Review of Sex and the City (2008) by Deen. — 30 May 2008

Let me just preface this by saying: I have not read any reviews of this movie. And I kind of liked the series a little. And when I was young and nubile my gay best friend and his New York model sister used to play dress-up with me to break me out of my hippie couture, and those were not unenjoyable times.

But. I HA-a-A-AYYYY-TED this movie. I had a whanging headache afterward, and had a new appreciation for some reasons why the willfully ignorant Deer Hunting with Jesus types are in a culture wars with the big city liberals.

And I'm still not sure exactly why I DEEEEESPI-ZED it so very very much, so allow me to bring you with me to figure it out. So let me count the ways. There are a few spoilers, so beware. [***SPOILER***]First off, I wanted to smack nearly every character there that I was supposed to care about.

In particular, the Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) character, who I never liked in the series and who I truly hated with the fire of a thousand suns in this cruelly long episode. After 6 months of freezing out her sweet partner Steve of sex, he tearfully and remorsefully admits to have an affair once, whereupon she slices him out of her life -- no discussion, just.

.. slam. She then ends up saying something truly evil to Big the day before his wedding, and not owning up to it. She spends most of the movie wallowing in her self-made, self-indulgent misery and whining to everyone about it, which made me want to pull that huge stick out of her ass and beat her to death with it.

Then she makes me hate poor Steve as he doggedly (seriously, like a dog) trails after the pinched, petty harpy until she finally relents and returns to make his life miserable again. Jesus, Steve, run! Run!!! I felt like I was in a horror movie where the sacrificial character ignores the blood trickling down the walls and the crunching noises in the basement and traipses down "to investigate" instead of getting the hell out of the house.

The rest of the characters range from earning my contempt to earning my disbelief, and I really, really hate the scriptwriter for bringing these people to life and putting those words in their mouths.

How cute: Charlotte eating little pudding cups in Mexico rather than risk eating anything at a 5-star resort, only to inadvertently open her mouth in the shower and get explosive diarrhea minutes afterwards (minutes? I hate you, Mr.

Writer). I hated the transparent way the conflict was set up for the wedding to become too complex and scare away the elusive Mr. Big, who I secretly cheered on to leave the silly pseudo-intellectual clotheshorse Carrie forever and find someone with more depth than a toxically scented Vogue.

I even got irritated with Samantha, my favorite character with her lusty, zesty ways, even though she provided the only relief whatsoever in the movie with her taking charge when the other girls fall apart snivellingly, and I had to love her pillow-humping purse dog, and the glimpses at Samantha's sexy neighbor's tight, naked, promiscuous ass.

But does she get to do him? No! I hate you, Mr. Writer. I hate the writer in particular for squandering the talents of the lovely Jennifer Hudson, forced to play the archetypal magical negro servant -- er, assistant.

.. oh so wise in the ways of love, and the writer uses her clumsily as an almost inanimate plot device. If a bubbleheaded girlfriend of yours forces you to see this in order to get laid, you will know the exact moments where you can imagine the outtakes (as I did) as Hudson would be justified in screaming an expletive after a particularly embarrassing, tin-eared line, and muttering, "You can write this shit, but I don't know who the hell you think is saying it.

" And okay. I admit it. I hate girly stuff except for the color purple and iridescence and the luscious way a scoop neckline and pushup bra makes your tits look. I hate the idea of fashion shows, $700 shoes and $5000 purses.

I mean, WTF? Why? How could a purse possibly be worth that much? The squealing, the cattiness, the easily bruised sensibilities. Lavish weddings piss me off and make me sad at the waste and false fantasy that the wedding industry gouges out of dumb people, be they sweet or vain -- I feel like the remake movie Father of the Bride should be banned by the Geneva Convention.

The saddest thing of all is that I saw this movie as part of going as a group, with people I normally like in real life, and that all of the females just loved it. Am I defective in some way, missing a crucial X chromosome or chick bit in the brain? Or, do I just lose some respect for the women I enjoy working with day-to-day, women who I think of as deeply smart and nice and funny? Sigh.