Sex and the City: Movie Review (2008)

Written and directed by Michael Patrick King, 142 minutes, rated R.

First, let’s set the scene last Friday night, when the folks at my local cinema went out of their way to give a grand time to die-hard fans of “Sex and the City.”

For the 6:40 showing, the area in front of the theater was gleaming with limousines and borrowed Mercedes. In the lobby, pink balloons and broad smiles were the mainstay. Little fake cosmos appeared in miniature martini glasses. Twentysomethings, cougars, ladies of a certain age and a handful of men all came ready to roll.

In the sold-out theater, people were texting, chatting and brimming with so much anticipation, the energy was enough to cause a box of Manolos to explode. Free posters of the movie were handed out and gobbled up, with one particularly bossy woman seated in front of me demanding from an usher that she receive a certain poster or she’d be “seriously disappointed. I’ve waited years for this. Could you go and find me one? Thanks.”

As the usher walked away, the woman’s raised voice intentionally trailed after him: “He’d better find me that poster,” she said. And indeed he did, likely fearing the wrath of one ill-mannered fan.

When the movie began (to a rush of applause, natch), you could feel the expectations rise as people--myself included--hoped that the movie would deliver the big, outrageous laughs that the outstanding television show itself delivered consistently and without fail for six seasons on HBO.

Only occasionally was that the case. Turns out that “Sex and the City” the movie is more concerned with being a drama than it is with being a comedy. Yes, there are funny scenes here, but did it have to be this glum? This serious?

Maybe on one level it did. It would, after all, seem a little ridiculous and desperate if Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker), Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), Charlotte York (Kristin Davis) and Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon) hadn’t matured in the four years that have passed since the television show ended. But watching the movie, the middle of which is one depressing, dreary slog of heartbreak and sentiment, it was difficult not to feel as if the fizz had been let out of a production best known for delivering its share of it.

It’s pointless to discuss this movie without revealing key plot elements, so let’s just wave the red flag now--spoilers will follow. What you need to know is this--it’s great to see the characters again, even if the story doesn’t fully do them justice. For the show’s fans in particular, the movie is worth checking out regardless of its shortcomings; there’s a sense of completion here. Otherwise, it’s best to stop reading now if you’d prefer to go into the movie without knowing anything about it.

From his own script, director Michael Patrick King employs a story that initially centers around the pending marriage of Big (Chris Noth) and Carrie, the latter of whom now has written three books and is doing just fine financially, thank you very much.

Shocked by Big’s proposal, Carrie initially starts to plan a manageable wedding of 75 guests, when soon the heady mix of a Vogue photo shoot and a free couture wedding gown blows everything up to an event that’s bigger than Big can handle. He bails and she sails--straight to Mexico with her three friends, where a long period of understandable depression and bitterness ensues, but at a measurable cost to the movie. Where’s the fun in such a galloping run of grimness? It’s tough to find it here.

And it’s not just Carrie who’s having problems. Miranda and her husband, Steve (David Eigenberg), must deal with the lack of sex in their marriage and then marital infidelity, not to mention the long separation that springs from it. And Samantha, who now lives in Malibu and always has been most happy being sexed up while single, is faced with what it would mean to leave Smith (Jason Lewis) and find herself again as a 50-year-old woman. Only Charlotte is the happy one here, smiling defiantly through the hardships, though even her high-wattage smile can’t save the movie from the title it really deserves: “Strife in the City.”

Where, after all, is the sex in this show? It’s rarely happening to these women. Even Samantha, of all people, is forced to be a sexual voyeur. From her Malibu pad, she watches her stud male neighbor bed his share of women, and longs to be one of them.

Watching the movie, which at least isn’t short on throwing down the fashion, some might long for more of the film’s sharper, bawdier scenes, such as when Charlotte has a disastrous moment in which she likely wishes she had been wearing Depends, or when Samantha covers her naked body in sushi so Smith can have a uniquely fishy feast, and another scene in which Miranda’s lack of personal grooming recalls the series at its best.

These scenes fully brought the crowd at my screening to life, so much so that you could feel the audience pulling for more of them. While the movie itself is involving enough to never be dull--an underused Jennifer Hudson goes a long way in making something out of a nothing role as Carrie’s hip new assistant, and the game performances lift the material through its transitional period--this “City” nevertheless seems oddly small when compared to what came before it.

It’s strange. Now, it feels as if we’re in a bedroom community, with the film’s fifth character--New York City--barely allowed to leave its mark.

Grade: B-