Sex and the City Turns 25
Introducing a series of essays on the HBO series
June 6, 2023 marks the 25th anniversary of the pilot episode of “Sex and the City.” Over the course of June, I’ll be sharing long-form essays on the series, from deeper analysis of the show’s themes and characters to more fun commentary. This first essay is free for everyone to read; future posts will be available to subscribers only. Be sure to subscribe to be notified when new posts go live.
When we first meet Carrie Bradshaw, it’s as the narrator of the story of Elizabeth, a London journalist who moves to New York, falls in love with Tim, an investment banker, and winds up ghosted after she and Tim view a house with a realtor. Our first glimpse of Carrie is of the back of her head and torso, listening to Elizabeth complain about her loss. As Carrie stubs out her cigarette, we hear her voice say, “Then I realized: no one had told her about the end of love in Manhattan.” The camera cuts to Carrie sitting at her desk, smoking and writing very jaded lines about dating in New York. She breaks the fourth wall to say, “How the hell did we get into this mess?” This opening should have been my first clue that Carrie is an unreliable narrator. But I didn’t realize this until several rewatches, because as many others who watched the series when it originally aired, I was captivated by the stories of heartbreak, flings, bad dates, hookups, and life as a single thirtysomething in a major metropolitan city.
I came to “Sex and the City” as a single thirtysomething living in a major metropolitan city. Well, close to it, anyway: I was 29, separated from my husband, and living in California. I split my time between the guest room at my aunt Gigi’s* house in the desert and my aunt Jessie’s apartment in West L.A. Aunt Jessie raved to me about “Sex and the City” when her husband John was out of the room; he called it “Sluts and the City.” She taped episodes for me to watch on the TV in their spare room, full of boxes from wedding gifts and craft projects Jessie had yet to finish. I understood why John called the show what he did, because everything I’d heard about the show had focused on the sexual proclivities of the main characters and the frank, raunchy dialogue about sex. While that element of the series was entertaining, and often provided fodder for discussion with my female friends over cocktails, it wasn’t until writing this essay and rewatching old episodes that I saw the series and its themes in a new light.
In the pilot for “Sex and the City,” Carrie is researching how women can have sex like men with no strings attached. It’s after Carrie’s first foray into the research field that she meets the man who will be known as Mr. Big: someone bumps into her on the sidewalk, her purse spills out onto the pavement, and the pair lock eyes and knowing smirks over the condoms Carrie packs into her clutch. But the condoms aren’t the Chekhov’s gun you might expect—the two characters don’t wind up in bed together by the end of the episode. Instead, we see Big give Carrie a ride home in his private car and they discuss her job as a “sexual anthropologist”, aka sex columnist for the New York Star, and her research. She expects him to allow her to play the role of the self-assured, sexy, and witty writer, as she talks about women having sex like men—“where they feel nothing”—but Big calls her out on her bullshit.
Big: But you’re not like that.
Carrie: Well, aren’t you?
Big: Not a drop. Not even half a drop.
She teases him and asks what’s wrong with him, as she’s certain that all men have sex without an emotional connection. That’s all she and her friends have ever experienced. How could this single, handsome, wealthy man be anything but a womanizing cad?
Big looks at her, laughs, and says, “I get it. You’ve never been in love.” Her attempt at a witty comeback falls flat, and her voice-over confirms that he’s rattled her—and suggests what’s to come. Before he drives away, she asks if he’s ever been in love. “Abso-fucking-lutely," he replies, then leaves.
“Sex and the City” intended to be groundbreaking television—and it was in its depictions of how women were exploring their sexuality and navigating relationships with friends and lovers. These stories are ones women have to tell, over and over again, either because no one believes them or the women themselves find only societal discouragement and judgment when they are honest about their desires, which reinforces what they have been taught since birth. In 1973, Erica Jong’s novel Fear of Flying and its protagonist, a married poet named Isadora Wing, explored female sexuality, desire, and what Jong called the zipless fuck. In 2013, the novel was re-released in celebration of its 40th anniversary, and the New York Times interviewed several women authors about its place in literary history. Interestingly enough, novelist Adelle Waldman’s comments speak not just to Jong’s novel, but also to what Carrie’s research attempted to prove, 15 years earlier:
“In terms of [Fear of Flying],” [Ms. Waldman] said, “and I think of something larger in the culture, there’s a possibility of posturing, of trying to take on a way of talking about sex in a blithe, casual way that we’ve come to associate with being liberated or independent. And to an extent, it might not reflect how we actually live and feel.”
Ms. Waldman said she worries that in life, as in literature, women over the last few decades have been pressured to “mimic what seems like a male attitude, so it’s become almost shameful or embarrassing to want intimacy or a relationship.” She added: “But I think it’s confusing that, as a culture, we don’t have any shared understanding of what sex means anymore. Like: What do you owe someone after you sleep with them? Is there an implied commitment? Is there going to be another date?”
That scene with Big and Carrie tells the viewer everything they need to know about this show. Because despite its name, what "Sex and the City” is really about is intimacy: the search for it and the fear of it. For as much as the four main characters talk about wanting love (with the exception of Samantha for the majority of the show’s run), they are scared of what it means to truly want—and find—love. Must they sacrifice a career, hobbies, and active social life in order to have lasting, fulfilling love and connection with a partner? What’s expected of them once they find love: domesticity and codependence, or sexual compatibility and acceptance of individuality? And how do their friendships nurture or discourage intimacy and vulnerability?
Over the course of June, I’ll be sharing more essays on these topics as they are explored in “Sex and the City.” I’ll be looking at how the characters change their views related to intimacy, relationships, and traditional values. There will also be more fun content on what I think the four main characters’s astrological signs are, and the Team Big/Team Aidan debate. Stay tuned.