[on film]

Heavy on Regression:
Sex and the City is a disappointment to the female gender

By: Mrs. Houvouras

On a recent dirty-martini filled evening, a friend and I took a walk down memory lane. Gearing ourselves up for the impending chick flick of the summer, we gleefully relived nearly every episode of the six-season sensation that was Sex and the City.

Surely we sounded like babbling idiots as we recounted the time Miranda met a man at Weight-Watchers who had a thing for glazed donuts. We hemmed and hawed over Carrie’s short-lived affair with the comic shop owner who still lived at home, and even Charlotte’s brief obsession with a certain buzzing device known only as “The Rabbit.” After countless cocktails and a fair share of scathing looks from fellow bar patrons, I caught myself saying aloud, “If we lived in New York and had that kind of money, our lives would be that funny and interesting, too!”

My friend, ever the realist, laughed in my face and said that perhaps I was giving us way too much credit. The unfortunate truth, however, is that after seeing Sex and the City: The Movie, I don’t think I missed the mark at all. In fact, I would bet my best pair of heels on the notion that my life, every reader’s life, and her boring cousin’s life are far more entertaining than the two-and-a-half-hour travesty I witnessed in the theater last Friday evening.

I think a big part of the problem was the overall theme of the film. As a rabid fan of the series, I spent years watching the sexual misadventures of these four women. Samantha Jones, Miranda Hobbes, Charlotte York and Carrie Bradshaw led complicated lives but always managed to laugh their misfortunes away with a shopping spree and a gabby brunch with the gals. No matter how dire the situation, there was a light-hearted balance, often lended by Carrie’s pun-infused narratives.

The frenzied world of Manhattan became a delicious escape when shown through the vantage points of a slew of familiar female archetypes: the bitch, the slut, the prude, and the socialite. Best of all, no apologies were ever offered for the characters’ many missteps in love or in fashion. Women all over the country were taught that it was OK to dress however they wanted and screw whomever (and however) they wanted, as long as they owned their decisions at the end of the day.

As the film begins, it’s been four years since we’ve last seen our beloved foursome. A quite effective opening montage of each character’s classic moments from the series drew a round of applause (and squeals of glee) from the entire theater, myself included. Despite the mellowing effect of time, it seems that the ladies are very much as we remember them to be:

Carrie has become an accomplished author, publishing three hit books on the subject of—what else?—relationships!

Miranda and Steve have been lulled into the complacency that years of marriage can bring to even the most fiery of couples.

Samantha now calls the left coast home and spends the bulk of her time managing her hunk of a boyfriend Smith’s career in L.A.
However, only Charlotte seems to have truly hit her stride, as her long-dreamt role as doting wife and mother is fulfilled.

While it’s pleasantly comforting to see our characters alive and well on the big screen, it’s impossible not to notice a hint of awkwardness and a heap of over-acting as the actresses struggle to fit back into the world that is Sex and the City. Carrie’s laughs are a little too forced; Miranda’s sarcasm a little too calculated. I wanted to love it, but already I was skeptical. Unfortunately, it all went down-hill from there.

Chronicling a year in the lives of the women, the film moves from one predictable “plot-twist” to the next, as the glitter and spunk that drove the series tarnishes into a melodramatic grocery list of slop.

Infidelity? Check! Feuding friends? Check! Secrets, lies, deception? Check, check, check! However instead of bouncing back from life’s knocks, the protagonists seem to roll over and take the hits. The former ball-busters, in essence, have become obedient, neutered puppies waiting to be led around by the men in their lives! Men? When did these gals ever answer to men?! Samantha, Miranda and especially Carrie seem to have devolved into sad shells of their formerly fabulous selves. WTF!?!

Another disappointment is dealt in the subplot involving Carrie’s new personal assistant, Louise, from St. Louis. Yes, that’s right. The marginally—no, make that “mistakenly” talented Jennifer Hudson bumbles her way through a meaningless performance as a twentysomething who has moved to the Big Apple to, get this, “fall in love.” Bad acting aside, this storyline does nothing to color or carry the film and seems to be a half-hearted attempt to portray Bradshaw as a mentor to the next generation of struggling single women. With a runtime of 148 minutes, this fat could easily have been trimmed.
Despite these massively disappointing flaws, there are a handful of lovable scenes in the film: an impromptu fashion show of Carrie’s infamous hit-or-miss outfits, served up for her gal-pal’s judgment; a touching New Year’s Eve scene serves as a nostalgic and effective reminder of the through-and-through friendships these women share.

But it’s a lunch scene shared between the whole crew of girls that best captures the essence and brilliance for which the series was known and loved. With some spirited laughter, honest vulnerability and a “colorful” metaphor for “doing it,” this all-too-short segment of the film is a breath of fresh air and scratches the itch female fans came to the theater in search of seeing.

Walking into the Cineplex proudly clad in not one, not two, but three different floral prints, I boldly told my friend, “There’s no way I won’t love this movie!” I was so eager to revisit the world of Sex and the City that I felt I could stomach almost any abomination (“almost” being the key word). Instead of finding the characters slightly more evolved and honest, I felt they had lost the sparkle and oomph that had made me fall for them in the first place. Instead of empowerment, I was being force-fed a lesson in futility. Patience is a virtue, unless it means waiting around 10 years for the same guy to get it right. Personally, I don’t have time for that.