rather, cashmere) fans for its out-of-touch writing, and deflated in ratings with a rather clumsy “thud” by the end of its first set of 45-minute installments in winter 2022. Where the original dramedy was recognized for its fresh and contemporary, somewhat edgy sexploits amongst urban females, its follow-up is the very definition of hackneyed and obnoxiously elitist. Worse, it awkwardly if not maddeningly makes a desperate reach for relevance by tapping into issues of transgender identity, which smells as strongly like an inauthentic ploy as the official Sex in the City perfume and body deodorants still available from Walmart and Amazon.
As my new favorite “hate watch” I couldn’t help but feel obligated to share a plot point in this week’s edition that stood out for its sorely and sadly disordered mindset. My gripe is with an abhorrent paperlight B —or rather, C— storyline, quickly and superficially resolved by episode’s end, involving Kristin Davis’ Charlotte, who I otherwise consider the sole likable lead (especially after Mr. Big’s untimely demise). As it plays out, the bubbly fifty-something Upper East Sider has decided her new career path lies in returning to the NYC gallery scene in some capacity that honestly escapes me (being not entirely important). Accompanying this comes the resolution o lose the bump so visible in her newest Prada LBD work "uniform” by subsiding on bone broth and layering an onion’s worth of shapewear skins underneath the garment's unforgiving form-fitting silhouette. The bold pink accent accentuating her curvy middle becomes the bane of her otherwise charmed existence.
"I don't need to lose the belt, I need to lose the belly," she tells Harry, the ever-patient and supportive, somewhat bemused husband. Then later, perhaps more distressingly, to her other right hand man, gay BFF Anthony: “I'm going to be a gallerina again. Think about it: ballerina, gallerina. Anything that ends in '-ina' is teeny-tiny.”
This rather quirky —albeit irrational— conclusion immediately registered with me, my often-on-alert Anorexia-concerned brain flagging the remark as perhaps a long-ago buried ED thought from my formative years. After all: “Lor-ina” might fall under this vocabulary rule.
Yes, to be above all else "teeny-tiny." And never amounting to anything much more than this sad, rather one-dimensional end goal and nearly lifelong obsession.
Think about it? Believe me, I have.
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A still from Season 2, Episode 8 ("A Hundred Years Ago"): Attempting to hide her “problem area," Charlotte covers up in a bold floral Oscar de la Renta coat, with the belted dress of concern peeking out beneath.
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