So this week I was clicking through my usual entertainment blogs and came upon Kim Cattral's smiling cougar face. YES!
I scanned down. "Kim Catrall says Sex and the City sequel a go."
NO!
Enough is enough. I'll pay homage to my favorite foursome drinking a few happy hour Cosmos in my knock-off Manolos. But I am not going to get conned into sitting through another 2 and half hours of that soggy, estrogen mess.
I was a huge fan of the series. I sopped up the twinkling, big city backdrop and splashy Patricia Field fashion.
I adored the never-ending brunches with the ladies who lunched (and worked, although we never saw much of that). I reveled in the adolescent bed-hopping and money blowing. Hell, Samantha Jones is one of the best T.V. characters of all time. Don't we all wish we had that much kutzpah?
It was practically pornography for women. Even on mute. Fabulous outfit, bustling Manhattan eatery, sky high heels, CUT. Hot man, square-table brunch, punchline. CUT. Fabulous outfit. Snapshot of an apple computer screen. CUT.
But what was fast-paced and charming for 26 minutes in your living room, never translated to the big screen.
The movie was a a drawn out snooze fest of product endorsements and shmoopy dialogue.
Sex and the City was brilliant in it's understated intelligence. The shiny surfaces and quips that didn't try too hard, and because of that, rarely dissapointed.
Unfortunately, the glossy half-hour snapshots just don't have the depth for a full 2 and half hours.
Take the tired Carrie/ Mr. Big romance. He stands her up at the alter. How cliche! They get back together and live happily ever after. How predictable!
Give me some meat! Throw me some curve balls!
I'm a huge proponent of quitting while ahead. Rather than ride the pony till it breaks, why not just let a treasured series out to pasture. Rest easy Darren Star, that pink tutu and the "Carrie Bradshaw knows good sex" bus have been seared into our memories for eternity.
And is that good enough for us?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
