Sex and the City
15, Nationwide
I do know that not everyone gets Sex and the City. Bubbles, for example, does not get Sex and the City. ‘I don’t know what you see in this crap,’ he would say, whenever I watched it on television, and before going off to do something pointedly manly in his bowl, like scratch his bits with undisguised gusto. (Seriously, you try living with Bubbles.) But if you do get Sex and the City — note how I use ‘get’, rather than ‘like’, implying that it only appeals to smart, special people, such as myself — you will so love this movie. I totally loved it. OK, maybe it is, at 145 minutes, just five episodes glued back to back, and maybe bigger isn’t better — there is just more of it — but I laughed, I cried (twice; properly) and, when Carrie turned up for dinner in a corsage the size of a serving platter, I did not wonder why nobody said, ‘Jesus, Carrie, what on earth do you think you are wearing? Take it off, woman. Take it off.’ To wonder would, of course, mean you just don’t get it at all.
It’s been four years since the TV series finished and since we last saw the girls and you know what? I’ve missed them. I’ve missed Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) and Samantha (Kim Cattrall) and Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) and even Charlotte (Kirstin Davis), the rather dull preppy one who is never given much to do but does have great hair. (‘I’ll give you that, she does have great hair,’ even Bubbles will concede.) I am still trying to work out why I actually care. Do I identify with them? Nope.
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