Like hordes of women nationwide (and from the looks of my late-night theater, very few men, straight or otherwise), I partook in opening weekend of the long-anticipated and awaited, Sex and the City movie.
To echo Jen Lancaster, “Carrie Bradshaw is a fucking liar."
I didn’t watch the show during its six-year run on HBO, but have seen (and even enjoyed) a helping of sanitized episodes shown in rerun on basic cable. Yet aside from some truly funny and truthful moments, I found the underlying message at the heart of the series sad and stereotypical. The right man will save you, provide the fairytale ending and fill in everything that’s empty, all wrapped up in a grand tulle bow.
I love strong women. I love strong writers (men and woman) who write solid, truthful, strong roles for women. But for me, this ain't it.
I do like the shoes. I can afford those shoes, but would never buy them, except on the Nordstrom Sale Rack.
Just as when the series first ran, women (and worse yet, young girls) salivate for this film; the opening credits alone were cheered at my showing. They bathe in a fantasy world of $400 shoes, men who lunch in power suits and have a BIG shiny black car service, running blocks in stilettos, massive apartments and, apparently, more than high-paying careers. Women plan the evening around the movie and dress for it, yet often times in shoes from Famous Footwear, not Ferragamo.
The only redeeming qualities I found in the movie?
One, the character Miranda takes back her straying and deeply regretful husband. Finally. Two, Samantha Jones chooses to go solo, to “love me more.” BTW, there’s a very unfunny and mean spirited scene regarding her characters apparent “weight gain.” I had to poke my friend and ask what they were talking about.
I get the escapism. I just may be one of those broads who find the sex more enjoyable (and authentic) than the sap.
And one of those broads who save(s) themselves.