Sex and the City is One Limp Flick

If it were possible to die intoxicated by excessive levels of estrogen, then I’d be a goner. The air was laced with hormonal, feminine glee on the opening night of the Sex and the City movie. Outside Village East Cinemas in Manhattan the line of women, plus a smattering of gay men, ran endlessly around the block, trailing a collective, palpable sense of anticipation. Attending the Thursday midnight screening is the proof of true fandom, and at the heart of this city, the hit TV show has its fair share of devotees. Just as Star Trek inspires Trekkies to dress like space cadets, the SATC fans came attired in knock-off Manolos and skimpy summer dresses worthy of a strut down 5^th Avenue. Although here, I can guarantee, there were no straight men to impress.

Inside, the theater was no less rowdy than a sorority house. Groups of girls filled the aisles and some had confused the public space for a slumber party, nestling themselves in the seats and consuming goods clearly not bought on premises—glossy copies of US Magazine and chips and dip. One contingency in the back saw fit to provide all the whoops and hollers you’d hear at a Yankees game. Cue that recognizable opening tune (remixed into a pop song about designer labels), then the series logo lit up in a pink sparkly font, and the audience descended into shrill cries of elation. But their excitement may have been premature, because what ensued was a shockingly painful, pitiful experience.

The SATC movie is not only a departure from the series, but is tasteless and offensive in a number of ways. While on the small screen the show distinguished itself with wry, intelligent dialogue and broke ground for speaking openly about sex, here the sex talk is downplayed. Replacing it is writing that has devolved into a stale version of its former self, even stooping to toilet humor for cheap laughs. Many critics have maintained that the friendship between the girls, that almighty glue, is intact and makes watching the movie worthwhile. But if your idea of friendship is forty-something women screaming like 12-year old banshees every time they see each other, then maybe you’d be persuaded. The bond between Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte, critical to the movie’s appeal, is rendered at its best, as trite and unbearably juvenile, and at worst, as completely unrecognizable (an aside: there is a forced rapprochement between Carrie and Samantha, surely in a bid to counter rumors that the two actresses are real-life enemies). The movie has unwisely adopted all the predictable “girlfriend paradigms” and storylines of the chick flick genre, divesting this group of the unique chemistry that made them addictively watchable. Gone is the charm, and in its stead, cheesy montages of Carrie in ‘80s duds set to modern-day tween songs.

Gone also, are the men—at least on screen. Evan Handler as Harry, Charlotte’s sweet putz of a husband, and David Eigenberg as Steve, the cute bartender from Queens, had been a pleasure to watch. They were both well-scripted and loveable characters on TV, but in the movie they’re just sappy and hardly get a word in. Chris Noth as Big, is largely himself, even though he sports an unsettling spray-on-tan.

It’s true that much of the reason audiences flocked to see the girls again was to discover what had become of them. Even that is a let-down. The characters have made obvious life choices and the plot develops as expected. But more disappointing still is how the movie’s creators have decided to define Carrie and co. only in terms of their romantic liaisons. Throughout, these latter-day working girls, who adventured through the city (in chase of tail, yes, but also other pursuits), have been reduced to constant preoccupation over significant others. The story insults the viewer’s intelligence, pandering to what the moviemakers must have thought a female public enjoys: lots of tacky designer product-placement (“Oh my, my very own Louis Vuitton!”) and the appearance that nothing in life matters more than making it with your man. Don’t expect Miranda the eminently professional lawyer and Carrie the writer to make an appearance—in the movie all four women might as well be unemployed teenagers. Which is fitting, since that seems to be their core audience.

But perhaps I should’ve known better. The trailers that played beforehand—“Mamma Mia!” and “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2”—presaged the disaster to come. It could be easy to forget this movie venture ever happened, if only for the nagging remembrance of what SATC used to represent: a cast of women the average professional gal not only liked, but could identify with. I’ll wager that anyone would be embarrassed to liken themselves to the characters now.