Skip to main content

Sara Jessica Parker: "And Just Like That"

 Two-time Pulitzer winner Wesley Morris just released a podcast hour in defense of "And Just Like That." I think Morris wilfully overlooks some of the show's problems, but I admire his bravery.


One interesting move in the AJLT playbook was to keep Samantha alive. When an actor becomes "difficult," the character can die or even (in the case of "Fresh Prince") resurface in the shape of a *new* actor. Sara Jessica Parker and Kim Cattrall had a fight; the fight seemed to be about money and ego. In a smart twist, Michael Patrick King wrote the fight into the show. We learn that Samantha and Carrie are having a fight--a fight about ego and money--and, although things "mellow," the fight never seems to end. There is a sense of irresolution. This is just like life--and it's something that seems not to find its way into many TV scripts.

OK, there are more things that I like. In the final episode, Charlotte tries to pair Carrie with legendary gay actor Victor Garber. Carrie observes that there is no chemistry--and that "he has been divorced three times." Charlotte shrugs and says, "He has a plane!" Critics observe that this moment of shallowness doesn't do justice to the Carrie/Charlotte friendship, but I'm not sure I agree. People say bizarre and irrational things. The fact that someone "owns a plane" can be dazzling, blinding. Also, people can be weirdly lazy and thoughtless about romantic setups. ("You're both homosexual, so you're perfect for each other!") I have a feeling that the airplane comment is linked with one writer's actual life--and I'm all for it.

Finally, the poop in the toilet. Many people are still shocked that this iconic story ends not with Paris--not with the Met Gala--but with cheese-poop in an old, tiny, malfunctioning potty. I'm not sure I really believe that King is happy to end the series here; I have a feeling we aren't getting the whole story. But I'll always defend the poop. That's because Carrie Bradshaw's world is not exclusively a world of glamor. People fall on their asses; people find themselves sprayed by golden showers; people suddenly lose all their hair. This show has *always* been interested in the indignities of having a human body. All the way back to 1999. Poop happens. I admire Victor Garber for "pushing the envelope."

All right; I'll stop. I (maybe? sometimes?) had a good run with Carrie.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...