Sex and The City - A Review

Forewarning - spoilers ahead.

Last night I indulged in the seemingly new girl right of passage, a viewing of the Sex and The City movie. Holy estrogen. Scientifically speaking, if one was able to harness the estrogenic energy radiating throughout the theater, menopause would be no longer. Eighty year old women would be having kids, buying Tampax and asking their elderly mates if their ass looked fat in their pants. Since birthing The O, my weeknight evenings have consistently involved me drooling dreamingly on my pillow by 10:00 p.m., not going out to see an 8:35 p.m. movie. In fact, the night before I forced myself to stay awake until 11:15 p.m. for practice. The sacrifices I make for being a girl. Was it worth it? I guess.

I am a big fan of movie previews. Huge. I like little glimpses into upcoming theatrical events. Dividing them accordingly, "cable", "DVD", "must see" and "what the hell were they thinking". Last night was an onslaught of chick flickedness that would have turned the most debase of all men into a pedicure getting, highlight hair having metrosexual of the pink shirt wearing degree. There was Meg Ryan flanked by three other women trying to overcome her mate cheating on her with Eva Mendes (can you blame the guy?). Then the Richard Gere and Diane Lane vehicle "Nights in Rodanthe" described as "two unhappy people's lives become entwined when they have a life changing romance." Oh my god, what the hell have I done to myself?

I am still asking myself that question today. It is not that I didn't like the movie, I did, especially the first half. But I do think the movie was a rehash of the last two seasons only spun in a different way. There was nothing new. You basically end up with what was given during the television finale. Mr. Big and Carrie after torturous heartbreak find a way to forgive in the most dramatic of loving forms (last time his journey to Paris, this time e-mails of famous love letters) so that in the end they end up together. As if there was any doubt, and now a few thoughts on the movie.

When Mr. Big decided he can't do the big fancy wedding thing, and gets nervous, and leaves Carrie at the alter, was I the only one thinking "Karma anyone?" Hello Aiden. I still don't understand how that woman gave up on Aiden. Stoopid. Team Aiden all the way. Mr. Big, Aiden. Mr. Big, Aiden. Is there any doubt? When this happened in the TV series, I wanted to throw my television out of the window. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch was all I could yell for 10 straight minutes.

Charlotte (miraculously pregnant) and her husband have a baby, a girl. God forbid there is any form of wiener or testosterone in the film. They name the baby "Rose", after the bald husband's grandmother. He states "A Lily (their first daughter) and a Rose." Someone please pass the barf bag. Also, seriously, the asian adopted girl does not get the family name - only the genetically pure? Someone's a favorite.

Carrie and Miranda go out on Valentine's Day, and the waitress says "What would you and your girlfriend like?" And there is this smirk. And I am all like - "So funny, right, because Miranda in real life left her husband for a gal and is now a lesbian." Inside joke!

Also, HBO Films, please do not show me the future in the form of forty year old skin sag. There is this one scene where Carrie enters the bed with Mr. Big in her trademark man undies and camisole. My eyes!!! Gravity is a force to be reckoned with, an ugly force. There is a lot of nakedness in this movie, and a bush shot. And a red headed bush shot at that. I guess the carpet does indeed match the rug.

I would just like to state that if I was left at an altar, there would be death. Not the death of love, but the death of that person in the form of me willing ever fiber of my body for them to live a horrible sickly life full of woe, and misery and STDs. I mean way to teach the gals of today Carrie Bradshaw. Be a doormat, end up with a rich husband.

In conclusion, I would like to thank HBO Films for getting me out of the house on a weeknight, I really did enjoy those two Ketel Ones with lime pre-show, and the movie was okay too. I laughed, I cried (but not as much as Independence Day) and now know what a red beaver looks like. But please do me the favor of making your next movie a little more appealing to the masses, as in FREAKING DEADWOOD. Gather up your monies HBO and find me Calamity Jane, McSweargin and a fabulously exotic stream of swear words that will make my little heart dance. I thank you.