I just read Anthony Lane’s review of Sex and the City, in which he trashes the film's writing, acting, fashion -- everything, not to mention the horse they rode in on: the original TV show. Fair criticism aside, those of us who admire the series have long ago made peace with its obvious shortcomings. Yes, it only deals with a very narrow socio-economic stratum; yes, it celebrates conspicuous consumption; and yes, it portrays the reality facing New York City working women about as well as “Lost” provides an accounting of what it's really like to be in a plane crash. All duly noted. l do think one common criticism, that the show is anti-feminist because the characters' lives revolve around finding the right man, misses the mark. I always thought the underlying theme was obvious: Female friendship on this level supercedes bonds forged with (usually) transient lovers. The tacit female code that Mr. Big finally put his finger on in the show’s finale is that he'll always come in a distant second to Carrie's friends. And I think it’s even possible to interpret Miranda’s strong denunciation of Carrie's relationship with Mikhail Baryshnikov's character as romantic jealousy -- not for him but for her.
My wife says it has been reported to her through various channels that the male half of many couples wouldn't be caught dead watching the show, let alone dissecting the protean style, through the years, of Miranda’s hair. While I'm glad to stockpile marital points awarded for sensitivity, I have to say I don't understand the male reticence. I mean, I watch the Mets every day, haven’t bought a pair of shoes in three years, and cling to the remote control like a binkie. Yet I recognize “Sex and the City” as one of the most creatively successful comedies ever broadcast; exceptional writing, a breakthrough character in Kim Cattrall’s Samantha, and a tour de force performance from Sarah Jessica Parker being just a sampling of its merits.
Perhaps being a native New Yorker helps. The show's fudging of reality (they eat without ever worrying about weight, they never seem to work, haute couteur on a columnist's salary, and hey, it's New York, ever hear of going to a therapist?) doesn't extend to its elucidation of Manhattanite peculiarities. On this score, two of my favorite vignettes: (1) The four women, about to embark on a road trip, pile into the back of a car, leaving the front seat empty. One of them asks: "Does anyone drive?”
(2) Carrie, suffering through a weekend in the country with boyfriend Aidan, spies a squirrel in the windowsill and lets out a scream worthy of an encounter with a six- foot tarantula. These inside New York jokes trade on that particularly cosmopolitan lack of self-suffiency you have to live amongst to really appreciate.
But even though I'm a big fan, I didn't expect much from the movie. When a TV show
becomes a film, there’s a sense it needs to somehow go "bigger," in part to justify charging admission for something that's usually free. Some movies-from-TV will lay on the special effects, like Star Trek, or indulge in long-delayed plot developments, like the Mulder - Scully kiss. And because movies aren’t regulated by the FCC, you can usually enjoy a previously PG-rated character mouthing the word “shit." But content on pay cable is already less restrictive than in feature films. No movie blockbuster-hopeful would dare go some of the places I've seen on HBO and Showtime. The lead character on "Weeds," for instance, is a pot-dealing mom whose two kids last season became embroiled in her business, after a drug deal gone wrong left the DEA agent she was involved with dead. And this is a comedy. Anyone tuning into "The L Word" at the right moment might think they've stumbled onto a trove of soft-core porn. "Sex and the City," for its part, has used just about every sexual issue you can think of (minus, irresponsibly, STDs and condom use) as comedic fodder, including one memorable discussion on anal sex. When have you seen that in a movie?
So what sort of bonus could a transfer to the big screen possibly pay out? A Carrie - Mr. Big car chase? An explosion at Prada? (The theme song does get a hip-hop makeover, but I doubt that's enough to bring in the "Jackass" set.) And all this is to say nothing of the storytelling restrictions inherent in a film with a limited amount of apportioned screen time. There’s nothing a movie, even a 2 1/2 hour one like Sex and the City, can do storywise that a 12-episode HBO series can’t do better. "The Sopranos" and "The Wire," to name two others, provide the same aesthetic benefits as watching a great movie, only drawn out to explore all the nooks and crannies of character and story. (Think how Erich Von Stroheim, whose nine-hour original cut of Greed was eventually quartered by the studio, would have flourished on HBO.)
So Sex and the City may be the first TV-to-film translation in which the big screen version actually needed to be toned down. The show ranges from a hard R to NC-17, but the economics of movie making necessitate such naughty bits be neutered. The most obvious concession to mass appeal comes in a scene familiar to fans – the women schmoozing around a restaurant tables. In the show, that’s where they like to chew the fat on fellatio, analingus, the taste of cum, etc. But here screenwriter and director Michael Patrick King not so ingeniously inserts Charlotte’s adopted daughter into the proceedings, thus providing a rationale for a coded Sex and the City-lite girl talk.
In the show, the Holy Grail of Carrie and Co. was to wed great sex with true love. But here the game has changed. No longer dwelling on issues of penis size or threesomes, the characters have all gone marital. Carrie and Big are seen in bed – not tearing it up but reading. Steve and Miranda haven’t had sex in six months. Samantha, while still an erotic pistol, not only is monogamous, but has moved to LA (yeegads!) in deference to her boyfriend’s acting career. Charlotte, always the least interesting, doesn’t get any more so here, as the biggest life complication King could think to provide her with is -- soiler alert -- pooping in her pants.
And the proceedings get off to a clunky start. King lards the film’s first 45 minutes with obligatory fan-oriented vignettes: An 80s fashion show pulled from Carrie’s closet; some funny Mario Cantone business; New York Fashion Week. Label-name-dropping abounds. It’s hard to recapture the show's finely honed comic timing, let alone pull together an organic story, amid all the fluffy showboating. But things pick up when Mr. Big gets cold feet, natch, before his wedding to Carrie. An estrangement ensues. And when Miranda gives Steve the boot after an extramarital indiscretion, the Girls are back in town. The jokes and the pacing pick up, and we even get some of what the show did particularly well – dramatizing crippling depression in the face of a break-up. Carrie, on a would-be recuperatory trip to Mexico, instead cleaves to her bed for days straight.
But one thing that made the show so good was that it took a multitude of episodes, even seasons, for storylines to develop. Here, they’ve no choice but to shoehorn something of weight into the overall arc. In order to create conflict, King relies on the lamest of contrivances: Fateful Miscommunication. A gaze not met, an impulsive toss of a cellphone into the sea, and suddenly everyone's going to pieces. I didn't buy it. The Gods may make mock of our lives, but usually it takes more than an unread email to permanently thwart our heart’s desires. And for all the characters’ breakthroughs in the area of female sexuality, they sure come across as puritanical when it comes to giving their men a break. In the face of male weakness, Carrie and Miranda do the same thing they might have ten years ago: freak out. It takes an hour or so in real time and months in the film for someone to mention to Miranda, uh, hey, maybe you wanna cut Steve, by now a human mea culpa, a little break? During the show's run, King had a team of women writers contributing their experiences and nuanced perspectives; but the harshness of the characters here seems more typically male.
So in the end, Sex and the City the movie is about what you’d expect – a welcome visit with the characters minus the charm and verve of the series. There’s really no reason, storywise, to make another one. But moneywise….no end in sight.
Linkateria:
this is a well-written review. someone should give you a job reviewing movies for a living...
Posted by: h | June 17, 2008 at 01:16 PM
Great review. When Hollywood sees how well a women-only cast opens a movie, can "The L Word Movie" be far behind?
Posted by: Emily | June 17, 2008 at 01:48 PM
Sex and the City seems to have a polarizing effect on both men and women... people either hate it or love it
Posted by: patrick | June 18, 2008 at 02:32 PM