Sex in the City
0
Posted
May 29, 2008 in
Film
After 10 years of serial drama, Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) has hit two milestones: her first black friend (Jennifer Hudson)—though, granted, she’s a paid assistant—and her first wedding to Mr. Big (Chris Noth). At 40, she’s told her nuptials aren’t a minute too soon; as Anthony (Mario Cantone) cautions, “It’s the last year you can wear a white dress without a Diana Arbus subtext.” But Big leaves Carrie at the altar. And no, that’s not a spoiler—it happens one hour into the behemoth 148-minute candied epic. (Throw in the burning of Atlanta and writer-director Michael Patrick King, executive producer for most of the show’s run, would convince you Big and Carrie are this generation’s Rhett and Scarlett.) This isn’t a movie—it’s five episodes stretched into an event. If there were a girl alive who hadn’t already heard she was a Carrie/Miranda/Charlotte/Samantha, she’d be steamrollered. After the closing credits, she’d still have no idea what Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) does for a living, or who’s that bald guy (Evan Handler) married to Charlotte (Kristen Davis). And though Samantha (Kim Cattrall) is tucked away in LA with boyfriend Smith (Jason Harris), she flies in for brunch. The love and kisses and tears are more palatable than either Carrie’s hats or her prose, both of which elicited as many groans as her runaway groom. But the time ticks by easily like a lazy TV marathon, a humbler achievement than demanded by a diva flick that’s as self-congratulatory as Indy across the multiplex (even Carrie’s famed pink wife beater and tutu combo sashay out for applause), but a minor triumph for inessentiality all the same. (Amy Nicholson)
After 10 years of serial drama, Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) has hit two milestones: her first black friend (Jennifer Hudson)—though, granted, she’s a paid assistant—and her first wedding to Mr. Big (Chris Noth). At 40, she’s told her nuptials aren’t a minute too soon; as Anthony (Mario Cantone) cautions, “It’s the last year you can wear a white dress without a Diana Arbus subtext.” But Big leaves Carrie at the altar. And no, that’s not a spoiler—it happens one hour into the behemoth 148-minute candied epic. (Throw in the burning of Atlanta and writer-director Michael Patrick King, executive producer for most of the show’s run, would convince you Big and Carrie are this generation’s Rhett and Scarlett.) This isn’t a movie—it’s five episodes stretched into an event. If there were a girl alive who hadn’t already heard she was a Carrie/Miranda/Charlotte/Samantha, she’d be steamrollered. After the closing credits, she’d still have no idea what Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) does for a living, or who’s that bald guy (Evan Handler) married to Charlotte (Kristen Davis). And though Samantha (Kim Cattrall) is tucked away in LA with boyfriend Smith (Jason Harris), she flies in for brunch. The love and kisses and tears are more palatable than either Carrie’s hats or her prose, both of which elicited as many groans as her runaway groom. But the time ticks by easily like a lazy TV marathon, a humbler achievement than demanded by a diva flick that’s as self-congratulatory as Indy across the multiplex (even Carrie’s famed pink wife beater and tutu combo sashay out for applause), but a minor triumph for inessentiality all the same. (Amy Nicholson)
