As someone whose job in entertainment ironically precludes me from consuming entertainment for sheer pleasure, it took 4 weeks of bereavement leave to finally feel justified in taking the time to complete a book I’d been in the midst of reading for longer than I’d like to admit, while also actively watching two shows simultaneously – And Just Like That, and Insecure.
None of this was a momentous feat, particularly as both shows fell in the cotton candy comfort viewing category – AJLT with foreshadowing that’s so heavy handed it leaves me feeling like Sherlock Holmes with each accurate plot point prediction, and Insecure with the beloved familiarity of a good rewatch.
Despite their cotton candy commonality, these two shows serve as a foil to one another in many ways. AJLT, an “aspirational” series about life beyond happily ever after for New York’s middle aged elite. Insecure, a show grounded in the realities West Coast and the quest for happy endings in relationship and career (one that I would even describe as relatable to my own experience as a Black female in her “early” thirties). The former, best enjoyed with a friend and/or recap podcast that will mirror your own hate watching commentary, the latter, a masterclass in dramedy that you will never hear me utter a disparaging word about. The former, relegated to Max, the latter, in HBO’s upper echelon.
There is one more fundamental, dare I say philosophical difference — an approach to side characters. This AJLT complaint is the coldest of takes at this point, as any companion podcast not recorded by the writers themselves has already criticized the inconsequential storylines the show chooses to invest in. Issa Rae has a decidedly different view, which she acknowledges in regards to the introduction of her mom four seasons into the series, saying “In watching shows, I personally have never been interested in the parental backstory unless there was a reason.” This philosophy of purpose seems to inform Insecure’s approach to all recurring side characters, who fulfill one of two roles. The first is to provide more context around one of the main characters’ journeys — whether it’s Diane exemplifying the romantic relationship Molly so desperately seeks, or Freida’s cringe self-righteousness forcing Issa’s introspection about whether We Got Ya’ll aligns with her own morals and career ambitions. The second, to infuse genuine bomedic relief (iykyk).
Unnecessary parental presence doesn’t specifically plague AJLT, except to crudely foreshadow Harry’s (SPOILER alert, as if it matters) cancer storyline as he realizes his dad’s dick is more functional than his own. And I’m sure the AJLT writers would feebly argue that they hold the same motivations for recurring characters – that Carrie’s gardener Adam needs an accompanying family member in not one, but TWO episodes to paint a holistic picture of him as Seema’s new lover, or that Lily’s desperate role in a short-lived throuple and Rock’s struggle with cheese deprivation are adequate sources of humor. Rather, they feel reflective of a scriptwriting process based in on the nose 2025 cultural madlibs. Neurodivergence – check. Polyamorous (polysexual?) relationship – check. Nonbinary vegan – check and check.
The infusion of topical storylines is not an impeachable offense on its own. Insecure had its fair share — an ongoing critique of the impact of gentrification on LA neighborhoods, the allusion to sudden forced societal “wokeness”. Perhaps the difference is in Insecure’s implementation of the practice that made SATC so relatable in the first place — its commitment to covering topics that related to the creative team’s lived experience, rather than an attempt to proactively represent all lived experiences regardless of their relevance to the characters being depicted.
This would perhaps feel more palatable if the characters were at least somewhat enjoying their lives. On SATC, a character’s exploration of her sexuality was actually sexy, and not just a potential relapse trigger. Shame for smelling like smoke at least followed the indulgence of a cigarette, not a chaste writing session that puts you in smoke’s mere proximity.
It’s worth acknowledging the elephant NOT at the brunch table, the missing character who was most committed to enjoying life — Samantha Jones. While the writers would have us believe that Samantha’s decision to extricate herself from the world of AJLT was due to a PR dispute, it feels much more plausible that her friends’ lives had simply become far too depressing to bear witness to. AJLT poses the grim reality that Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte are still somehow only aspiring towards aspirational, despite their apparent successes. After literal decades in the dating and career trenches, these women have “made it” in many senses, but are still seemingly devoid of actual joy. You can almost hear Carrie asking, “Is TRUE Manhattan happiness attainable for a woman in her 50s?” Outlook seemingly not good, regardless of your financial OR relationship status.
Those unpartnered in their 50s aren’t graced with the confidence, self-actualization, and sexual freedom that one might hope years of dating and never-ending self reflection would earn. Instead, they’re reliving the plagues that should be relegated to plot lines on Insecure – nagging questions of whether you’re “too much” for men, and bad phone sex with a baggage-laden long distance ex. The marriages are no more aspirational – with sex lives that are either seemingly stale, or are hindered by the aforementioned cancer that has now piled onto the plights we are supposed to associated with women of a certain age.
The cherry flavored yogurt on top is that we seem to have lost all perspective along with Carrie’s voiceovers. “I couldn’t help but wonder – was it worth wielding pitchforks over the last banana, when my situationship’s son wielded a literal pitchfork at me just one week prior?” Where is Carrie’s mirror bitch for a reality check when you need her.
