And Just Like That… Season 3 Review: A Stylish Step Forward, But Does It Go Far Enough?

The televisual tapestry of “And Just Like That…” continues to unspool, offering its third season as another chapter in the lives of characters etched into a certain generational consciousness. This latest iteration arrives on a streaming landscape perpetually hungry for familiar intellectual property, yet increasingly scrutinized for its engagement with contemporary social mores.

Season 3 picks up the threads left by its predecessor: Carrie Bradshaw navigates a rather ambitious five-year romantic pause with Aidan Shaw, a narrative choice that seems to ponder the elasticity of rebooted love. Simultaneously, Miranda Hobbes steps forward, untethered from the much-discussed Che Diaz, into a space of newly defined queer exploration and singleness.

Charlotte York Goldenblatt persists in her orbit of affluent family life and personal endeavors, a storyline that continues to reflect, and at times gently prod, the expectations placed upon women of her milieu. The atmosphere suggests a series still finding its footing in a new era, promising further explorations of life, love, and identity for women past fifty, set against the ever-shifting backdrop of New York City and the cultural conversations it inevitably ignites.

The Bradshaw Paradox: Deferred Love and the Echoes of Discovery

Carrie Bradshaw, the series’ perennial nucleus, finds her Season 3 trajectory largely dictated by “The Aidan Arrangement”—a curious romantic pact proposing a five-year intermission while Mr. Shaw tends to his teenage son in Virginia. This narrative choice, communicated via the quaintness of postcards and the technologically mediated awkwardness of phone sex, feels less like a bold reimagining of relationship structures and more like a streaming-era strategy to keep a beloved romantic pairing in play, albeit in suspended animation.

The skepticism voiced by Miranda, Charlotte, and Anthony mirrors a broader cultural weariness with endlessly recycled romances, even as Carrie attempts to frame this lopsided deferment as a viable path. Aidan’s paternal devotion provides a veneer of contemporary relevance, touching on blended family dynamics, yet the arrangement primarily serves to highlight Carrie’s own stasis.

Her independent pursuits offer glimmers of potential movement, though often tinged with an ironic self-awareness. The foray into writing historical fiction, set in the 1800s, might be interpreted as a character finally broadening her literary horizons, or perhaps as a meta-commentary on the television landscape’s own obsession with period pieces—or, more simply, Carrie doing Carrie.

Encounters with new masculine energies, such as the “plant Picasso” gardener Adam or the brusquely charming downstairs author Duncan, provide fleeting challenges and comedic friction. These interactions, however, seem less about genuine new romantic pathways and more about accentuating the central, unresolved Aidan question. Life in her palatial Gramercy Park abode, punctuated by such mundane urban realities as rat infestations, grounds her otherwise fantastical existence, yet these moments rarely coalesce into profound character shifts.

Fashion, naturally, remains Carrie’s most consistent form of expression, a parade of ensembles running the gamut from breathtaking to bewildering. These sartorial statements continue to function as visual shorthand for her personality, though one might question if the spectacle now serves more as nostalgic comfort food for the audience than as an indicator of evolving internal landscapes. Ultimately, the season grapples, perhaps unintentionally, with whether Carrie is genuinely progressing or merely tracing familiar patterns.

While interactions with strangers briefly ignite sparks of that old, inquisitive spirit, a palpable sense of confinement persists, leaving one to ponder if the narrative truly allows its protagonist the space for the kind of authentic, messy self-discovery that once defined her, or if the gravitational pull of past loves proves too strong for genuine reinvention.

Miranda’s Recalibration: Queering Identity in a Post-Che Landscape

Miranda Hobbes embarks on what appears to be a significant recalibration in Season 3, a narrative shift largely defined by the conspicuous absence of Che Diaz. This departure feels less like a quiet narrative progression and more like a deliberate, if unstated, course correction by the series, potentially acknowledging the divisive reception of that prior storyline. Consequently, Miranda is ostensibly “liberated” to embrace her identity as an out, single lesbian in her 50s.

This presents a potent opportunity for the show to engage with nuanced representation, charting the often complex journey of later-in-life sexual discovery against a backdrop of established personal history and societal expectations. The series attempts to lean into this, portraying Miranda as more open, venturing into new social and romantic territories.

Her explorations include a burgeoning connection with Joy, a BBC producer whose understated presence offers a different relational dynamic, and a notable guest arc featuring Rosie O’Donnell as Mary, a tourist whose encounter with Miranda leads to unexpected, almost comically holy, repercussions. These, alongside fleeting interactions like a crush on a guacamole waitress, are designed to signal Miranda’s renewed sense of self and willingness to engage.

Yet, the depth of these connections and their portrayal sometimes hover between authentic exploration and curated moments of “queer experience” for a mainstream audience. Professionally, her ambition remains, evidenced by a BBC interview opportunity, though her personal life occasionally veers into questionable choices—such as a peculiar storyline involving her treatment of Carrie’s possessions or a live news gaffe—that inject a dose of relatable human error, or perhaps just narrative whimsy.

The overarching question for Miranda this season is whether these shifts constitute a “return to form” or a genuine evolution. There’s a discernible effort to realign her with the more grounded, pragmatic Miranda familiar to long-time viewers, potentially smoothing the more abrupt character transformations of previous seasons.

Her rediscovered independence is palpable, striking a balance between familiar acerbic wit and a newfound, if sometimes awkwardly deployed, openness. The challenge, for this series and others navigating legacy characters, lies in making this evolution feel both authentic to her journey and resonant within a contemporary understanding of identity, rather than a simple retreat to safer character beats.

The Goldenblatt Variations: Domesticity, Disruption, and Dedication

Charlotte York Goldenblatt, often the series’ avatar of unwavering traditionalism, continues to find her primary narrative sphere within the intricate dynamics of family life. Her world remains centered on husband Harry—a consistent purveyor of dad jokes—and their maturing children, Lily and Rock.

This season propels Charlotte directly into contemporary parenting anxieties as she navigates Lily’s college application gauntlet, a journey complicated by the introduction of Lily’s polysexual ballet dancer boyfriend. This particular plot point offers a lens through which the show examines intergenerational dialogues on evolving sexual norms, with Charlotte’s reactions often serving as a barometer for how deeply rooted societal conventions are being tested, even within her gilded cage.

Beyond the domestic whirl, the narrative attempts to imbue Charlotte with greater emotional depth by thrusting her into a significant personal crisis, hinted to involve Harry, which reportedly pushes her beyond her characteristic optimism. Such moments aim to provide Kristin Davis with material that showcases a broader dramatic range, compelling Charlotte to confront realities that cannot be easily resolved with good manners or a positive outlook.

Her enduring friendship with Lisa Todd Wexley serves as both a supportive dyad and a subtle commentary on cross-cultural connections within their affluent stratum. While Charlotte frequently provides comic relief—whether through dog park confrontations or zealous interactions concerning a sought-after college tutor—these lighter instances are interspersed with storylines that genuinely challenge her worldview, prompting a more layered, if still inherently Charlotte-esque, engagement with the complexities of modern life.

Beyond the Core: Representation and Resonance in the AJLT Universe

Season 3 of “And Just Like That…” makes a more concerted effort to integrate its expanded ensemble, yielding mixed but intriguing results in how it reflects contemporary New York and diversifies its narrative perspectives. Seema Patel, portrayed with a commanding presence by Sarita Choudhury, increasingly sheds the shadow of a mere Samantha Jones replacement, evolving into a distinctly self-assured figure.

Her professional ambitions—contemplating her own firm with a Ryan Serhant cameo that feels very on-brand for a certain slice of aspirational television—and her candid, sometimes comically cynical (“hate dating” with Cheri Oteri), approach to romance offer a portrayal of a confident, single woman navigating life on her own terms, often serving as a savvy counterpoint to the original trio.

Lisa Todd Wexley, brought to life with assurance by Nicole Ari Parker, juggles the demanding threads of a PBS documentary, her husband’s political campaign, and a nascent work crush, embodying the multifaceted pressures facing many ambitious women. Her friendship with Charlotte provides a crucial link, yet LTW’s storylines sometimes feel atomized, operating on a parallel track that doesn’t always seamlessly intersect with the central narrative concerns, raising questions about the structural challenges of truly weaving new primary characters into such an established universe.

Elsewhere, Anthony Marentino’s venture with the “Hot Fellas” bakery alongside his partner Giuseppe continues to provide moments of levity and a depiction of a stable gay relationship, though the humor occasionally teeters into broad, if well-intentioned, territory.

The narrative is also shaped by notable absences. The departures of Dr. Nya Wallace and, more significantly, Che Diaz, are palpable. Che’s exit, in particular, appears to have decluttered Miranda’s storyline, allowing for a different mode of exploration. While Nya’s grounded presence is missed, these subtractions demonstrate a willingness by the series to prune its sprawling cast, perhaps aiming for a more focused and balanced distribution of narrative weight amongst its remaining players.

Finding Its Rhythm: AJLT Season 3 and the Dance of Legacy and Relevance

The third season of “And Just Like That…” appears to navigate the intricate dance between its “Sex and the City” lineage and the pressing need to forge a contemporary identity with a more assured, if still imperfect, cadence. There’s a discernible shift, a feeling that the series is settling somewhat, moving away from the more jarring tonal experiments of its initial outings towards something that, for many, evokes more of the original’s breezy charm, even if its comedic genius remains largely unmatched.

This renewed embrace of familiar rhythms coexists with attempts at fresh narrative avenues, though the gravitational pull of nostalgia often dictates the orbit of its central characters. The storytelling itself maintains a swift, sometimes dizzying, pace characteristic of modern streaming fare, with episodic arcs that oscillate between feather-light diversions and attempts at more substantive emotional engagement. New York City, too, continues its role as an aspirational backdrop, its glossy surfaces reflecting the characters’ affluent lives, though perhaps with less of the gritty texture that once made it feel like a more integral player.

Thematically, the season delves deeper into the realities of life past fifty: the multifaceted concept of “starting over” in love, career, and self-perception; the enduring, evolving complexities of long-term friendships; and the often unglamorous indignities and health anxieties that accompany aging.

These explorations resonate with a certain demographic truth, even if filtered through the show’s characteristically opulent lens. Production elements, from the ubiquitous “apartment porn” to the meticulous, sometimes eccentric, fashion choices extending beyond Carrie to the entire ensemble, reinforce its status as high-end escapism.

Yet, there’s an emerging sense that Season 3 is perhaps less performatively “woke” and more comfortable in its own skin, occasionally even leaning into its inherent absurdities with a knowing wink. While unlikely to capture the zeitgeist in the way its predecessor did, it offers a refined iteration that seems more attuned to what its established fanbase seeks, suggesting a series finding a more sustainable, if still complicated, pulse.

Season 3 of “And Just Like That…” premiered on May 29, 2025, on Max, with new episodes releasing weekly until August 14, 2025. This season introduces new characters and storylines while continuing to follow the lives of Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte in New York City.

Full Credits

Director: Michael Patrick King, Cynthia Nixon, Ry Russo-Young, Gillian Robespierre, Nisha Ganatra, Anu Valia

Writers: Michael Patrick King, Julie Rottenberg, Elisa Zuritsky, Samantha Irby, Rachna Fruchbom, Susan Fales-Hill, Keli Goff, Lucas Froehlich, Rachel Palmer

Producers and Executive Producers: Michael Patrick King, Sarah Jessica Parker, Cynthia Nixon, Kristin Davis, John P. Melfi, Julie Rottenberg, Elisa Zuritsky

Cast: Sarah Jessica Parker, Cynthia Nixon, Kristin Davis, Mario Cantone, David Eigenberg, Evan Handler, Sarita Choudhury, Nicole Ari Parker, Alexa Swinton, Cathy Ang, Niall Cunningham, Chris Jackson, John Corbett, Dolly Wells, Sebastiano Pigazzi, Rosie O’Donnell, Mehcad Brooks, Patti LuPone, Jonathan Cake, Logan Marshall-Green

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Tim Norman, Wylda Bayrón

Editors: Michael Berenbaum, Sheri Bylander, Allyson C. Johnson

Composer: Aaron Zigman