Sex and the City returns for immoral morality.
I'm about as qualified to write this review of
Sex and the City
as I am to critique the new Playtex Gentle Glide tampons. As a straight, fashion-hating male, I'm simply not equipped. Moreover, I've only seen the series once or***image2*** twice (though straight men do tend to lie about both penis size and the number of times they have seen
Sex and the City
).
Devotees to the show will hardly be disappointed. There is enough relationship drama, endless girl-talk necessary to process that drama and female porn (in which accessories like handbags, expensive shoes and men are shown in vulgar close-ups) in the film's 2½ hours to satiate all but the most soap-opera-addicted fiends. The show's four principal characters-attainable idealization Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker), cougarish Samantha (Kim Cattrall), anal-retentive Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) and perky Charlotte (Kristin Davis)-are united, doing the same ol' shit and, after deconstructing the Cinderella myth, it's reassembled, Manolo slipper and all.
Neophytes will be less pleased, though no less interested. Of its pleasures, this much can be admitted: There are some decent, middle-brow explorations of forgiveness and the banal aspects of relationships (the negotiating, the coming to terms with imperfection, etc.). On the other hand, the wit, for which the show was famous, is almost completely absent. That is, unless puns, poop jokes and dogs humping expensive throw-pillows now pass for wit.
SATC
, though, with its depiction of post-feminist sexual mores and upper-class values, is a cultural studies grad student's wet dream. First, of course, is the gross, despicably shallow materialism. The status-seeking ***image1***shopping sprees these women advertise as
just what a girl does
may account for a significant portion of the world's environmental damage, debt and slave children. A warning to any haters who would dare to comment on the politics comes when a pair of unglamorous protesting women throw paint on Samantha's fur. The message: Caring about things is seriously unsexy.
And then there are the race, class and body issues. Carrie acquires a black servant. Miranda follows a "white guy with a baby!" in order to find good real estate. And, when the camera does not adore Carrie's skeletal frame, the women are often busy policing each other's bodies, from Miranda's pubes to the tiny stomach rolls on 50-year-old Samantha.
But even as one judges how shallow the film is, it's difficult not to also wonder: What sort of hideous, God-awful outfits (disco-ball hats, saucer-plate necklaces, dead birds in the hair) are these women wearing? Hypocritical, I know.