To be CBK in the 90’s
Written By : Hannah Corbett
There are shows you casually watch, and then there are shows you immediately make your best friend watch because you need someone to process the obsession with. The new series revisiting the romance between John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy is the latter. Yes, Paul Anthony as JFK Jr. is devastatingly hot— the posture, the grin, the wardrobe…THE HAIR?!?!?! But the real reason you press play again is of course, CBK.
Or rather, Carolyn and also the Carolyn being embodied so precisely by Sarah Pidgeon, who captures not just her voice or mannerisms, but her restraint. And that’s the word that lingers: restraint.
Long before “quiet luxury” was trending, Carolyn was living it. A former sales woman and publicist at Calvin Klein, she understood the power of a clean line and a neutral palette. A black coat worn on repeat. A bias-cut silk slip that fit rather than clung. Square-toe heels. Minimal makeup. Nothing loud, nothing begging to be noticed — and yet impossible to ignore.
Then there’s the headband. You’ve seen it in the coffee table books: slim, understated, holding back the creamy, perfectly undone blonde. It’s not styled within an inch of its life; it’s pushed back like she has somewhere better to be. Watching it on screen is enough to send anyone straight to the salon. The shade, not platinum, not bronde, but something softly in between — feels less like a hair color and more like a worldview.
One of my favorite looks is the cardigan tied around her neck like a scarf. It shouldn’t work. On paper it reads so preppy, predictable. On her, it’s only cool. It’s the kind of styling choice that requires commitment. Carolyn, even though we only really know her through photos and very limited video footage, she never looked like she was trying something on; she looked like she had already decided.
But beyond the clothes, what makes the series so intoxicating, is the world it recreates. A 1990s Manhattan without cell phones. They leave their apartments with a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and call it a night. They go to work and end up at a bar. They run into someone unexpectedly. They stay out. No “on my way” texts. No location sharing. No documenting the drink before the first sip.
Watching it now feels almost radical. The unreachability. The privacy. The fact that mystery wasn’t curated, it simply existed because you couldn’t be accessed at all times. The city felt electric in a way that’s hard to replicate when every interaction can be screen shotted or replayed.
There’s something especially poignant about realizing I just missed that era. Born in 1999, the same year Carolyn’s life ended, dramatically enough, it feels like ships passing in the night, a month apart. Close enough to feel connected, far enough to have never overlapped. Maybe that’s part of the fascination. She represents a version of adulthood that feels cinematic: go to work after a subway ride, meet someone for a drink, or go to a party, drift into the night, wake up and do it again.
The show isn’t just reviving a relationship. It’s reviving a way of being. One where elegance is quiet, romance is spontaneous, and a woman can steal every scene without ever raising her voice. In a culture that rewards volume and visibility, Carolyn’s legacy feels almost rebellious. She didn’t over-explain herself. She didn’t perform for the room. She simply walked through it and let the rest of the world keep up.