Sex and the City

On Saturday night I picked up Meghan and brought her back to my place. We got ready in our ‘going-out-clothes’ (also drunkenly referred to as ‘hoor-wear’), picked up Deirdre from her place, and made our way over to the Grant Park cinema. After smoking a bowl in the car, we walked in to get our tickets, and pick up one for April, who was working late that night. The lineup was long, and there were lots of people at the theatre – more than I had expected for a 6:40pm movie on a Saturday night. Perhaps it was the narcotics, or perhaps our perceptions were accurate, but the three of us felt as though we were on display, given the looks we were getting from the rest of the theatre-goers. Dressed in a black sweater dress, capri-length tights, and coral ribbon espadrilles, I was a good two feet taller than most of the people there, and felt incredibly ridiculous being so dressed up and surrounded by jeans and t-shirts. I’m sure that it was very clear that we were all going to see Sex and the City.

We had been planning a Sex and the City movie night, followed by drinks on Corydon (Winnipeg’s ‘Little Italy’) for almost a month – it took a while to find a weekend that we were all free. I had heard bits and pieces about the movie from friends who had seen it (see Peter’s excellent review here), so I was prepared for some disappointing moments and offensive lines from the four women that everyone seems to be shitting their pants over these days.

My friends were right. While Sex and the City was basically what you’d expect from a movie based on a TV show – ultimately a 90 minute episode – there were some things that I just couldn’t get past, couldn’t suspend my disbelief to enjoy. And while I realize that hearing negative reviews before seeing a movie will obviously influence the way in which I view the film, I tried my best to watch it with an open mind. I did laugh quite a bit – Kim Catrall’s character was by far the most comical, and perhaps the only one with any redeeming characteristics – but there were so many instances where issues of aging, race, what it means to be a single woman over 30, and the traditional institution of marriage could have really been explored in an effective way, but were instead glossed over or ignored altogether.

Granted, there were some moments I was waiting for – particularly Miranda’s comment, while walking through Chinatown in an attempt to find an apartment, “a white man with a baby – follow him, we want to be wherever he goes” (or something to that effect). But nevertheless comments like that were pretty shocking to hear – how did something so offensive and racist make it past whatever checks and balances a film goes through? Well, actually I can answer that…I’m guessing that those in the production seats on this film are all white? Likely. As they are with most films.

But despite the subtle racism (Carrie buying her black assistant – the horrible Jennifer Hudson…sweet jesus woman stick to singing – all the rich-people accessories that seem to symbolize that she’s somehow “made it” in the rich, white world of Manhattan), the overall air of hysteria that these women seemed to ooze in every scene (so every single one of their lives crumbles in crisis within a day of one another? Come on. And Carrie, you’re going to blame Miranda for “ruining your marriage” after some offhand remark to the groom seemingly causes him to call it off? Right.), the thing that irritated me most was the horrible editing! I turned to Meghan at one scene near the beginning of the film in which Samantha, dressed in a white shirt and gold skirt, is on the phone with Carrie, and before I could point out to Meghan the horrifically noticeable yellow pit stains, she said to me “Are those fucking pit stains?!” Good god! Why can I see this? Why would someone wear a shirt that badly stained let alone wear it on film?

In all seriousness, though, the editing that irritated me even more was the airbrushing/photoshopping of the women’s faces, necks, and under their eyes. In the few interviews that I had seen with these actors, the point that was driven home was the fact that the movie’s producers allowed the women “to age” – Kim Catrall’s character has a 50th birthday in the film – and how this is apparently a big step for women actors over 40. Well, yes, they allowed you to age. Of course – but you also don’t look like a typical 50-year-old, Kim. My mother doesn’t look like you. My mother also doesn’t subscribe to Botox or any other wrinkle-defying treatments. But when you watch the film, and you can see the blurred out necks and blurred under-eye areas on these women so obviously, it really counteracts the whole argument that these women are “allowed to age.” I wasn’t so shocked that their images were doctored, but rather that it was done so poorly that I could see it! While I know little to nothing about cinematic effects and the like, given the kind of technology that produces at least realistic-looking shit shows like The Ruins, why was this so poorly done? Not for lack of resources, I’d imagine.

I’m glad to have seen the film, but I was disappointed with its message. Like Peter pointed out in his review, these women are really pathetic role models for young women and girls. While the situations that these women found themselves in could have been explored and discussed in a productive way, they weren’t – instead each woman (mostly Carrie and Miranda) just let their issues fester until they patched things over with a Manolo Blahnik. Miranda’s marriage is crumbling and while the film could have examined (what I would argue is) the mainstream notion that the woman is responsible for maintaining the emotional equilibrium and the sexual satisfaction of her male partner in heterosexual relationships, there was but a few comments from Miranda to that effect. In the end it was up to her to get over whatever anger and frustration she had and take her husband to counseling. I could go on about this for hours.

To top it all off, the consumerist agenda to the film – which was structured like a commercial – was overwhelming. The montage of wedding dress shots coupled with each designer’s name whispered lustfully in a voice over by Carrie was enough to make me want to scream “get on with it!” at the screen. The upper class, privileged lifestyle of these women was over the top to say the least, and hardly attainable. So if it’s not difficult enough to emulate these women physically – all of whom are very thin and traditionally beautiful and feminine – then young women now have the task of attaining their lifestyle, with jet setting and giant closets abound.

Despite all of these downfalls, the film did have some funny moments – Charlotte shitting herself, Samantha pissed off after her sushi experiment, and Carrie getting tangled in balloon ribbon while trying to storm out of a restaurant. Samantha was probably my favorite character, not because of the ‘charming slut’ persona that she’s so famous for, but because she chose her own needs over what seemed traditionally the ‘right thing to do.’ I respect that. Plus, she’s sassy and has a sharp tongue, but isn’t cast as a ‘bitch’ like so many other strong-headed women are in mainstream media.

Overall, worth renting, if only to examine the state of ‘progressive’ women on film. Or to see a high-strung white lady shit her pants.