Middle Age Doesn’t Happen ‘Just Like That’

Have you heard? There’s a TV show featuring 50-somethings on HBO, right now. “And Just Like That,” the reboot of “Sex and the City,” has resurrected the old gang (Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte — minus Samantha) in present-day New York City, 17 years after the last episode aired. Yes, it turns out that people — even women-people — can actually keep existing beyond the age of 38. Incredible!

That is at least what appears to be the viewpoint of AJLT. This depicts a world in which middle-aged characters are constantly astonished and disconcerted by everything they encounter, from social and political phenomena to their own bodies. Warning: spoilers ahead.

“It’s as if its characters must have been asleep for 20 years and awakened utterly gob-smacked to find themselves encountering such things as Black professors, nonbinary children and queer longings,” said Joy Castro, 54, a writer and professor of English and ethnic studies at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.

The characters look very Rip Van Winkle-like as they stumble upon and stare in awe at unsurprising things. “Wow! Instagram? Podcasts?” marvels Miranda at some of Carrie’s latest endeavors, as if these were edgy new enterprises.

Some of the “Van Winkle-iest” moments involve Miranda’s foot-in-mouth disease when interacting with Nya Wallace, the Black professor in her new human rights law graduate program. Charlotte, too, evinces a weird awkwardness as she cultivates a new friendship with the glamorous Lisa Todd Wexley, a wealthy, stylish Black woman she meets through her daughters’ private school.

“The show now is trying to be woke without succeeding,” said Cheryl Packwood, 60, an attorney and retired diplomat. “I never liked the show to begin with; it was just so white and shallow. It’s not at 55 that you suddenly try so hard to have a Black friend.”

Beyond the external factors of politics and race, the protagonists seem least at ease with their bodies and ages. They refer to them often, unnaturally, and often loudly.

Examples abound:

Over brunch, a discussion about Miranda’s decision to go gray devolves into a barbed exchange about the ethics of hair color. For Miranda, Carrie’s trademark blond highlights pass muster since they are “obvious” — clearly artificial, hence not trying to deceive anyone. But Charlotte’s preference to maintain a more natural brown does not meet Miranda’s ethical standards.

Charlotte is “trying to pass” as younger, says Miranda with disapproval. “There are more important issues in the world than trying to look young,” she scolds. Although women do talk about hair and aging, they don’t usually condemn salon choices over omelets.

Stuck waiting in a long ladies’ room line in a theater, Miranda blurts out loudly before a crowd: “I’m 55 and I have to pee,” before heading to the (empty) men’s room. Props to her for feeling free enough to step out of the ladies’ room line. But no midlife people I know think about and announce their own ages like this, as if they’d only just learned how old they were.

Sometimes, the display of age-shock feels a little cheap and undignified. In another bathroom scene, Charlotte’s husband, Harry, stands at the commode, urinating for an inordinately long (and loud) interlude. When Charlotte expresses dismay, Harry extols his urological health, invoking his own advanced years: “A lotta men my age can’t pull off a stream like this.” We are further reminded of Harry’s age (and excretory systems) when Charlotte loudly books his colonoscopy appointment over her cellphone — in a cafe, and mentions it several more times later.

It’s true that people over 50 get colonoscopies, and you could even mine this for some meaningful comedy or human drama. But merely name-checking “colonoscopy” as if it were itself a punchline turns it into another item on a laundry list of clichéd “middle-aged woes.”

Continuing the potty humor, after Carrie’s hip surgery (which offers occasion for much more “old lady” and “senior citizen” commentary), an extended sequence involves Charlotte awkwardly maneuvering her on and off a hospital toilet and monitoring Carrie’s urine flow.

That scene cuts directly to a discussion between Miranda and her new love interest, the nonbinary Che (Carrie’s podcast boss) about the latter’s diverticulosis. (Even Che is hipper than the rest and a decade older than others. But, plumbing problems are not exempt from his attention.

AJLT seems to be intent on pointing out midlife from a noncomprehending, mocking distance, rather than illuminating its richness and texture. And for a show that built its reputation on the frank discussion of physical taboos, why is there no mention of the universal challenges of menopause — or its male counterpart, andropause?

One of the highlights of SATC was the characters’ longstanding friendship, their deep bonds and history. This could easily provide a wealth of material for the remake, and at times it does — as in scenes where Miranda lovingly comforts a grief-stricken Carrie.

At other times, though, the peculiar “age-othering” impedes more natural exchanges. When Miranda spots Carrie seated outdoors on the Columbia campus, for example, she calls out: “I see you! You’re the only 55-year-old on the university steps!” — an odd, age-fetishizing way to describe your best friend of decades. (Also universities have many older people.

When Harry greets Miranda’s husband Steve with “What’s new?” the once-boyish and playful bartender, now sort of blank and inexpressive, can only come up with: “I got hearing aids. I’m an old timer now.” Miranda then helpfully chimes in with specific medical details.

Old friends don’t greet one another like this. And while middle-aged men often experience hearing loss, they tend not to announce this fact before saying “hello” or to define themselves with this physical ailment.

These interactions offer a cartoonish view on middle-age that pushes it all to old age. “The show depicts 50-something people as if they were actually old already, not middle-aged,” said Jamy Buchanan Madeja, 60, an environmental law practitioner and adjunct professor at Northeastern University School of Law.

The series focuses on the many issues associated with getting older, including loss, death and strained marriages. It also explores changing sexual preferences and unease with new social media. This aspect of AJLT can be highly relatable: “I do identify with the questioning around what you need from a long-term relationship,” said Jennifer Brinkman, chief of staff to the mayor of Lincoln, Neb. “I myself am going through a divorce at age 50.”

And, she added: “I have definitely experienced awkward moments, like those of Miranda and Charlotte, that reveal how I don’t have the ease of language my children and co-workers have related to our society’s evolving gender and sexuality spectrum. But I want to!”

There is so much more that could be done with this group, their older best friends, and their beloved hometown. “Sex and the City” resonated with audiences because, whatever its flaws, it valued and found delectation in women’s adventurous spirit — whether channeled into the thrills of love and sex, friendship, fashion and beauty, or the sheer pleasure of New York City itself. AJLT could easily find age-adapted versions of these for the group.

This stage of life offers many benefits, including self-confidence and a better understanding of your own mind. There is also a deeper connection with family, friends, and loved ones, which can lead to laughter and joy. Midlife can be a prime time for professional success.

But in the first several episodes, AJLT shows vanishingly few of these perks, focusing instead on the characters’ decline, confusion and cultural estrangement. And very little seems to remain of any of the group’s careers.

What’s more, for all the focus on growing Physical old, the show’s protagonists often behave with curious immaturity. Many viewers have been perplexed, for example, by Carrie’s reaction upon discovering Big slumped over, but still conscious, after his heart attack. Carrie falls to her knees and covers Big with her hair, rather than calling the paramedics.

As Ms. Castro said: “If one finds one’s husband collapsed but still alive, does one not call 911 immediately? Carrie’s behavior was so baffling to me.” Baffling, and weirdly passive and ineffectual — almost like a child’s. Charlotte, too, seems less than adult, crying so theatrically while helping plan Big’s funeral that Carrie sends her home in a taxi.

“One still hopes, even on television, that women with a certain influence would be playing a more powerful role in their own circumstances. I can’t imagine the same stagnation for men,” said Hollis Robbins, 58, the dean of arts and humanities at Sonoma State University.

And why does Miranda choose to launch her new erotic relationship with Che — orgasming at the top of her lungs — in Carrie’s kitchen, with Carrie in the next room? Isn’t loud, thoughtless sex within earshot of others precisely what her teen son Brady is guilty of? (And what about Miranda’s historic disapproval of adultery, back when husband Steve was the offending party?) It all feels discordantly juvenile.

AJLT sees time stagnation as a major problem. When Carrie finds herself too upset to stay in her empty home after Big’s death, she decamps to her former apartment, which she leaves the next morning dressed in something likely unearthed in her old closet: a floor-length white tulle tutu. Devotees of SATC will find this skirt familiar — it resembles very closely the one Carrie wore in the original SATC series finale, when Big follows her to Paris to commit to her, finally.

A big, poofy white tutu is the antithesis of widow’s weeds. It visually recreates our heroine in her glory days. (She wore a shorter white tutu in the original show’s opening credits.) It’s understandable why Carrie would want to wear it now as a sartorial remedy for Big’s death. At the same time, though, the tutu looks a bit “off” on her — age-inappropriate and out of fashion. On the streets, we see people staring at the tutu.

It feels as though the show’s creators are still grasping for ways to develop their now-older characters in believable, interesting ways — to “dress” them appropriately for their time and place. They end up reminding us, much like Carrie in her throwback tunu, of the passing of time in an odd, off-kilter manner.

We have 17 years of images of this gang, so it is not surprising that we would feel a sudden pang of regretful shock when we finally find them. It’s natural to feel a little startled or uncomfortable running into a friend you haven’t seen in decades.

But it is not natural to feel this kind of shock or discomfort about oneself, one’s environment and the people one sees every day — and to keep feeling it over and over. There is nothing alarming about being over 50 or any age, as one has already experienced all previous ages. Aging is just another word for “living,” after all — and we all do it in tiny increments, day by day. It would be great if all the characters from AJLT had the same opportunity.