Are these the most annoying fiftysomethings on television?
And just like that, we have another lot of mid-life women presented as, frankly, bonkers. All women over 50 are apparently confused – ignorant about matters of race and their own sexuality, and mystified by podcasts. I am talking about the new Sex and the City reboot which, now halfway into its run, has not got any better than the first episode. The parent show was always a dubious fantasy, but spin-off And Just Like That is so laughably bad, it has become my favourite hate-watch.
How do women who have lived for shopping, shoes and brunch age? Do they accrue wisdom and confidence? Not in Carrie Bradshaw’s world, which is full not of actual characters, but people who are basically packages of “issues”. Formerly criticised for being too straight and white, we now have this ghastly re-tread where “diversity” is everything and the actual chance to talk about ageing is lost. Spoiler alert: none of them has developed in any way at all. If anything, they have become more stupid.
Carrie, who was always annoying, is, at 55, still in daft tutus and huge heels and tapping out the odd article, but still stands like a little girl. Toes together, head tilted. Having bagged “the one”, commitment-phobe Mr Big, she swapped her freedom for a walk-in wardrobe. Unfortunately, Mr Big overdid the Peloton and she is now a beautiful widow in a horrible fascinator.
The clothes that were once fun now look such an effort. In fact, it’s just as well she doesn’t seem to have a proper job. Killing Big off was the only smart thing the writers have done as the actor who plays him, Christopher Noth, is now facing allegations of sexual assault from three different women, which he denies.
The show, in its heyday, was a celebration of female friendship and frankness about sex but Samantha – voracious and shameless – is not in this series (clever Kim Cattrall!). Apparently, she moved to London because “sexy sirens in their 60s are still viable there!” What?
Actually, it would have been interesting to see what Samantha did post-cancer, post-menopause, in order to explore the libido of a 60-something single woman. I mean, it is still considered daring that Kate Winslet had casual sex at 45 in Mare of Easttown.
In some ridiculous set-ups, each of the characters has now got a new black or ethnic minority best friend. Miranda, formerly a high-flying lawyer, is flummoxed to find her new lecturer is black and says dumb things about her hair, but they become besties anyway. Charlotte finds an equally uptight black parent at her kids’ school. Carrie becomes friends with a super-smart Indian estate agent and the next thing you know she is in a sari shop: “Not cultural appropriation but cultural appreciation,” she says. Cringe and the City.
Charlotte’s daughter does not want to be a girl anymore and Miranda starts having a fling with Che, who is non-binary, Mexican, Irish, a bouncer and a comedian. Along the way, Miranda became an alcoholic but seems to have got over it in two episodes. I guess the lesbian sex (of course!) helped?
Carrie’s huge wealth is shown off in a spacious Successionlike apartment. Repulsive.
It’s easy to forget she is grieving as she floats about in huge heels after having a hip operation – not age-related, apparently – and then meets a decent guy on a dating app. Every middleaged woman will tell you that dating apps are full of hot widowers. NOT.
Why does any of this flimflam bother me? Perhaps because I see mid-life women all around me becoming ever more interesting and finding meaning in life beyond the quest for romance.
Most of us have thought about our sexuality, about difference, about identity because we have had to. We are not flummoxed, demented creatures in a brave non-binary world.
Not all of us mourn no longer being the objects of male attention. We don’t hate younger women because we are the mothers of them. What we want is to be taken seriously and actually we know that all the HRT and Botox and tweaks don’t, in the end, fool anyone.
Mid-life is not a problem to be solved, but a time of consolidating self-knowledge. Actually, the one binary that needs breaking down is the one about ageing gracefully or disgracefully: it’s all far more exciting and complicated than that.
One of Phoebe Waller-bridge’s most impressive achievements was to write, in her 30s, that Kristin Scott Thomas monologue in Fleabag about how horrendous the menopause is. “But then it’s magnificent, something to look forward to… you’re free! No longer a slave, no longer a machine with parts. You’re just a person, in business.” Pure fire.
All the shoes and all the dates and all the walk-in wardrobes look so empty compared to this. I listened to the wonderful writer Deborah Levy talking of her 60th birthday party in Paris. How absolutely alive she sounded, the opposite of the overdressed and confused ghouls who, just like that, appear completely past it.