It's been four years since our best-dressed gal pals got their happily-ever-after endings, signing off the air and leaving devastated female fans everywhere to cry in their Cosmopolitans.
When we left off, Paris-dwelling Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) was rescued by Big (Chris Noth) after dealing with a grouchy Baryshnikov; Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) moved to Brooklyn with adorably dweeby husband Steve (David Eigenberg) and son Brady; Charlotte (Kristin Davis) and Harry (Evan Handler) learned they were getting a beautiful baby girl from China; and Samantha (Kim Cattrall) finally succumbed emotionally to Smith (Jason Lewis). It was the perfect all-around, cherry-on-top wrap-up.
Until the movie came along, that is. "Sex and the City," written and directed by the show's longtime collaborator Michael Patrick King, is actually kind of a bummer. Sure, there are moments of sex talk, cheeky one-liners and classic "oh no she didn't!" moments that made the series so entertaining, but it's masking a deep, dark undercurrent of sadness. It's like putting a clown wig on Eeyore and expecting nobody to notice he is depressed.
True to form, the film revolves around Carrie, who is moving into "real estate heaven" with Big. She has gotten everything she ever hoped for - including a few best-selling books under her belt - and now, at 40, she is also getting married. But since people's DNA is never altered, she gets too caught up in the shallow elements of the wedding (a "Vogue" spread here, a Vivienne Westwood dress there) and his Peter Pan commitment problems resurface full throttle.
Things aren't much better in the outer boroughs, where Miranda receives a knife-in-the-heart confession from Steve that sends her darting out the door faster than the girls headed to a high-end sample sale. And across the country, Samantha, now managing Smith's booming career and living in a lush-and-plush Malibu home, ponders how her life became all about a man. The only happy one here is Charlotte, since she landed the holy grail of husbands. Her sole source of pain comes from noticing how miserable her friends are.
Is this really the "Sex and the City" reunion that we waited all these years to see? Not only is it upsetting and frustrating, but it's also shockingly undeveloped, considering its nearly two-and-a-half-hour running time. It feels more like a long, drawn-out episode than a fleshed-out movie, with brief visits from old friends (Stanford, Enid, Magda and Anthony) and new ones (Carrie's wide-eyed personal assistant played by "American Idol"-loser-turned-Oscar-winner Jennifer Hudson).
That's not to say it's a total faux pas. Samantha continues to flaunt her comic chops, most notably in scenes where she berates Miranda for her failure to wax ("I could be on death row and not have that situation!") and lays homemade sushi all over her bare body while waiting for her unpunctual boy toy. And there are some solid girl bonding moments and pleasingly frank discussions, which easily could have been pulled from one of the better episodes. Still, it's not enough to make up for the sheer lack of surprises.
When the movie ended, I couldn't help but wonder--when did "Sex" become quite so routine?
