This summer, both The Bold Type and Younger—a pair of glossy dramedies about what it means to be a 20-something in the big city—end their respective runs on Freeform and Paramount+. The Bold Type stars a trio of friends (Jane, Kat, Sutton) working at Scarlet—a Cosmo-type magazine and its website, a.k.a. the “Dot Com.” Younger centers on Liza, a 40-something woman who poses as a millennial to break into publishing at the fictional Empirical Press—though at this point, everyone left on the show is onto her ruse.
Both series offer the same brand of fizzy-flavored escapism, though obviously neither invented it; each is a clear successor to Sex and the City, with Younger even sharing the same creator in Darren Star. But just as certain aspects of SATC feel more alarmingly out-of-touch with every passing year, Younger and The Bold Type already seem fairly dated in their depictions of the media and feminist landscapes. As both come to a close, we can’t help but wonder: has the #GirlBoss era of millennial-themed TV finally sung its swan song? Or is its sparkly encore imminent?
While Younger and The Bold Type have both made an effort to set their action in recognizable facsimiles of New York City, mostly by name-dropping real publications—Liza and her colleague Kelsey’s “content incubator” is featured on Vulture; Jane’s work mishap lands her boss in Page Six—both otherwise took a decidedly laissez-faire approach to depicting reality. In the worlds of Younger and The Bold Type, making rent is a non-factor; deadlines feel more like brunch conversation than an actual threat; one can glide from the Upper East Side to Brooklyn within minutes. Sure, Liza or Jane might trip on a metaphorical banana peel. But by episode’s end, they’ll each be tucked back into their exposed-brick apartments, gazing out a window as Betty Who plays.
At the same time, Carrie Bradshaw’s descendants have made more of an effort to tackle capital-I issues than SATC regularly did. Younger and The Bold Type have each focused storylines on the #MeToo movement, cross-cultural feminism, and ageism, with The Bold Type in particular devoting some of its most powerful episodes to societal woes: In the season one finale alone, Kat’s girlfriend Adena is deported back to Iran in the wake of Trump’s Muslim travel ban, and Scarlet editor in chief Jacqueline Carlyle emotionally details her rape. Both have also shown a willingness to reassess themselves in the wake of shifting cultural conversations. The first season of Younger, for instance, introduced an author who sexually harassed Liza; the incident was played as a joke. Its fifth season revisited that storyline, giving the author a #MeToo-style reckoning.
The Bold Type’s own reform came after star Aisha Dee called out her show for a lack of diversity behind the scenes, and criticized a storyline in which her character, Kat, develops feelings for a conservative woman. The show’s other stars voiced their solidarity with Dee on social media, and Freeform said in a statement to Vanity Fair that they “applaud Aisha for raising her hand,” promising to constitute “positive change.” (In the recently aired first episode of the show’s final season, Kat’s burgeoning relationship was promptly wrapped up.)
As earnest as those efforts may have been, the worlds depicted in The Bold Type and Younger—teeming with designer duds, crowded karaoke bars, and boozy corporate parties—have never felt further from our pandemic-inflicted work-from-home reality. (This is to say nothing of their depictions of a media industry where junior staffers have ample time to gossip in the fashion closet and book editors spend more time schmoozing potential authors than, you know, reading the manuscripts.)
There’s also the age-old question of diversity (or lack thereof) in these shows: though they’re set in New York City, on both Younger and The Bold Type, most of the characters are white, straight, cisgender women who enjoy societal privilege and financial stability. As inclusion becomes more of a priority in media and beyond, limited perspectives like these have begun to seem strikingly tone deaf.
Even so, TV doesn’t seem quite ready to let go of career-girl-in-the-big-city shows once Younger and The Bold Type both finish their runs. For proof, look no further than the heavily hate-watched Emily in Paris, also created by Darren Star—a surprise Netflix phenom currently shooting its second season. The series has already announced that provocative playwright Jeremy O. Harris will have a guest role in the new season, possibly signaling a tonal shift—though it’s just as likely that Harris will spend his screen time wearing couture and slinging bon mots. In the meantime, the Starz series Run the World seems equally ready to pick up Younger and Bold Type fans looking for their next easy binge.
And then, of course, there’s HBO Max’s Sex and the City revival, And Just Like That. Set to film this summer, the show will be waiting to pick up its descendents’ escapist slack—and also seems as though it’s learned a lesson or two from the very shows it inspired. Sara Ramirez has already been cast as the show’s first nonbinary character (a podcast host, no less!), suggesting at least the start of a new era—though as Vanity Fair’s Cassie da Costa wrote in January, getting the show in step with progressive ideas will take more than lip service.
Bearing in mind their shortcomings and dated story arcs, why do shows like this persist? Perhaps it’s because they’re a little like sipping a cool glass of rosé on a hot summer day: sweet, but crisp, indulgent, but not overly so. Shows like The Bold Type and Younger afford viewers the chance to sip on a fantastical universe littered with perfectly tailored outfits and late-night rendezvouses—one that also has also notes of social commentary, an awareness of the issues that matter to women who also want to ogle a pair of Manolo Blahniks. Watching an episode of either leaves one with a citrusy aftertaste, maybe a buzz, and a craving for another pour. Above all, like a rosé: even when these shows are bad, they’re kind of good too.
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