It's a publishing fairy tale. ‘Hansel and Gretel' is reimagined by Stephen King and Maurice Sendak
An upcoming edition of 'Hansel and Gretel' combines the dark and singular talents of two literary giants who apparently never met: Stephen King and the late Maurice Sendak.
HarperCollins Publishers announced Thursday that the King-Sendak re-imagining of the famed Brothers Grimm tale about two lost children in a frightening forest is scheduled for Sept. 13. King's words will be complemented by sketches Sendak drew up for set and costume designs for a 1997 production of the Humperdinck opera adaptation.
The book was initiated by the Maurice Sendak Foundation. King, author of 'The Shining,' 'Carrie' and other horror classics, said he decided to agree to the project after seeing Sendak's illustrations.
'Two of his pictures in particular spoke to me: One was of the wicked witch on her broom with a bag of kidnapped children riding behind her; the other was of the infamous candy house becoming a terrible face. I thought, 'This is what the house really looks like, a devil sick with sin, and it only shows that face when the kids turn their backs. I wanted to write that!'' King said in a statement issued through HarperCollins.
'To me, it was the essence of this story and, really, all fairy tales: a sunny exterior, a dark and terrible center, brave and resourceful children. In a way, I have been writing about kids like Hansel and Gretel for much of my life.'
Representatives for King say he has no memory of meeting Sendak, although King has expressed admiration for the musical 'Really Rosie,' a Sendak-Carole King collaboration.
Lynn Caponera, the Sendak foundation's executive director, said in a statement that she thought King ideal because outside of the Grimms, 'he's the master of scary stories and a wonderful writer to boot.'
Sendak, who died in 2012, spoke about Hansel and Gretel around the time he was working on the opera. In an interview published in the 2003 book 'The Art of Maurice Sendak' he called the fairy tale 'the most profound' of the Grimm canon.
'Generally speaking, most of Grimm is about heroic children. 'Hansel and Gretel' are the most heroic of them all,' said Sendak, known for 'Where the Wild Things Are,' 'In the Night Kitchen' and other children's favorites. 'It's the toughest story in the world and people are afraid of it, yet it's famous because it's so truthful.'
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New York Post
5 hours ago
- New York Post
King Charles ‘livid' as royal family's cherished Christmas tradition faces cancellation: expert
King Charles is said to be 'livid' that he won't exactly get Christmas cheer this year. The Sun recently reported there is a potential shortage of pheasants at the monarch's Sandringham Estate, which could affect the chances of a full shooting calendar this winter. Advertisement It is known as one of the monarch's favorite pastimes during the holiday season. 'King Charles III is livid, frustrated and disappointed, reflecting both his deep personal attachment to the cherished family tradition and his broader commitment to his royal heritage,' British royal expert Hilary Fordwich claimed to Fox News Digital. 'He's also annoyed that the mishap reflects rather poorly on the management of Sandringham, which he inherited from his mother, Queen Elizabeth II,' she explained. 'The shoot gathers his extended royal family and guests, reinforcing bonds while upholding a long-standing aristocratic tradition. The root of the problem is that Charles has always opposed importing birds from elsewhere, preferring to maintain the estate's game population. The eco-friendly approach has failed.' Advertisement According to the outlet, the number of birds currently available has dropped. 6 Britain's King Charles III wore hearing protection as he watched an artillery piece be fired in Lark Hill on Friday. via REUTERS This may force the 76-year-old, who is battling an undisclosed form of cancer, to cancel the traditional Boxing Day shoot, which is described as a central part of the royal family's holiday plans. Fox News Digital reached out to Buckingham Palace for comment. Advertisement 'Allegedly, King Charles is disappointed that one of his favorite Christmas family traditions may not take place this year,' British broadcaster and photographer Helena Chard told Fox News Digital. 'The Sandringham shoot is questionable due to a lack of Sandringham pheasants on the estate. It seems the family will have to bond, enjoy and celebrate over another hobby, or possibly clay pigeon shoots are the way forward.' 'King Charles may have felt a fleeting healthy upset, but in light of recent times, with the slimmed-down monarchy, cancer battles and more… the monarchy has found their typical ways changing as they are forced to be flexible,' she shared. 6 King Charles III was recently pictured taking a stroll at the Sandringham Estate. Bav Media / The Sun reported that a long-serving gamekeeper, who is responsible for managing the bird population on the estate, is said to have been let go in a recent staff shake-up, resulting in the shortage. Advertisement 'It was a total cock-up,' a source claimed to the outlet. 'No birds, no bang, just red faces. The king wasn't having it.' According to Chard, while the king may be let down, he isn't opposed to change. The monarch is said to be adjusting to a new routine as he continues his weekly cancer treatments and remains devoted to full-time royal duties. 6 King Charles III and Queen Camilla with Prince William, Prince of Wales attend the Christmas Morning Service at St Mary Magdalene Church on December 25, 2024. UK Press via Getty Images 'He pushes for change on occasion,' said Chard. 'He broke royal tradition with his last Christmas speech, recorded at the Fitzrovia Chapel, rather than a royal residence. It was there that he chose to reflect on the deeper things that connect us all — community, health, inclusivity and love.' Chard also pointed out that the shortage may prompt the king to review the shooting tradition, which has come under fire from animal rights groups. Royal expert Ian Pelham Turner is hopeful the change of plans will allow the king to prioritize one thing — making amends with his younger son, Prince Harry. The Duke of Sussex and his wife Meghan Markle stepped back as senior royals in 2020, citing the unbearable intrusions of the British press and a lack of support from the palace. They reside in California. 6 On Christmas Day in 2017, the late Queen Elizabeth II, her husband and other members of the royal family were pictured leaving the St Mary Magdalene Church in Sandringham, Norfolk. AFP via Getty Images Advertisement Since the couple's royal exit, they have aired their grievances in interviews and podcasts, as well as Harry's explosive 2023 memoir, 'Spare.' Sources close to the prince, 40, previously claimed to People magazine that the king won't respond to his phone calls and letters. 'Perhaps he could bring the royal clan together, lock the door, knock all their heads together and unite the entire family, including Harry and Meghan,' Turner told Fox News Digital. 'This may be feathers flying in a different way than a grouse shoot, but if they really believe in the Christian principles, they would try, in my view. It is what Britain expects.' People magazine reported that Charles supports traditional practices and opposes importing birds from elsewhere for the customary rural pastime. However, the outlet reported that maintaining game birds in the area has been 'challenging.' 6 Britain's King Charles III greeted families of service personnel during a visit to the regiments headquarters in Lark Hill, Wiltshire. via REUTERS Advertisement People also reported that the king's grandson, Prince George, was taken on his first grouse-hunting expedition at Balmoral, the royal family's Scottish estate. Royal author Tom Quinn claimed in his new book, 'Yes Ma'am — The Secret Life of Royal Servants,' that Kate Middleton isn't allowing her three young children, including George, 11, to participate in 'blooding.' This longtime ritual calls for members of the royal family to smear blood on their faces from their first kill during fox or stag hunting. Fox News Digital reached out to Kensington Palace for comment. In his 2023 book 'Gilded Youth,' Quinn claimed that William also wanted his family to get with the times. Advertisement ''William is struggling with the traditional pastimes of the royal family as they become ever more unpopular with the public,' he wrote. 6 Ingrid Seward, editor-in-chief of Majesty magazine, previously reported that Princess Diana wasn't a fan of game shooting. Getty Images 'William loves shooting — a love he shares with his father — but he is also conscious that the tide is now moving against what many people now refer to as blood sports (the royals prefer to refer to them as field sports). But are they suitable for George, Charlotte and Louis?' Quinn also wrote that while William, 42, was 'keen' to get the children into shooting, he also noted that 'few' expected Kate to 'allow' her children to take part in the blooding tradition. Advertisement Harry previously detailed his experience with the tradition in his memoir, 'Spare.' The 40-year-old recalled how his hunting guide, Sandy, pressed his face into the belly wound of a stag he shot during a blooding ritual on the grounds of Balmoral Castle. 'He placed a hand gently behind my neck and… pushed my head inside the carcass,' the Duke of Sussex wrote, as quoted by the New York Post. 'I tried to pull away, but Sandy pushed me deeper,' the prince wrote. 'I was shocked by his insane strength. And by the infernal smell. My breakfast jumped up from my stomach. After a minute, I couldn't smell anything, because I couldn't breathe. My nose and mouth were full of blood, guts and a deep, upsetting warmth.' Harry wrote that he 'felt swelling pride' that he had 'been good to that stag' by killing it with a single shot so it wouldn't feel pain. He said it was a 'show of respect for the slain' and 'an act of communion by the slayer.' The outlet noted that the book's revelations prompted animal rights organization PETA to condemn the father of two for his graphic descriptions. Ingrid Seward, editor-in-chief of Majesty magazine, previously reported that Princess Diana wasn't a fan of game shooting, which has been one of the royal family's favorite activities for centuries. Seward claimed that the late Princess of Wales didn't even like her sons being photographed holding guns. Seward claimed Diana reportedly told William and Harry, 'Remember, there's always someone in a high-rise flat who doesn't want to see you shoot a Bambi,' as quoted by the U.K.'s Express. Still, the boys loved hunting, and Diana used to jokingly call them her 'Killer Wales.' Ken Wharfe, Diana's former royal protection officer, also claimed that Diana was disgusted by hunting. 'The royal shooting obsession was something Princess Diana found repugnant,' Wharfe said, as quoted by the outlet. 'Requiring little or no skill, royal pheasant shoots are a pre-planned carnage of wildlife, bred specifically for slaughter.'
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Money Is Ruining Television
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. Watching Carrie Bradshaw—erstwhile sex columnist, intrepid singleton, striver—float down the majestic staircase of her new Gramercy townhouse on a recent episode of And Just Like That while wearing a transparent tulle gown, on an errand to mail a letter, is one of the most cognitively dissonant television experiences I've had recently. And Just Like That has never been a particularly imaginative show with regard to women in midlife, but there's still something fundamentally off about seeing one of the canonical female characters of our era transformed into a Gilded Age archetype, worrying about a garden renovation and choosing back-ordered fabric for a chaise. Carrie, suddenly, has many hats. She communicates with a lover via handwritten notes while she waits for his liberation from the home front in Virginia. What's happened to Carrie, truly, is money. Two decades after Sex and the City rolled to a televised close, acknowledging that its own cultural relevance was waning, its characters continue in zombified form on And Just Like That, pickled in a state of extreme privilege where nothing can touch them. The drama is lifeless, involving rehashed old storylines about beeping alarm systems and 'a woman's right to shoes' that serve mostly as a backdrop for clothes. Charlotte, in a questionable lace workout jacket, worries that her dog has been unfairly canceled. Miranda, in one of a series of patterned blouses, gets really into a Love Island–style reality show. (Remember Jules and Mimi?) Lisa wears feathers to a fundraiser for her husband's political campaign. Seema, in lingerie, nearly burns her apartment down when she falls asleep with a lit cigarette, but in the end, all she loses is an inch or so of hair. The point of the show is no longer what happens, because nothing does. The point is to set up a series of visual tableaus showcasing all the things money can buy, as though the show were an animated special issue of Vogue or Architectural Digest. What's stranger still is that a series that once celebrated women in the workplace has succumbed to financial ideals right out of Edith Wharton: The women who earned their money themselves (Miranda and Seema) somehow don't have enough of it (spoiler—they still seem to have a lot), while the ones who married money (Carrie, Charlotte, Lisa) breeze through life as an array of lunches, fundraisers, and glamping trips, with some creative work dotted into the mix for variety. The banal details of exorbitant wealth—well, it's all quite boring. [Read: We need to talk about Miranda] Lately, most of television seems stuck in the same mode. Virtually everything I've watched recently has been some variation of rich people pottering around in 'aspirational' compounds. On Sirens and The Better Sister, glossy scenes of sleek couture and property porn upstage the intrigue of the plot. On Mountainhead, tech billionaires tussle in a Utah mountain retreat featuring 21,000 square feet of customized bowling alleys and basketball courts. On Your Friends & Neighbors, a disgraced hedge-fund manager sneers at the vacuous wealth of his gated community (where houses cost seven to eight figures), but also goes to criminal lengths to maintain his own living standards rather than lower them by even a smidge. And on With Love, Meghan, the humble cooking show has gotten a Montecito-money glow-up. 'I miss TV without rich people,' the writer Emily J. Smith noted last month on Substack, observing that even supposedly normie shows such as Tina Fey's marital comedy The Four Seasons and Erin Foster's unconventional rom-com Nobody Wants This seem to be playing out in worlds where money is just not an issue for anyone. This is a new development: As Smith points out, sitcoms including Roseanne and Married … With Children have historically featured families with recognizable financial constraints, and the more recent dramedies of the 2010s were riddled with economic anxiety. Reality television, it's worth noting, has been fixated on the lifestyles of the rich and bored virtually since its inception, but as its biggest stars have grown their own fortunes exponentially, the genre has mostly stopped documenting anything other than wealth, which it fetishizes via the gaudy enclaves and private jets of Selling Sunset and Bling Empire. Serialized shows, too, no longer seem interested in considering the stakes and subtleties of most people's lives. Television is preoccupied with literary adaptations about troubled rich white women, barbed satires about absurdly wealthy people on vacation, thrillers about billionaire enclaves at the end of the world. Even our contemporary workplace series (Severance, Shrinking) play out in fictional realms where people work not for the humble paychecks that sustain their lives, but to escape the grief that might otherwise consume them. What does it mean that our predominant fictional landscapes are all so undeniably 'elevated,' to use a word cribbed from the Duchess of Sussex? And Just Like That is evidence of how hard it is for shows that take wealth for granted to have narrative stakes, and how stultifying they become as a result. But we also lose something vital when we no longer see 99 percent of American lives reflected on the small screen. Money isn't just making TV boring. It's also reshaping our collective psyche—building a shared sense of wealth as the only marker of a significant life, and rich people as the only people worthy of our gaze. We're not supposed to be able to empathize with the characters on-screen, these strutting zoo animals in $1,200 shoes and $30,000-a-night villas. But we're not being encouraged to empathize with any other kinds of characters, either—to see the full humanity and complexity of so many average people whose lives feel ever more precarious in this moment, and ever more in need of our awareness. On an episode in the final season of Sex and the City, a socialite named Lexi Featherston cracks a floor-to-ceiling window, lights a cigarette, and declares that New York is over, O-V-E-R. 'When did everybody stop smoking?' she sneers. 'When did everybody pair off?' As the hostess glares at her, she continues: 'No one's fun anymore. Whatever happened to fun? God, I'm so bored I could die.' Famous last words: Lexi, of course, promptly trips on her stiletto, falls out the absurdly dangerous glass panel, and plummets to her death. Her arc—from exalted '80s It Girl to coked-up aging party girl—was supposed to represent finality, the termination of the city's relevance as a cultural nexus. 'It's the end of an era,' Carrie says at Lexi's funeral, where Stanford is elated to have scored VIP seats next to Hugh Jackman. 'The party's officially over,' Samantha agrees. After six seasons of transforming how a generation of women dated, dressed, even drank, Sex and the City seemed to be acknowledging that its own moment had come to an end. The characters were undeniably older, no longer seeking anthropological meaning in a SoHo nightclub at 3 a.m. But the city that the show documented—and popular culture more broadly—had shifted, too: toward less spontaneity, less rebellion, and infinitely higher incomes. [Read: The ghost of a once era-defining show] The year that final season aired, 2004, is possibly when television's prurient obsession with rich people really kicked off, with the launch of shows including Desperate Housewives, Entourage, and, notably, The Apprentice. A year earlier, Fox had premiered a soapy drama called The O.C., which charted the rags–to–Range Rover adventures of a teen from Chino who ended up ensconced in the affluent coastal town of Newport Beach. Until then, it had never occurred to me that teenagers could wear Chanel or drive SUVs that cost six figures, although watching them rattle around in McMansions the size of the Met provided much of The O.C.'s visual thrill. In direct response to the show's success, MTV debuted the reality show Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County a year later, and in 2006, Bravo countered with its own voyeuristic peek into the lives of the rich and fabulous—The Real Housewives of Orange County. Documenting wealth enticingly on television is a difficult balancing act: You want to stoke enough envy that people are inspired to buy things (gratifying advertisers along the way), but not so much that you risk alienating the viewer. Reality TV pulled it off by starting small. The women on the first season of Real Housewives were well off, but not unimaginably so. They lived in high-end family homes, not sprawling temples of megawealth. Similarly, when Keeping Up With the Kardashians debuted in 2007, the family lived in a generous but chintzy bungalow, having not yet generated the billions of dollars that would later pay for their minimalist compounds in Calabasas and Hidden Hills. During the 2008 financial crisis, a critic for The New York Times wondered whether the tanking global economy might doom the prospects of shows such as The Real Housewives of Atlanta, which had just premiered, and turn them into 'a time capsule of the Bling Decade.' But the fragility of viewers' own finances, oddly, seemed to make them more eager to watch. Shows about money gratified both people's escapist impulses and the desire to critique those who didn't seem worthy of their blessings. As Jennifer O'Connell, a producer for The Real Housewives of New York City, put it to the Times a year later: 'Everyone likes to judge.' The toxic, unhappy, rich-people shows that have more recently proliferated on prestige TV—the Succession and White Lotus and Big Little Lies variation—cover their backs with cynicism. Money doesn't make you happy, they assert over and over, even though studies suggest otherwise. The documentation of extreme wealth on television with such clarifying bitterness, they imply, surely inoculates audiences from pernicious aspiration. Except it doesn't: The Four Seasons San Domenico Palace in Sicily was fully booked for a good six months following the second season of The White Lotus, despite the fictional bodies floating in the water. And a study conducted at the London School of Economics in 2018 found that a person's increased exposure to shows that regularly 'glamourize fame, luxury, and the accumulation of wealth' made them more inclined to support welfare cuts; it also noted other studies that found that the more people watched materialistic media, the more anxious and unhappy they were likely to be in their own lives. Watching shows about wealth does, however, seem to stimulate the desire to shop, which is maybe why this latest season of And Just Like That feels intended for an audience watching with a second screen in their hand—all the better to harvest the aspirational consumption the show's lifestyles might generate. Streaming services are already tapping into the reams of data they have on viewers by serving them customized ads related to the series they might be watching, and many are also experimenting with e-commerce. You could argue that And Just Like That is honoring the spirit of Sex and the City by putting fashion front and center. But the vacant dullness of the new season feels wholly of its time: This is television for the skin-deep influencer age, not the messy, pioneering drama it once was. More crucially, Carrie and company take up space that deprives us of more shows like The Pitt, one of a sparse handful of series documenting the workers trying to patch up the holes in an ever more unequal America. No one seems to have anticipated that the Max series would be such a success. As workers today are being squeezed 'for all their worth, no more chit-chatting at the water cooler, we've gotten to a point where reality for most people is quite unpleasant,' Smith writes on Substack. 'And executives are betting that we don't actually want to watch it.' The reality of the TV business also underscores why shows that sell us something—even if it's just the illusion of exceptional prosperity as a default—are easier to commission. But audiences will always be drawn to drama, and the stakes of defiantly deglamorized series such as The Bear and Slow Horses feel necessary in this moment, when the state of the future relies so much on the direction and quality of our attention. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
a day ago
- Atlantic
Why Is Everyone on Television So Rich Now?
Watching Carrie Bradshaw—erstwhile sex columnist, intrepid singleton, striver—float down the majestic staircase of her new Gramercy townhouse on a recent episode of And Just Like That while wearing a transparent tulle gown, on an errand to mail a letter, is one of the most cognitively dissonant television experiences I've had recently. And Just Like That has never been a particularly imaginative show with regard to women in midlife, but there's still something fundamentally off about seeing one of the canonical female characters of our era transformed into a Gilded Age archetype, worrying about a garden renovation and choosing back-ordered fabric for a chaise. Carrie, suddenly, has many hats. She communicates with a lover via handwritten notes while she waits for his liberation from the home front in Virginia. What's happened to Carrie, truly, is money. Two decades after Sex and the City rolled to a televised close, acknowledging that its own cultural relevance was waning, its characters continue in zombified form on And Just Like That, pickled in a state of extreme privilege where nothing can touch them. The drama is lifeless, involving rehashed old storylines about beeping alarm systems and 'a woman's right to shoes' that serve mostly as a backdrop for clothes. Charlotte, in a questionable lace workout jacket, worries that her dog has been unfairly canceled. Miranda, in one of a series of patterned blouses, gets really into a Love Island –style reality show. (Remember Jules and Mimi?) Lisa wears feathers to a fundraiser for her husband's political campaign. Seema, in lingerie, nearly burns her apartment down when she falls asleep with a lit cigarette, but in the end, all she loses is an inch or so of hair. The point of the show is no longer what happens, because nothing does. The point is to set up a series of visual tableaus showcasing all the things money can buy, as though the show were an animated special issue of Vogue or Architectural Digest. What's stranger still is that a series that once celebrated women in the workplace has succumbed to financial ideals right out of Edith Wharton: The women who earned their money themselves (Miranda and Seema) somehow don't have enough of it (spoiler—they still seem to have a lot), while the ones who married money (Carrie, Charlotte, Lisa) breeze through life as an array of lunches, fundraisers, and glamping trips, with some creative work dotted into the mix for variety. The banal details of exorbitant wealth—well, it's all quite boring. Lately, most of television seems stuck in the same mode. Virtually everything I've watched recently has been some variation of rich people pottering around in 'aspirational' compounds. On Sirens and The Better Sister, glossy scenes of sleek couture and property porn upstage the intrigue of the plot. On Mountainhead, tech billionaires tussle in a Utah mountain retreat featuring 21,000 square feet of customized bowling alleys and basketball courts. On Your Friends & Neighbors, a disgraced hedge-fund manager sneers at the vacuous wealth of his gated community (where houses cost seven to eight figures), but also goes to criminal lengths to maintain his own living standards rather than lower them by even a smidge. And on With Love, Meghan, the humble cooking show has gotten a Montecito-money glow-up. 'I miss TV without rich people,' the writer Emily J. Smith noted last month on Substack, observing that even supposedly normie shows such as Tina Fey's marital comedy The Four Seasons and Erin Foster's unconventional rom-com Nobody Wants This seem to be playing out in worlds where money is just not an issue for anyone. This is a new development: As Smith points out, sitcoms including Roseanne and Married … With Children have historically featured families with recognizable financial constraints, and the more recent dramedies of the 2010s were riddled with economic anxiety. Reality television, it's worth noting, has been fixated on the lifestyles of the rich and bored virtually since its inception, but as its biggest stars have grown their own fortunes exponentially, the genre has mostly stopped documenting anything other than wealth, which it fetishizes via the gaudy enclaves and private jets of Selling Sunset and Bling Empire. Serialized shows, too, no longer seem interested in considering the stakes and subtleties of most people's lives. Television is preoccupied with literary adaptations about troubled rich white women, barbed satires about absurdly wealthy people on vacation, thrillers about billionaire enclaves at the end of the world. Even our contemporary workplace series (Severance, Shrinking) play out in fictional realms where people work not for the humble paychecks that sustain their lives, but to escape the grief that might otherwise consume them. What does it mean that our predominant fictional landscapes are all so undeniably 'elevated,' to use a word cribbed from the Duchess of Sussex? And Just Like That is evidence of how hard it is for shows that take wealth for granted to have narrative stakes, and how stultifying they become as a result. But we also lose something vital when we no longer see 99 percent of American lives reflected on the small screen. Money isn't just making TV boring. It's also reshaping our collective psyche—building a shared sense of wealth as the only marker of a significant life, and rich people as the only people worthy of our gaze. We're not supposed to be able to empathize with the characters on-screen, these strutting zoo animals in $1,200 shoes and $30,000-a-night villas. But we're not being encouraged to empathize with any other kinds of characters, either—to see the full humanity and complexity of so many average people whose lives feel ever more precarious in this moment, and ever more in need of our awareness. On an episode in the final season of Sex and the City, a socialite named Lexi Featherston cracks a floor-to-ceiling window, lights a cigarette, and declares that New York is over, O - V - E - R. 'When did everybody stop smoking?' she sneers. 'When did everybody pair off?' As the hostess glares at her, she continues: 'No one's fun anymore. Whatever happened to fun? God, I'm so bored I could die.' Famous last words: Lexi, of course, promptly trips on her stiletto, falls out the absurdly dangerous glass panel, and plummets to her death. Her arc—from exalted '80s It Girl to coked-up aging party girl—was supposed to represent finality, the termination of the city's relevance as a cultural nexus. 'It's the end of an era,' Carrie says at Lexi's funeral, where Stanford is elated to have scored VIP seats next to Hugh Jackman. 'The party's officially over,' Samantha agrees. After six seasons of transforming how a generation of women dated, dressed, even drank, Sex and the City seemed to be acknowledging that its own moment had come to an end. The characters were undeniably older, no longer seeking anthropological meaning in a SoHo nightclub at 3 a.m. But the city that the show documented—and popular culture more broadly—had shifted, too: toward less spontaneity, less rebellion, and infinitely higher incomes. The year that final season aired, 2004, is possibly when television's prurient obsession with rich people really kicked off, with the launch of shows including Desperate Housewives, Entourage, and, notably, The Apprentice. A year earlier, Fox had premiered a soapy drama called The O.C., which charted the rags–to–Range Rover adventures of a teen from Chino who ended up ensconced in the affluent coastal town of Newport Beach. Until then, it had never occurred to me that teenagers could wear Chanel or drive SUVs that cost six figures, although watching them rattle around in McMansions the size of the Met provided much of The O.C. 's visual thrill. In direct response to the show's success, MTV debuted the reality show Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County a year later, and in 2006, Bravo countered with its own voyeuristic peek into the lives of the rich and fabulous— The Real Housewives of Orange County. Documenting wealth enticingly on television is a difficult balancing act: You want to stoke enough envy that people are inspired to buy things (gratifying advertisers along the way), but not so much that you risk alienating the viewer. Reality TV pulled it off by starting small. The women on the first season of Real Housewives were well off, but not unimaginably so. They lived in high-end family homes, not sprawling temples of megawealth. Similarly, when Keeping Up With the Kardashians debuted in 2007, the family lived in a generous but chintzy bungalow, having not yet generated the billions of dollars that would later pay for their minimalist compounds in Calabasas and Hidden Hills. During the 2008 financial crisis, a critic for The New York Times wondered whether the tanking global economy might doom the prospects of shows such as The Real Housewives of Atlanta, which had just premiered, and turn them into 'a time capsule of the Bling Decade.' But the fragility of viewers' own finances, oddly, seemed to make them more eager to watch. Shows about money gratified both people's escapist impulses and the desire to critique those who didn't seem worthy of their blessings. As Jennifer O'Connell, a producer for The Real Housewives of New York City, put it to the Times a year later: 'Everyone likes to judge.' The toxic, unhappy, rich-people shows that have more recently proliferated on prestige TV—the Succession and White Lotus and Big Little Lies variation—cover their backs with cynicism. Money doesn't make you happy, they assert over and over, even though studies suggest otherwise. The documentation of extreme wealth on television with such clarifying bitterness, they imply, surely inoculates audiences from pernicious aspiration. Except it doesn't: The Four Seasons San Domenico Palace in Sicily was fully booked for a good six months following the second season of The White Lotus, despite the fictional bodies floating in the water. And a study conducted at the London School of Economics in 2018 found that a person's increased exposure to shows that regularly 'glamourize fame, luxury, and the accumulation of wealth' made them more inclined to support welfare cuts; it also noted other studies that found that the more people watched materialistic media, the more anxious and unhappy they were likely to be in their own lives. Watching shows about wealth does, however, seem to stimulate the desire to shop, which is maybe why this latest season of And Just Like That feels intended for an audience watching with a second screen in their hand—all the better to harvest the aspirational consumption the show's lifestyles might generate. Streaming services are already tapping into the reams of data they have on viewers by serving them customized ads related to the series they might be watching, and many are also experimenting with e-commerce. You could argue that And Just Like That is honoring the spirit of Sex and the City by putting fashion front and center. But the vacant dullness of the new season feels wholly of its time: This is television for the skin-deep influencer age, not the messy, pioneering drama it once was. More crucially, Carrie and company take up space that deprives us of more shows like The Pitt, one of a sparse handful of series documenting the workers trying to patch up the holes in an ever more unequal America. No one seems to have anticipated that the Max series would be such a success. As workers today are being squeezed 'for all their worth, no more chit-chatting at the water cooler, we've gotten to a point where reality for most people is quite unpleasant,' Smith writes on Substack. 'And executives are betting that we don't actually want to watch it.' The reality of the TV business also underscores why shows that sell us something—even if it's just the illusion of exceptional prosperity as a default—are easier to commission. But audiences will always be drawn to drama, and the stakes of defiantly deglamorized series such as The Bear and Slow Horses feel necessary in this moment, when the state of the future relies so much on the direction and quality of our attention.
