And Just Like That… fans get very mediocre nonbinary representation

And Just Like That… has finally arrived on HBO Max with a bang, though not the kind that franchise fans came to expect from its original title. Rather than showing us frank, refreshing (and more than occasionally problematic) discussions of sexuality among its leading ladies, this so-called “new chapter” of Sex and the City is so hell-bent on correcting the sins of its past that it has become sterile and genuinely agonizing to watch.

But if there’s one aspect of And Just Like That… that is genuinely trailblazing — if totally unintentional — it’s that we can now add nonbinary representation to the long list of one-dimensional stereotypes the series has served to its LGBTQ+ viewership.

Sex and the City famously managed to flatten and insult just about every letter in the LGBTQ+ acronym during its original run. There’s the third episode of season one, when Miranda pretends to be in a lesbian relationship with a coworker in the hopes currying favor with her boss. Stanford Blatch and Anthony Marantino are essentially the gay best friends from hell, complete with an enemies-to-lovers romantic arc despite their total lack of romantic chemistry. In one of the few episodes to mention bisexuality by name, Carrie refers to it as a “layover on the way to Gaytown.”

Samantha has a three-episode relationship with a woman in season four — one of her longest in the series — but her friends write it off as a phase, which is ultimately what it is written to be. In the previous season, Samantha gentrifies Manhattan’s Meatpacking District and then berates Black trans femme sex workers outside her window for… existing in the neighborhood that she willingly chose to move into.

Given the series’ previous missteps, it’s understandable the reboot is desperate to correct course. But in its efforts to update the show for a 21st century sensibility, And Just Like That… has managed to shunt nonbinary identity into a limiting box anyway.

As a franchise fan who’s very familiar with its history, I never once expected AJLT to serve up groundbreaking nonbinary representation. I knew it would likely be a trainwreck, but looked forward to it anyway. Still, I could not have anticipated it being quite this personally excruciating.

The first sustained cringe comes when Miranda goes full White Fragility on her first day of graduate school, with a classmate remarking that she is “quick with the pronouns” after (presumably) being misgendered. Then, we’re introduced to Carrie’s new gig as a co-host of “X, Y, and Me,” a podcast discussing “gender roles, sexual roles, and cinnamon rolls,” a pun that’s been tired since at least 2015.

One of her co-hosts, Che Diaz, describes themselves as “representing everyone else outside these two boring genders,” which would be fine if they didn’t immediately slam a soundbite button proclaiming it a “woke moment.”

Che, played by real-life nonbinary actor Sara Ramirez, throws in obligatory quips about how “sexual expression of any kind should always be discussed and consented to by all parties involved” and decries“the harmful patriarchal system of the gender binary, and compulsory heterosexuality.” Despite this, Che pressures Carrie to talk more frankly about her sex life, even though she’s clearly uncomfortable with the prompt, and even though Diaz is far from frank about their own.