Not MY Demo, Part 2: 'Sex and the City'
Hell to the No!
I’ll admit — I was one of the giddy groups of females who went arm-in-arm-in-arm-in-arm to see Sex and the City last weekend. Right before going, I read two reviews of the film, and then almost immediately wished I’d read neither, both illustrating what to me seemed like valid, though wildly divergent, opinions. (“It’s sexy and fun!” “It’s sexist and shrill!”)
I walked out… confused. I honestly didn’t hate the film at first, though after talking it over with a gal pal who loathed it and pointed me towards this, my dislike of the film increased dramatically. (Warning: Spoilers ahead; if you don’t want to read them, skip to the next paragraph.) Every character seemed cast in a Jello-tin mold (with the possible exception of Candice Bergen. pictured, in another resigned-yet-lovable mommy-esque role). The Vogue shoot was nauseating. Carrie’s behavior towards Mr. Big when he got cold feet was, I thought, beyond parodic vis-a-vis the “expected” feminine reaction — shallow, weak, hysterical. (Beating Big up with a bouquet of flowers? Where was her parasol?)
As a native New Yorker whose parents got hitched at City Hall (and not because the New York library was booked), I totally get where Dodai is coming from: “I used to roll my eyes at the women wobbling on heels as they navigated the litter of soda cans and condoms on downtown streets. Real New York women need to be mobile. Real New York women never know when they might have to run for their lives.” And this point: where are movies about “ethnic diversity, genuine soul-searching, “Big” questions — not about men, but about women. About our changing role in society, about our continued second-class citizen status… Especially this year, election year, when the focus on looks, cosmetics and cleavage became politically correct.”
addCredit(“Candice Bergen: Everett Collection”)
Now that the dust is settling: What did you honestly think of SATC? I know, I know —it’s entertainment, it’s supposed to be light, it doesn’t need to hewto reality. Yet walking out of that theater into the bright andunforgiving light of day, feeling very VUP in my nondesigner jeans,mealy T-shirt, and sneaks, my wallet noticeably lighter in my pocketafter blowing $15 bucks at the concession stand, I felt it impossibleto turn reality off. A quick check of my closet substantiatesthis. (Carrie’s Big-ified closet is the size of my current apartment, Ikid you not.)
Sour grapes? Perhaps. What do you think? Is there something that canbe said about the times we live in, that a movie about findinghappiness is pegged so clearly to material things? Or is such a filmworth seeing based on its entertainment value alone?
Hell to the No!