I’ve never been one of those women who “just loved, loved, loved this show!” I watched it. I enjoyed it. I wanted Carrie to marry Aiden too. But that was about it for me. I could never quite get on board with the idea of Kim Cattrall as this ravenous sexual magnet. Let’s be honest, she looks like your alcoholic aunt who was kind of a slut in high school. And every time Cynthia Nixon was filmed in a lustful scene with a man, I’m pretty sure a kitten was murdered.
When it comes to watching the Sex and the City movie, I kept my hopes very tempered, which is precisely the attitude you need to watch this film. The whole movie unrolls exactly how you imagine it will: a costume parade of four cougars desperately trying to appear fifteen years younger than they were ten years ago. Prepare yourself to see some scarily aged hands as compared to the eerily smooth faces above them. It’s a good thing they made this movie when they did, because I don’t think their parchment skin can support their lack of eating anything resembling food much longer.
Although, I have to give props to Sarah Jessica Parker for allowing herself to be filmed with zero make-up and wardrobe in a few scenes where she’s playing a heartbroken and bereft dumpee. It was surprising and not a little refreshing, like a palette cleanser before she jumped back into a parade of outrageous costumes.
The characters of Charlotte and Miranda are mere distractions with half-hearted attempts on behalf of the screenwriter to make them relevant to the story. But my biggest problem with the movie was, no pun intended, Mr. Big, whom we loved on the show because he’s an arrogant, selfish asshole. In the film, his character was relegated to a weepy ragdoll without a backbone. If I heard him say, “I just want you” one more time, I was going to jab a rusty fork in my ears.
In the end, Sex and the City still comes down to the wise words once spoken by Peter Griffin of The Family Guy:
Peter: Sex and the City. Isn’t that the show about those three hookers and their mom?
