One thing I love about the blogosphere is that it lets me revise my opinions about things. As a theater critic, I sometimes have new thoughts on a play several weeks after seeing it, but by that point, my review has been in the paper for ages. My only option is writing a new piece, and penguins will ice skate in Hell before an editor lets me do that.

But I’m the editor ’round these parts, so… let’s kick it Carrie-style one more time! A friend has made me re-think part of my reaction to the Sex and the City movie, and I just gotta let it out…

So you see… yesterday, my friend Beth and I were talking about the movie, and she made an excellent point: What if the opening, product-oriented sequences that I lamented are intentionally superficial? What if the entire first section of the film is working overtime to present a shallow, materialistic world, so that when Big leaves Carrie at the altar, we’re forced to realize that the fantasy is over?

(Fun fact: Beth set me up with Andrew, and we’ve been together for almost three years. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.)

It’s true that from the moment Carrie gets jilted, characters spend less time talking about designer labels. And Carrie does end up getting hitched at City Hall, wearing the simple suit she trotted out to begin with. Her marriage arc ends with simplicity and love, not high glamor, which suggests the movie is less materialistic than I thought.

But if the opening of the film is supposed to create a zippy dream that cannot last, the filmmakers don’t achieve their goal. For instance, those first scenes crawl along, making the fantasy very hard to enjoy. And though it’s referenced a few times, Carrie’s transformation into Bridezilla is sloppily constructed. We’re told that Big bails because Carrie has transformed into a labels-and-Page-Six-obsessed celebrity bride, but we hear about it more than we actually see it. That’s a not-so-effective jab at designer frenzy.

Plus, though that “simple suit” retails for far less than the $22,000 Vivienne Westwood gown Carrie ends up wearing, it’s still a Dior, and it still costs $6,000. (The prices are here.) So while the symbolism of the outfits technically works, the scale remains unattainable for most people. But that kind of low-couture spending was always part of the show, so at least the movie ends up on familiar ground.

Anyway… here’s what I’m getting at: I mislabeled a problem of execution as a problem of intention. I don’t think the movie is trying to be materialistic, but it comes off that way. Sort of like how, if you really listen to it, “Bills, Bills, Bills” isn’t a song about Destiny’s Child requiring their boyfriends to pay for things. It’s actually about broke-ass men running up charges on DC’s credit cards and then not paying them back. And that’s a legitimate reason to get pissed, y’all!. Don’t talk on my phone and then act like it’s my problem.

But that message is buried in the verses–which are sung really, really fast–so most people are never going to hear it. They’re going to hear the chorus, which (awesomely) asks “Can you pay my bills? Can you pay my auto-mo-bills?”

The materialistic suggestion overpowers what the song intends. Same deal with Sex and the City. It’s trying to tell us that true love can be found at a courthouse in a tasteful blazer, but it sounds like it’s pimping an auto-mo-bill.

That gives me more hope for the inevitable sequel. Maybe Michael Patrick King and the rest of the gang have learned some lessons on cinematic storytelling. Maybe they’ll use them next time.