I just got back from seeing Sex and the City. I had waited a few days after the release because God knows there is no way I would want to be stuck in the throngs of dressed up women stampeding to the theater on opening night.
I wish I could understand how I felt about the film.
The first half an hour was amazing. Everything familiar and fabulous about the television show which women have missed so much was back–the fabulous optimism, the friendships and the clothes. The amazing, breathtaking clothes.
But then, tragedy stikes. Over and over again. In the most painful of ways. The drama is beautifully displayed. It’s the kind of heart-wrenching sadness that sticks with you even after the film is over.
I figured there were only a couple ways this film could end, in regards to Carrie’s fate. I won’t spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen it, but when you think about it there are only two ways you can end up: alone, or with someone.
There were so many things that frustrated me about this film. The ending being number one. Also, the way some of the really interesting friends got shafted in their story lines. Charlotte and her husband are nearly absent. Samatha is one-toned in her Malibu lifestyle.
Yet, while a part of me is consumed by frustration, another part feels only jealousy. I am jealous that I haven’t written three fabulous books, that I don’t live in amazing apartment in New York, and that my best friends aren’t close enough to meet up with me for lunch every day. I am jealous that I don’t own those shoes. Or that dress. But we all know this isn’t reality. Who could live in New York like that on a writer’s salary? And that’s what is so great about this story–women love it because it is everything they can never have. And that’s why a part of me will always be pissed off about it.
But regardless of its imperfections, there is no denying that having Sex and The City made for the big screen is long overdue. Everything about it was truly grand. Bigger than ever. And, mostly, better than ever.