And just like that: it's over. Two weeks ago, HBO quietly announced that the Sex And The City sequel would be ending after its third season, with show runner Michael Patrick King diplomatically declaring it 'a wonderful place to stop.' Because nothing says 'creative fulfilment' like hastily wrapping up a series that's been haemorrhaging viewers and critical goodwill since its first episode aired in 2021.
The announcement felt suspiciously abrupt — the kind of 'mutual decision' that screams executive intervention rather than artistic vision. Tabloid whispers about HBO pulling the plug seemed entirely plausible, especially given the show's consistently brutal reviews and the general sense that And Just Like That had become television's most expensive exercise in brand destruction.
Even Jonathan Cake, who played Carrie's latest love interest Duncan in this final season, seemed blindsided by the news. His Instagram post was ostensibly jokey — 'Wait, did I JUST KILL [the series]? Duncan finally has one night of passion with Carrie Bradshaw and the shows [sic] over … FOREVER???' — but read more like the confused words of an actor who'd just discovered his character arc was actually a series finale. When your guest stars are finding out about cancellations via social media, you know things have gone spectacularly off-piste.
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The original Sex And The City was lightning in a bottle. It gave us permission to talk about sex, to be messy, to want impossible shoes and impossible men. It was revolutionary television that happened to be wrapped up in designer packaging. But its sequel? It's like somebody took everything that fans held dear about the original and fed it through a content algorithm designed by people who've never actually had a conversation with a woman over 50.
The finale's closing moments attempt to come full circle, with Carrie dancing alone in her Gramercy Park townhouse to a karaoke version of Barry White's 'You're The First, The Last, My Everything' before concluding her book with the words: 'The woman realises she was not alone – she was on her own.' It's a deliberate callback to the original series finale's iconic line about 'The most exciting, challenging, and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself' — except this time, as showrunner Michael Patrick King noted, 'there's no phone call' from Big waiting in the wings. The music switches to the original Sex and the City theme as the credits roll, a bittersweet reminder of everything this sequel couldn't quite recapture.
Here's the thing, though — and this might be an unpopular opinion among the SATC faithful — maybe it's actually fine that And Just Like That exists in its own flawed universe. Maybe we needed to see that lightning doesn't strike twice, that some magic can't be recaptured, that sometimes the sequel teaches us to appreciate the original even more.
The fact that it's disappointing doesn't diminish what the original series gave us. If anything, And Just Like That's failures throw into sharp relief exactly what made Sex And The City special: the chemistry between four actors who genuinely seemed to like each other, writing that balanced frivolity with genuine insight, and a willingness to be glamorous and ridiculous without apology.
There's also something to be said for And Just Like That's attempt — however clunky — to grapple with what it actually means to be a woman in your fifties. The original series was about women in their thirties figuring out their lives; this sequel is about women dealing with loss, aging parents, grown children, and mortality. Those are important stories, even if they're being told badly. The execution may be heavy-handed, but the impulse to explore these themes isn't wrong.
And Just Like That has felt like a calculation rather than a creative impulse. It exists because the intellectual property was there, not because anyone had a compelling reason to continue these characters' stories. And that's perhaps the most damning thing about it: it feels unnecessary in a way that undermines its own existence.
The original Sex and the City ended perfectly. Carrie got her grand romantic gesture, Miranda found balance, Charlotte got her happy ending, and Samantha... well, Samantha got to be Samantha. That should have been enough. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for something you cherish is to leave it alone.
But for all its faults, And Just Like That has given us one valuable gift: it's reminded us why the original was so special. It's shown us that chemistry can't be manufactured, that wit can't be workshopped, and that sometimes the best sequels exist only in our imagination. We deserved better than this sequel, but maybe we got something else instead — a clearer appreciation for what we had all along.
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Naomi May is a seasoned culture journalist and editor with over ten years’ worth of experience in shaping stories and building digital communities. After graduating with a First Class Honours from City University's prestigious Journalism course, Naomi joined the Evening Standard, where she worked across both the newspaper and website. She is now the Digital Editor at ELLE Magazine and has written features for the likes of The Guardian, Vogue, Vice and Refinery29, among many others. Naomi is also the host of the ELLE Collective book club.
