Cinema Hype

INT. CINEMA HYPE HEADQUARTERS

VOICE-OVER — LIZ
Back at my apartment, with my off-brand Red Vines my a stable of cheap, non-Manolo heels in the closet, I had to ask myself: How good was the Sex and the City movie?

(Hee. Sorry about that.)

First of all, I need to clarify something. Did I call Sex and the City a movie? Because I think I was mistaken. This is no three-hour tour; it’s a phenomenon. The Saturday late show at my local AMC was a madhouse—the line to get in snaked all around the front of the theater, though it was really more like packs of women in dresses and stiletto heels than an actual line. The theater sounded like someone’s (enormous) dorm room during a marathon of the show—I never support chatter during movies, but it’s hard to argue with the kinds of hooting, hollering, gasping, and “oh no he didn’t!”-ing going on here. This was a tide of chandelier earrings, lip gloss, and down-and-dirty fashion envy.

I think writer/director Michael Patrick King would have loved—or at least been flattered by—the scene. After all, these are his people. He gets these women, or at least a highly fictionalized, overpaid, underworked version of them. This last call for the Sex and the City world must have been a good feeling for him. Fortunately for all, it’s a pretty good feeling for the rest of us, too.

The only real glitch in the transition from series to movie—the hurdle that keeps the movie from all-time-favorite status—takes place somewhere in the super-sizing process. The genius of Sex and the City as a television show was that it dealt mainly in small moments—a lost necklace here, a Post-It breakup there. By necessity, the movie ups the ante, but some of the nuances get lost in the scaling-up process, so that a few major plot points hang on character decisions that don’t entirely make sense, or aren’t explained in a way that feels natural in the moment. That said, the transition works remarkably well: the screen size has changed, but the spirit is the same, and the level of detail and continuity should be satisfying for longtime fans (new viewers, maybe less so). The gang’s all here—whether you’re a Steve Brady fan or a Mr. Big aficionado (just try to call him by his real, full name), or just miss the fashion or going to brunch with the girls, we hit all the high points, and each of the four main characters gets plenty of spot-on character time. Yet there’s also forward motion—this isn’t just a rehash for old times’ sake. Without going into details, I’ll just say…things change, though in a way that’s consistent with the rest of the series. One added dimension comes with the Sex and the City world’s only truly new character, Carrie’s personal assistant, Louise (Jennifer Hudson). Louise represents the young women of New York, the women Our Heroines used to be, but she’s used judiciously—a pleasant reminder and celebration of being wiser, more experienced, and yes, older. It’s just what you’d want for one last session with the girls. Er, women.

The real gift of this movie—what makes it triumphant despite the slightly mushy storytelling— is King’s remarkable focus. The budget and time allowances of a movie sometimes pull TV adaptations off course. Sex and the City stays on point with impressive determination: this is a movie about Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha. Period. If it’s a story about love, it’s a story of platonic love first. If it’s a story about sex, it’s even more a story about battling loneliness—with the help of good friends. It’s a celebration of women, of friendship, and King never lets go of that vision. And for that, millions of women (in stiletto heels or not) should thank him.

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