The fornicating foursome rape us of almost two-and-a-half hours of our lives... and I don't care.
This review would've appeared last week, but after certain circ*mstances, I allowed myself another week to simmer down and relax, providing time to rethink my thoughts and analyze the movie.
Nope, nothing has changed.
The fornicating foursome of the Big Apple are back for big screen, and to say the least, it's nothing memorable for the morning after. Granted, I will admit (as early as possible) that I've seen shreds of the TV series. That said, here's what I can divulge about the plot.
Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) is still the big writer of love in New York City, even though she's already found it in John J. Preston aka Mr. Big (Chris Noth). They've just gotten a penthouse apartment, and are ready for life together, married or not.
Carrie's married friends, meanwhile, are experiencing opposite ends of til death do they part. Charlotte (Kristin Davis) is the obsessive compulsive, anal-retentive all-too happy wife and adoptive mother who thinks life is grand. Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), on the other hand, is having problems in the bedroom with her hubby, which leads to problems in the marriage. Finally, the flooziest of the floozy, Samantha (Kim Catrall), is out in Los Angeles managing the flowering career of her actor-boyfriend of five years.
And that is what I can divulge about the plot, at the implied request of the studio. The only problem is, fifteen minutes into the movie, you've got the ending to each of these stories figured out.
Speaking of time, how can you turn a TV show, which had episodes of 30-45 minutes in length into a 142 minute movie? Yes, just shy of two-and-a-half-hours. That is the first problem with the movie.
Second, the show (yes, I am not the best judge since I wasn't even a casual fan of the series) was very frank about women's sex lives, women who went searching for love in all the wrong places. And yet, four years after the series ended a six-year run, they still go back to the same familiar territory that seems to perpetuate their problems. And people are worried about teenaged girls flocking to Britney Spears when their mothers are clamoring for more of this foursome.
Geez, I sound like a feminist. But I find it hard to understand how when women talk openly about sex and romance, it's ok, but if guys do it-God forbid. Here's the evidence: "Sex & the City" won multiple Emmys and Golden Globes; "Entourage" barely has any to it's credit.
Okay, so it seems more criticism can be laid on the underlying aspects of the series and film than the entertainment value itself. There are some few chuckles in the movie, but writer-director (and series creator) Michael Patrick King lies too much on female-heavy jokes. Many boyfriends and husbands will be dragged to this, and King understands that, so he attempts to infuse some male-oriented humor ala poop jokes, among others. Yes, they end up in Mexico during the movie and one accidentally swallows some water while taking a shower. The payoff is easier to predict than a cliffhanger on "According to Jim."
As is the entire movie.
"Sex & the City?" It can't even reach second base.