Sex and the City: The Movie
Ups: Fan addiction satisfaction; some chuckles
Downs: Droll plot development; terrible lack of realism in an un-entertaining context
Final score: 3 props/10
Having watched almost the entire series of SaTC, I was curious to see what the movie would be like—considering it would be a 2 hour film about a 6-season, 94-episode series. Needless to say, I saw what it was like. Needful to say, this is what it was like.
Let’s omit production, cinematography, costume & makeup quality, prop quality, and product placement from this entire review, because there’s no point in talking about it. This movie was done by a multimillion dollar studio with major commercial input (which is fantastic, of course). Unfortunately, quality of writing is usually stretched to the limit in these kinds of movies because demand is already guaranteed. If they can have a $55 million+ opening with a mediocre script, and maybe a couple million more with a serious script with the risk of disappointing the fans, they’re probably going to go with the former. They’re going to go with the certain payoff and appeal to the fangirls.
So that leaves the plot: “good times, bad times.” And that’s about it. Any of the good times which involved a romantic gesture by a male was accompanied by an extremely irritating movie theater audience either “awwwwwwww”-ing or, much more annoyingly, girlishly “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”-ing. I could not give the writers more credit for their commercial genius. The bad times? Well, most certainly to be followed by good times!
The movie comes with a mandatory wedding abandonment scene, after which you have no possible idea how reconciliation can or will occur. But worry not, it does. Oops. Uhh, SPOILER ALERT? Oh, fuck it. Just allow me to save you the pointless pondering about whether the directors would actually write a major romantic character out of an ending. They won’t, because they’re artistically fearful. They can’t risk breaking a cliché because it, again, could jeopardize the creamy sugar filling of the movie twinkie that the sugar-addicted fans crave.
The main plot surrounding the main character, sex columnist Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker), and her on-off dream boyfriend of 10 years, John Preston a.k.a. “Mr. Big” (Chris Noth) is so horrendously improbable that it just makes the movie frustrating. And it’s not just the kind of improbability like a meteor destroying your car is improbable, but more like the “so much could have been done by anyone to avert disaster” kind of improbability.
The lack of realism doesn’t only come from outside standards. The movie’s results are unlikely from its own premises. Mr. Big expresses doubts about getting married because he’s afraid it’ll ruin his relationship with Carrie, and also is worried that the marriage will make him look bad (“do you know how this will make me look? This is my third marriage.”) Right, so the proper course of action is to ditch your eager bride in a highly publicized wedding, break her trust and humiliating her in the process. All this from a highly successful guy with millions of dollars? Foh!
Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon), one of Carrie’s friends, purportedly provides the catalyst for Big’s cold feet by making a negative comment about the upcoming wedding. We’re supposed to believe that Miranda’s comment, which was made while she was clearly upset after speaking to her husband who just cheated on her, really made Big change his mind. Rather than make me feel like there was a big (no pun intended) and substantive reason for the events that followed, it made me feel as if there was a piece of masking tape holding the whole plot of the movie together.
Besides the content of the plot being totally bunk, the progression of the plot was obnoxious, at best. Again and again, we’re given “oh gnoes!” and “oh gyes!” plot devices, one right after another, peppered with random bits of humor. We’re persistently battered with highly unlikely and “suspenseful” nonsense. All Big needs to do is just talk to Carrie before the wedding, but.. he can’t get in touch with her! Charlotte’s young daughter finds her phone, but doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know to notify an adult about it. She just sticks it in her little purse where it will not be found in time to fix the situation.
Fear not, twinkie-eaters! In the end, they end up back together, once more for unlikely reasons. After the kind of soul-crushing event that was his abandonment of her for the third time, you’d expect that only a beam from the heavens or a time machine would ever put them together again. I would have been convinced if Carrie genuinely understood that there was a misunderstanding and that Big really intended to go through with it before she smashed him in the head with a bouquet (another instance in which it was super unlikely that he wouldn’t be able to communicate with her “no, I want to do it!”).
But no, there was none of that. There was some bullshit about a book they read together with love letters by famous men, during which Carrie and Big have an exchange about what Big’s letter would be. Oh my! What’s this? Big wrote you, Carrie? He never writes! After irrationally throwing your cell phone which contained voice messages that would have cleared up the whole ordeal into the ocean, you’re now totally interested in what he has to say in print.
So you run home and rifle through your mail. Then you realize it: it’s in your computer! It’s hidden in your email, his message. Oh dear, what’s the password? “Zor1blx2_”? No, it’s actually slightly stronger: “Love.” Wow. Some other ideas tossed around by the writers were “God,” “password,” “1234,” and “sex,” but ultimately the writers determined that “Love” would serve as an excellent plot device, fit into the general theme of the movie, safely protect Carrie’s data from hackers, and also work plot-wise into Jennifer Hudson’s cameo as Carrie’s assistant.
Another major disappointment was the plot involving infamous TV-slut Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), who I thought contributed a lot in the series humor-wise. Samantha’s relationship with actor-“hottie” Smith Jared (Jason Lewis) fell flat. After a 5 year relationship, the beginning of which was very happy and enthusiastic during the series, their relationship ends in pretty much a 2 minute scene where Smith looks like he doesn’t give a fuck. Maybe the writers were trying to get across how their relationship got worn out (not surprising, considering the woman is a facelifted hag), but it just seemed more like a lazy copout. You don’t end a 5 year relationship in 2 minutes, even if every possible event leads up to it.
Now, on to the sex content: some actors were a bit coy (namely prudish Charlotte York (Kristin Davis) and her husband who had about six wrappings of sheets between them), while others were willing to bare bewbs. Also, you do get to see the silhouette of Samantha’s Spanish-stallion neighbor’s penis. He gets a record 4 sex shots in the film plus a shower flop-about—not bad for some no-name (Gilles Marini). His silhouetted wang is now immortalized in fan-obsession history.
Overall, the movie fell flat. It was a flick primarily aimed at fangirls/gays as a means of slaking their lust for a “where are they now?” update. Everything seemed to play out the way it did just because the writers said “ok, we need a good part here. And a bad part here. And a good part here. And a bad part here. And then a good part at the end.” In other words, it was just total mental masturbation and had no tangible relationship to reality. Sex and the City definitely fit the fangay paradigm, which is a condition that lends itself to another genre: science fiction. But what makes science fiction movies cool is that they show us cool shit like death stars, lasers, kick-ass space battles, freaky alien bitches, and so forth. This makes their lack of plausibility acceptable.
The Sex and the City movie is based in present-day New York and is passed off as being a believable story about people. No lasers. No freaky alien bitches. Just some worn-out hags being a part of a far-fetched sequence of events involving hollow characters. With no high energy weapons and special effects, you’d better be strong in, you know, STORY-TELLING ELEMENTS. As some may contend, the 4 women can be looked at as superheroes, but for chicks. Still, I’m not swayed: you can have shitty superheroes, too. Look at Superman—endless power, one-dimensionality.
Ultimately, if you absolutely need plot resolution, you have a good case for watching the movie. I certainly wouldn’t introduce anyone to the Sex and the City series with it, though, if I would at all.