I couldn’t help but wonder ... if the Sex and the City movie was a wine, would it have legs? Spoiler alert: if you haven’t seen it, but plan to, please save this until afterward. Like a port, or a late-harvest Riesling.
The bouquet was staggeringly aromatic—the exciting trailers! The interviews with Pat Field about the wardrobe! The pink sequined movie posters! The initial taste was superb—an exciting “POW!” of flavor with the opening montage sequence, set to the big band version of the show’s theme song. The following healthy sip had robust body—the clothes! The one-liners! Stanford and Anthony!
But wait, what happened to Stanford’s sweetie, Marcus? He just dropped him without explanation? No!
There were other hints of incongruity. Miranda, the once conservative cynic, now blossomed into a full-blown fashionista, with her dinner-plate copper earrings and large-print dresses? Really? As a wife and mother and full-time lawyer, it was a little hard to believe she would have indulged in some of the fashion choices. I know, I know, it’s a movie—I’m supposed to suspend my disbelief. And I did suspend it for the scene where the girls helped Carrie clean out her closet. They were dressed to the nines, and schlepping boxes to a storage unit.
But Samantha never would have bought a dog. Ever.
Big, even with all his previous commitment-phobia, would not have suddenly gotten cold feet because he couldn’t have one phone conversation with Carrie right before the wedding. That was just plain contrived and completely unbelievable.
At a Mexican resort, where the ladies have a private casita and pool, who is going to wear high heels with her bikini? Possibly Samantha, but no one else.
And finally, it felt very hollow to have Carrie and Big finally get married at the end, only to have the ceremony turn into another shrieking girlfriend-fest immediately after the vows. That rang incredibly false, and seemed so pandering, but I was too caught up in the hurricane of excitement, and I second-guessed my initial gut reaction.
I didn’t even really acknowledge this until about a week after viewing the movie. Usually, if I am madly in love with a movie, I put it on my “Must Buy When Comes Out On DVD” list, like I did with Elizabeth and Pride & Prejudice, and even Mean Girls (which I saw an embarrassing four times in the theater). I didn’t do that with SATC.
The aftertaste was disappointing—not bitter, not sour—just disappointing. I’m hoping when the sequel comes out, it will be a uniquely delicious vintage—mainly honest and clear with just a hint of ridiculous.
