The genius of Sex and the City, the television show – in addition, of course, to the tightly-paced, funny writing, the occasionally revolutionary messages behind the gals’ sexual behaviour, and the fabulous Manhattan backdrop – was the way each episode hung together while following four distinct story arcs. Every week, Carrie’s over-arching question linked the action in each woman’s life; that question, as much as the brunches and Cosmos, was what kept the ensemble together.
It’s that tight, linked plotting that the movie lacks more than anything else. Instead, Carrie’s story dominates all the rest. (I know, I know. She’s technically the “main” character – but she’s also most fans’ least favourite. Didn’t the producers get the memo?) Samantha’s and Charlotte’s lives are practically reduced to footnotes; Smith, Harry, and Stanford Blatch to virtual cameos. Miranda, meanwhile, has big things happening in her life – but her friends, inexplicably, ignore her storyline to obsess about Carrie’s. Jennifer Hudson’s “Saint Louise” is an odd, somewhat forced, deus ex machina – and also one of the more shameless bits of tokenism I’ve seen in awhile. And did anyone else think the extended intro/re-cap was reminiscent of the first chapter of a Baby-Sitters Club book?
The dialogue is uneven, with some moments finding the old spark and others that are cringe-worthy. There are at least two instances of totally gratuitous slow-motion. And Smith Jerrod, in the few times we see him, just isn’t as smokin’ hot as he used to be.
But with all that said, we all know reunions can be hard. I laughed. I cried a little. And even with the awkward moments, it was still fun to spend a couple of hours catching up with four old friends.
by Eva Holland | Source: 35mm Theatrical Print
04 Jun 2008 4:25 PM | Comments (1)
When challenged to use the word horticulture in a sentence the writer, poet, and critic Dorothy Parker retorted, “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.” Parker, the acid tongued queen of New York wrote in Vanity Fair and The New Yorker in the early turbulent part of the 20th century, commenting on everything from politics to literature, before eventually writing screenplays in Hollywood. In the early part of the 21st century beset by the war on terror, oil hitting $135 barrel, and global warming New York in Sex and the City has… Carrie Bradshaw.
The entire premise of S&TC is flawed from the offset as it is based upon a lie. The four principal ladies are not strong independent women as the writers would have you believe; but needy, shallow, materialistic women all searching for the same thing; a man. The series at least played like a well-written article; sharp, rude, forgettable and perfectly made to fit the 30-minute format. The movie is too long to be an episode and too short to be a series.
Four years on from the series end Bradshaw is no longer writing for the New York Observer but plying her trade with books imaginatively titled; Menhattan-get it? Because in this film that’s as good as it gets. Our foursome has moved on with their lives but the leap from the small to the big screen has not been kind. Television can make lesser film talents seem magnificent but transported back to the grandeur of cinema they shrink. There is a reason why Sarah Jessica Parker and Kim Catrall didn’t make it in Hollywood first time round and this film highlights their acting deficiencies cruelly. Striking Distance or Mannequin anyone?
However this cruelty pales into insignificance with what the audience have to be subjected to when these two in particular scar the screen in a multitude of hideous outfits. The clothes they wear, far from flattering them conjure up visions of an experiment gone badly wrong-a kind of Jurassic Central Park. It’s a shame Spielberg and Lucas couldn’t spare some CGI effects to spare us the horror of egos run amok.
What’s even worse is that Samantha; easily the most interesting character doesn’t even give us a real sex scene. Like a first girlfriend she teases and promises much but we are left disappointed. All she does is turn up from L.A. with such annoying regularity that one wonders why she was placed there in the first place?
The much vaunted plot, such as there is, is weak beyond belief; Carrie gets jilted by Big. The man has sense. Journalists were apparently forced to sign a secrecy clause to keep the story from the world. What a shame that didn’t extend it to the script at the development phase to save us all from this vacuous exercise in vanity. So bad is the writing, so bereft of ideas is the story that the fascist foursome go to Mexico just so that Charlotte can make fun of the water, thus by proxy the Mexicans themselves and catch a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge. But the thinly veiled racism doesn’t stop there. Miranda forced to move to a less salubrious neighbourhood follows the white dad to find the up and coming area, watched by, yes you guessed it, a Latino type with gang tattoos and a mean looking dog. It wouldn’t be so cringe worthy if Miranda and the writers acknowledged their prejudices but alas it is played without a shred of irony.
Even worse is the way Jennifer Hudson is crow bared into the film to feature a black character. Is she a fashion designer or a lawyer? Of course not, she is a personal assistant/maid from to Carrie reminiscent of the unseen servant in Tom and Jerry. She is also from St. Louis, which has one of the worst crime rates in the U.S. What are the filmmakers trying to say exactly with this relationship?
In fact what are they trying to say full stop? Sex and the City is supposed to be escapist entertainment for everyday people-the same people who are mocked and looked down upon by the writers just like the ugly fur protestors. The movie is insulting, crass and deeply unfunny. To paraphrase Dorothy Parker, “This is not a film to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.”
Mark Robert Farnsworth
19 June 2008
10:20 AM