Unless you live under a rock or you’re a male over 40, you know that the Sex and the City movie premiered this weekend. NYC is crawling with groups of girlfriends with three things listed on their vacation itinerary: 1. Drink cosmos, 2. Buy shoes, 3. See movie.
I met Jenn and her friend Nicole at her apartment after work. After successfully raiding Billy's vino stash (don't feel sorry for him -- his soap star status earns him tons of free booze from journalists and party promoters), we braved the sea of semi-sloshed, knock-off glad, overly-giddy women gathered to see a movie about other frequently-sloshed, over-privileged, self-indulgent women.
OK, I shouldn’t judge. The three of us were a bit juiced too. And, I have to admit the seductive, bubble-world of SATC with its over-the-top froufrou has a charm that sucks me into its syndicated re-runs many a late night.
I think the anticipation layered with the pain of girdles and 4-inch heals was pushing the crowd over the edge. It was row-dy! There was an attempt to start the wave, clapping, shushing, a near-girl fight over saved seats, and even a throwing up incident in the aisles. It was Carrie Bradshaw-chaos!
The movie was all the things you’d expect -- talking dirty and sleeping around and overanalyzing male emotional insufficiency. (It wouldn't be SATC if it weren't a little annoying.) I thought SJP was spectacularly good and beautiful as a brunette. There were plenty of fashion montages coupled with gasps of pleasure and (occasionally) horror from the crowd. It’s campy in parts and gut-wrenchingly serious in others. Overall, it’s 2 hours and 22 minutes of joyful wallow. In deference to pop culture history, go see this movie. My recommendation -- substitute your pumps for your Pumas. The movie has enough haute couture for us all.
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