Last night like millions of other crazed fans, the girls and I went to see Sex in the City.
The theatre was packed with all kinds of women, the brooding woman, the executive woman, the teenage becoming a woman, the twenty something ‘they wrote an entire episode about me’ woman, the fashionista ‘I spend all my hard earned cash on over priced labels’ kinda woman.
It was a woman fete.
The excitement in the theatre was palatable, a little buzz hummed through the entire movie, and as they played the traditional opening tune, the woman let a deep moan of anticipation.
Take note men, a mere tune made these ladies moan.
And as the movie went on, there was the clutching of the breast and wistful tongue hanging moments at the beautiful dresses, the heart wrenching that began, then fizzled out in a opium like lull.
And then there was my reaction.
I found the movie choppy at best. It was reminiscent of the last episode that was more fairy tale than true to the actual series. Watchers of the series know that it is at its best good satirical humorous writing punctuated by scenes of female fantasy like promiscuity. Heady topics of masturbation, oral sex, abortions, threesomes, infertility and the love of your life marrying a younger more gorgeous version of you are met head on. The movie however puts a little silver screen on it all. The truth is veiled in a pretty ending. The gut wrenching moments are brief and unattended to. The focus remains the perfect rescue.
Maybe I’m just cynical, but I couldn’t help but wonder, where was the rough stuff in all that fluff?