Below are some choice bits from the initial reviews of the Sex and the City movie. I was spitting a little vitriol at work yesterday when asked if I was going to go see it. The answer, in short, was “FECK NO.” Except I wasn’t saying those words like Father Jack on “Father Ted.”
Important to note also is that I did tell my friend Theresa that I would see it with her as a matinee because she is a huge fan of the series and her show/movie-viewing buddies are in New Hampshire and England. Theresa is my dear friend and this would mean a lot to her. I also believe in knowing thine enemy. Therefore, I might end up seeing it. But I’ll have to sneak in a little airline bottle of rum (or 2), pour it into my Coke, and enjoy it that way. Because, DAMN. While I’m not a drinker per se (the last drink I had was at a business dinner a few weeks ago; before that, it was my birthday in April), desperate times call for desperate measures.
For professional reasons, maybe I should’ve been more neutral in my response at work and said that I simply don’t care for the series. But this and the Super Bowl both elicit visceral reactions from me. Visceral, angry, “no wonder the rest of the world thinks we’re stupid” reactions. I’m just not very good at hiding my emotions when they’re strong.
Anyway, despite shitty reviews, many of the theatres in the NYC metro area were sold out and experiencing ridiculous amounts of group ticket sales (no, I am not surprised – just sadly aware). Here are some of the review bits I liked:
This movie provides no good reasons to revisit “Sex and the City,” except to fulfill fans’ desires for one more for the road and add millions to Time Warner’s coffers. Be careful what you wish for.
Yes. Well said. “One more for the road” because people just cannot get over the loss OF A TELEVISION SHOW. The phrase “beating a dead horse” comes to mind.
Montage after montage after montage with each and every problem finding a solution by the fabulously dressed four getting together, squee-ing in a pitch that will deafen dogs and neuter most of the males in the audience, and realizing that friendship will get you through any bout of rampant self-absorption. Oh, so this is what happens when you leave Bratz dolls in the sun too long.
Ha ha! Bratz dolls reference = key. It’s the same market – except 10, 20, 30 and 40 years older. And with more money to waste on cheap plastic shit, like knock-off Coach purses because you KNOW you have to have the insignia print. You just do.
In need of some serious tightening up, the flabby picture does what the old Samantha would have never done: It keeps hanging around, pushing for a long-term relationship.
Again, “beating a dead horse.” When has this series NOT been about hanging around and pushing for a relationship? For all the fans’ pontificating about how empowering it is, how can they not see that it’s always been about a “happily ever after”/”GET THE RING!!!” ending? Who else was around for when The Rules was a runaway self-help bestseller? I was a bookseller in those days and I remember railing against it then. I rail against it just as much when it’s dressed up in Vivienne Westwood and on the TV/silver screen.
It’s as long as five series episodes, a big sweet tasty layer cake stuffed with zingers and soul and dirty-down verve (it’s not above having one of the girls poop her pants). Given the running time, though, not that much happens, and what does has several shades more gravitas
“Stuffed with zingers and soul”? “Dirty-down verve”? Oh, one of the girls poops her pants, huh? I heard a woman on the radio yesterday (NPR was interviewing people who had gone to the premiere) say she loved the series because it made her see that all these incredibly successful, well-dressed NYC women were “just like us”, accessible and also had problems. That they worry about the same things that “we” do.
I pity her. I don’t think she’s ever fully realized that the things she sees on TV and the movies aren’t really real.
Sigh. I’m going to do some of the glamorous things that real women sometimes have to do – take my car for an oil change! Put some laundry in the wash! Change the sheets on my bed! All while wearing these sexy-ass pajama pants I bought at Target. That’s right. I’m living the glamorous life.