This week, blessed, meaningless drama came to pass when Kim Cattrall suggested killing off her character in Sex and the City 3. Of course, this revelation came in the wake of universal disappointment that the movie would not be made at all after Cattrall voiced her disinterest in being in the film altogether — and after Willie Garson (Stanford) threw shade on Twitter, implying Cattrall wasn’t being entirely truthful.
Which, like, who cares. Truly, who among us wants a Sex and the City 3 movie? None of us. Not a single soul. You don’t, I don’t, and the stranger a few spots ahead of you in line at the coffee shop you’re in certainly doesn’t, either. Sex and the City 3 is the equivalent of the million upcoming Avatar installments in that nobody asked for them and prayed nightly they would never come to pass. As far as I’m concerned, SATC ended the night its series finale aired, and the films that succeeded it were a fever dream we weren’t meant to remember nor survive (but here we are).
If a third Sex and the City movie were to be made, it should consist only of the cast breaking the fourth wall to apologize profusely for the sequel I cannot believe was allowed to happen. Then, we would look under our seats where there would be envelopes filled with the money we’d be refunded for having spent to see the movie in theatres in the first place — with interest. And maybe a meet-and-greet with Sarah Jessica Parker. I don’t know. I’m just spitballing here.
But bless this nonsense brand of drama I didn’t know how much I needed until I found myself deep-diving to chart the beginning and evolution of this madness. Bless Kim Cattrall for obviously not wanting to do the movie despite maybe wanting to do it before (and who among us has backed out of something last-minute because we realized, in a matter of minutes, that we would literally pass away than participate?) and saying she’d do it before and then discovering the idea of going through it would be an actual nightmare. Bless Willie Garson for exacerbating said drama by not giving a single fuck and airing out a bunch of laundry we didn’t know existed across a platform conducive to mass consumption. Bless Sarah Jessica Parker for busting out the “Well, we were gonna do it — until someone backed out” approach to not-naming-while-totally-naming names. Bless us all for following it and distracting ourselves accordingly.
Because here’s the thing about Sex and the City 3: it was never, ever going to be as good as watching all of this. And while it’s a very fun idea to think that all women must get along because that’s what feminism or girl power is, a) that is not what feminism or girl power is, and b) in what world would we all get along with every woman, are you kidding me. Ultimately SATC 3, while maybe a good idea (probably not, but look — I wasn’t writing it), would never deliver the majesty of seeing Kim C tweet the poo Emoji, or Garson using “toxic person” in quotes in what I’m sure was the type of tone I typically reserve for saying “Wow, that’s really interesting because . . .” right before I begin ruthlessly unpacking why someone I’m fighting with is wrong. Instead, it would’ve given us . . . I don’t know what. The legacy of SATC 2 which is an abomination or SATC: The Movie (that’s what it’s called, right?) which was weird and strange and do you remember when everyone started calling Samantha fat because she gained maybe like, two pounds? What the hell?
Exactly.
So bless this drama. Bless the demise of SATC 3. Bless the episode where Miranda says, “I love my job, I love my friends, I love my life, I love meeting new people” in a way that inspired me and a friend to caption it on almost every post either of us ever makes. And bless Kim Cattrall for being like, “Hard pass, actually” and letting the series go quietly into that dark night.
