In the world of Beetlejuice, saying the character’s name three times is one of the most iconic rules of Tim Burton’s cult classic. It’s a magical ritual that summons (or banishes) the grotesque, chaotic, and dangerously unpredictable bio-exorcist from the underworld, played by Michael Keaton. That repetition holds comic and symbolic tension: it grants power, but also invites consequences.

I never imagined I’d be thinking about Beetlejuice while watching Carrie Bradshaw trying to live her life without Aidan or Big. And yet, there she was, staring at her laptop, writing:

“She had done everything she could. She had done everything she could. She had done everything she could.”

And I could only think: don’t repeat it.

When invocation is a mistake

Everyone knows that saying Beetlejuice three times unleashes a force beyond control. The same logic now applies to And Just Like That. Since its debut, the show has tried desperately to justify its existence — but by now, let’s be honest: the spell has backfired. There’s no emotional pull, no real engagement. The Carrie we once knew died with Big — the name she repeated over ten seasons, and which has all but vanished from the script. And I don’t even like Mr. Big.

In the penultimate episode of what I pray is the final farewell to a franchise I once loved, a lot happens. But none of it matters.

Charlotte renovates the apartment, fails at meditating, and ends up crashing at Carrie’s. Three scenes. Miranda learns that Brady had a casual fling with a woman who is now pregnant, doesn’t want to be involved, and everything becomes a mirror of her own past. Steve flips out, Miranda self-reflects. Again.

Anthony asks Giuseppe to move in (weren’t they already living together?). After an unnecessarily rude scene, he agrees. Where’s Giuseppe’s mom? Who cares?

Herbert finally runs for that city treasurer job he’s been talking about for over a season — and loses. Stunning development.

Seema and Adam continue to exist as a recycled version of Samantha and Smith. She thinks there’s no future; he wins her back with good lines. Yawn.

Carrie, a ghost of herself

And Carrie? Always the center. Always in limbo. Now she’s feeling guilty about the awkward vibe with Duncan, the whisky-drinking novelist who hangs around her place spouting platitudes. He helps her finish her book, delays his own, and invites her to a party where she finds out he was once married to his editor. She hesitates about sleeping with him. Then gives in.

Before, she tells Seema:

“I was never seen as smart before anything else. Sexy, pretty, yes.”

Seema answers:

“And humble.”

Carrie insists Duncan respects her thoughts and individuality. Ouch. That one hurts.

Except… It’s not true. Duncan compliments her nonstop until they sleep together. Then, the next morning, he announces he’s leaving for London — for good. Doesn’t even suggest staying in touch. That’s the man who sees her mind? Where’s the respect?

The third repetition

The core issue with And Just Like That is its compulsive attempt to address every critique thrown at it — episode after episode — in a loop of clumsy overcorrections. Carrie, once complex, flawed, and magnetic, is now a wealthy ghost in baggy clothes, floating through life without purpose.

Big, once rightfully labeled toxic, has been rewritten as the ideal partner: rich, sexy, supportive. If Carrie were still trying to mourn that illusion, it could be powerful. But no — she casually declares that the best sex she ever had was with Aidan, then finally realizes he was manipulative and dismissive too.

Duncan, the final name, proves the point. Just another bland, forgettable romantic interest, a poor man’s Berger — but this time without even a Post-it.

Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice… enough

Honestly?

I just want the show to end. The show to end. The show to end.

Before it erases every good memory I have of Sex and the City.

Back to Beetlejuice’s rule of three: it’s ultimately a metaphor for our desire to summon forces we can’t control — and for the consequences of doing so. Saying a name three times is a choice. It feels theatrical, even silly — but, like any good gothic fable, it holds a warning about boundaries, responsibility, and the price of invoking what we don’t understand.

In the case of And Just Like That, the name has been said.
The spirit has been summoned.

Let it be the spirit of goodbye.