SEX AND THE CITY REVIEW

Okay, I went and saw “Sex and the City” this weekend. Again, stag. I cannot get my man to see these chick flicks with me. And, again, I rather admire him for it.

And it’s not like this is a regular chick flick. This is chick flick on steroids. It’s the chickiest. It was all ladies in my theater, and one older guy who somehow got tricked, is my guess. But for a guy in this theater, it’s a bit like visiting the lion’s den, I imagine.

This isn’t like a, you’ll feel all romantic and make out with your significant other romantic comedy, as much as you might leave and be inspired to make out with a complete stranger kind of film. But more likely, you got a group of your women friends, put on clothes you almost never have occasion to wear, had some cocktails and headed out to the picture house together. It was most likely a man-free night. Lady power and all that.

Now, I enjoyed the series. Then again, I was a little younger then. A little more adventurous. Okay, let’s face it. I was super drunk most of the time and made out with the boys left and right. Who didn’t, right? Right?! Regardless, I was a rabid fan of the HBO show. It often felt too tame for me, in fact. So, I don’t know if it was seeing it projected 30 feet high or that I’ve undergone some kind of psychic change, but I didn’t get it.

I mean, I get the friendship. Not all the high-pitched sing-songy-ness of their constant reunions with Samantha, but I get the close bond of women. And I understand misunderstandings in relationships. But the entire movie hinges on a break-up. A really big breakup. (That was such a clever hint, you guys.) And that break-up occurred, one could argue, and I shall, on a miscommunication. Literally, the guy got out half a sentence, she was outraged, dropped the phone, and the rest of the movie dealt with the aftermath.

Is this how women are? Is it how I am? Is it how men see us? I don’t know. But all I could think was, “Let him finish his sentence! You’re not listening!” But they were off and running. Bitchy workaholic Miranda fared no better in her marriage, but she was always like that. They even put slutty Samantha in a long-term relationship. They give the excuse that he got her through chemo, so she’s puttin’ the time in as best she can for him. As if she were in some terrible situation. She’s pouting her life away in a Malibu beach house with her completely devoted TV star boyfriend. His crime: He works too much. Wah. The only reasonable one was Charlotte. She’s happy every day in her marriage because she contributes positively and chooses to be happy. Holy crap! When did I become a Charlotte?

This is essentially the story of women who have everything, wanting just a little more. They have money and men and careers and each other, but a lot of their focus is spent on that 1% piece of the pie that eludes them. It’s a little hard to watch at times.

Here’s the worst part: I was a little disturbed by my reaction to the movie. I mean, I want to raise a glass of tartinis and cheer my girls on, but I just found them so unreasonable. So self-absorbed. Whining about minor imperfections as they traipse around Manhattan in $450 shoes. So, I tell my man about it. And then I find myself getting all mad at him for not completely understanding.

So, I am like these bitches after all! Oh, the endless cycle!

Though there’s plot points I can’t support, it is a fun movie. And, to my core, I’m a lady and must admit I laughed and rejoiced and empathized, and yes, teared up. There’s weddings and proposals and breakups and reunions—lots of good girl stuff and it’s definitely entertaining. Damn you, ovaries!

—Laura House