And so I got to thinking….what the Hell am I doing here? As I watched a preview of Sex and the City at the Soho Hotel last night, with Trevor Phillips nodding off beside me, I realised that the reason was nostalgia: pure and simple. Fantastic television (into which category SATC undoubtedly fell) rapidly becomes frozen and institutionalised in memory, and this movie is a straightforward and very slick exercise in heritage culture. I enjoyed it less than the new Indiana Jones, but the reason I went was exactly the same.
Ten years after the programme first aired and four years since the series ended, Carrie and the girls are doing – well, pretty much what they used to do, which is to agonise about relationships, sex and babies. Darren Starr’s genius in creating SATC from the thin gruel of Candace Bushnell’s original columns was to put on the small screen intimate female discussions that thrilled women and amazed men (there could be no male SATC: it would be too boring).
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in