I walked into the theatre hoping for a nice evening and came out as a hard-line Marxist, my head a whirl of closets, delusions, and blunt-clawed cattiness. All the film lacks is a subtitle: The Lying, the Bitch, and the Wardrobe.
The ladies settle into the doldrums of marriage and their antics are reduced to a detached series of scenes that involve sulking, yearning or just plain indulging.
The movie Sex and the City is a heady female fantasy -- I think. I tried to snuggle up to Sex and the City, but the attempt to snuggle for two hours and 20 minutes is in itself a fantasy. Like many typical men, I'm afraid I fell asleep.
Learning and hugging. There's lots of that here â" woman to woman and man to woman â" which satisfies the movie's fantasy fulfillment of both amity and eros.
It's just that there's been an altitude adjustment -- fewer stilettos, more flats. Ask what women want of a chick flick and one answer may be this -- a pleasant reunion with cherished friends. Ask what women deserve and the answer is better.
