Welcome to our first-ever review from a guest critic!!
She’s already appeared in earlier posts, but now the delicious and talented Kerri Allen–who has been a critic for The New York Times, Time Out New York, and many others–is treating us to her insights.

Specifically, she’s cracking wise about Sex and the City, which we saw together last Friday afternoon. (Yes, I said “afternoon.” It’s 3:00, and it’s time for a Carrie Bradshaw matinee, fools!)

Later today, I’ll post my own reaction to the movie, which was decidedly more positive than Kerri’s. And of course, we want to hear your responses, too.
And now… do your thing, Ms. Allen!

Sex and the Shitty

By KERRI ALLEN

I hate going to the movies. I really do. So when a feature film comes out and I, firstly, get my ass to a movie house and, secondly, get a-twitter with excitement, something monumental has clearly come over that Hollywood horizon. Today, it was Sex and the City.

With six seasons of Emmy-winning wit, candid truths about single-life struggles, and an outlandish wardrobe that would make Björk blush, SATC cemented its place in pop-culture’s stratosphere. I was content to be among the adoring minions. Magazines with SJP on the cover, butchered humor on the syndicated TBS reruns… no matter what it was, I was buying.

But then. But then…

Mark and I traipsed to the theater after our pre-planned Friday brunch on this special premiere day, and when I sat down in the Park Slope Pavilion, I was giddy with anticipation. My girls were back! Back with an even higher production budget than before, back after four solid years to write the equivalent of four weekly episodes. “Get ready, Mind,” I said. “You are about to be blown.”

And just like that, Sex and the City became Sex and the Shitty.

I felt shocked, almost betrayed, like watching that episode when Carrie tosses off the fact that Vogue is paying her $4.50 a word (um…on what planet, Lady Godiva?). But the movie insulted not only the New York City writer in me, but also the thinking person, the responsible citizen, the aspiring intellectual and the bitch-ass chump that paid ten American dollars to see it.

For a painfully long two-and-a-half hours, I was assaulted by my favorite small-screen heroines in big-screen form. The clucking quartet is noticeably older but not a lick wiser. Carrie has finally landed Big (who I thought was an asshole from day one), and they’ve been poured into the Barbie & Ken mold that every romantic story seems destined to create. The direction is so uneven, the characters such bumbling caricatures of their television selves, the costumes so outrageous and the product placement so offensive, I could hardly swallow the swill I was being served. Even Jennifer Hudson–who is admittedly the most sympathetic and likeable person in the film–is just tossed aboard like a transparent move from the audience research team.

In the days since party girl Candace Bushnell got hitched herself, made a million, and took her finger off of Manhattan’s pulse, a lot has changed. Brooklyn is the new “it” borough, everyone has a BlackBerry, and those obsessed with fashion certainly know about Bag, Borrow and Steal. Yet in this movie, Miranda is ashamed of her Brooklyn address, several characters are flummoxed by communication-based technology, and Carrie has never heard of a service that lets you rent designer accessories. (In the real world, you know that Time Out New York would have Carrie do some stupid feature about the Bag, Borrow, and Steal, where she gets three twentysomethings to borrow her bags for a day, then trots around herself with a BB&S purse. Then they’d all rank their experiences on a scale of one to five Floating Heads of Kate Spade. Or, sorry… make that one to six floating heads.– Mark)

What made the TV show so powerful was that in spite of the fantasy–Why don’t they have, um, siblings or family obligations? How do they make it to Sunday brunch every week without scheduling conflicts? Why would Charlotte and Samantha ever be in the same room–women went apeshit over what resonated with us. Each of us has a little of each character inside. We all become frustrated with male relationships and rely on female companionship. And sure, we all want to be witty while wearing pretty clothes.

Even better, the series’ 2004 finale is brave by our American/patrician standards for women and the “happiness” formula: the perfection-seeking WASP ends up with a bald Jew; the free-spirited sensualist seeks commitment in an unexpected place; the career woman becomes a “suburban” mother. (Fine… Carrie meets Big along the Seine on a twinkling Paris night, but you’ve got to keep the customer satisfied.)

In the feature, writer/director/general messmaker Michael Patrick King backpedals. The women get hustled back into their societal stereotypes–Carrie can’t live without the tall, dark, handsome man who’s been baiting her for a decade; Miranda’s work obsession (or is it a successful career?) drives poor Steve into another woman’s arms; Samantha’s nymphomania (or is it sensuality?) finds her looking for the next quick thrill, even at she hits 50. And Charlotte? She lives happily ever after, as all well-behaved, well-bred girls do.

And as I sat down in my Brooklyn studio, Mac iBook at my fingertips, kicking off my Payless heels, I couldn’t help but wonder, will I ever take the series seriously again?