For fans of the defunct series this movie is like a time machine, allowing them another taste of the same kind of humour, high fashion and whoring that made Sex and the City so popular. For me, this movie just made me wish I had a time machine so I could travel back in time and warn myself never to subject my eyes and ears to this disasterpiece of so-called cinema. Either that or kill my past self, thus creating a rift in the space-time continuum. Thus destroying the Universe. Thus destroying this movie. If only.
I naively thought reviewing this film would be a funny and ironic experience. You know, a heterosexual male with no prior knowledge of the series (a Sex and the City virgin, if you will) reviewing the biggest chick flick event film of the decade. Turns out the joke was on me.
Sex and the City: The Movie reunites the fab four aging high class hoochie mammas for two and a half hours of anorexia-thin plot. Most comedic films rarely eke past an hour and a half. Most comedies can’t sustain themselves past this point. And Sex and the City is no exception to this rule.
Nothing happens. For two and a half hours. Stuff almost happens. But then it doesn’t. And when stuff does happen it’s the most tired clichéd paint by numbers sitcom tripe this side of “Two and a Half Men”.
The movie’s men screw up. But the men all immediately own up to the fact that they screwed up. So the real problem is with the women for being too proud and self-absorbed to realize this. The whole movie is just the leading “ladies” being pissed off with their men until they eventually decide to take them back… for some reason.
Give me a fucking break!
I’d love to have seen the men hooking up with younger, actually attractive women and forming meaningful relationships with them. Finally some sex scenes a male can be proud to watch! Then the scorned harpy heroines could try to win back their men out of jealousy. See, originality. That’s not too hard. It would have at least somewhat justified the film’s gruelingly long runtime. And plus, if it had resulted in some sort of catfight finale, it would have garnered the film some major pointage from me.
The stars of this film are anything but easy on the eyes to a heterosexual male. They’re seriously unsexy. I can only venture to guess that they wanted it to appeal to all the butter faces, fatties, and ugmos out there in self-delusion land. Every time Kim Cattrall opened her mouth I just wanted to bash her teeth in with a cinder block. She’s that annoyingly unattractive. Sure she was hot in Police Academy and Porky’s, but that was back in the early 1980s. The ravages of time and plastic surgery have not been kind to her. Why couldn’t she just disappear gracefully from our cultural consciousness when her looks started to fade, like Kathleen Turner or Julia Roberts? Instead she had to drag it out and make it a hideous public spectacle, like Madonna or Sharon Stone.
And then there’s Sarah Jessica Parker. The woman whose appearance in Disney’s Hocus Pocus replaced my childhood nightmares of Jack Nicholson as the Joker. I’m dead serious. This horse-faced witch replaced my fear of a pale-faced lunatic who tried to murder all of Gotham City with poisonous gas! I’ve never even seen Hocus Pocus. I couldn’t bring myself to. Her appearance in the movie trailers was that scary.
Parker sent shivers of terror down my spine all throughout this film. I kept thinking she was going to kill “Mr. Big”, her on-again-off-again “man-friend” and cook him up in her cauldron, which would have actually been an improvement to this cinemassacre.
Instead we’re subjected to Parker’s insipidly unnecessary voice over narration, the worst of its kind since the original cut of Blade Runner. Here’s a typical example. While Parker and “man-friend” are apartment shopping, she offers this pearl: “Finding the perfect apartment is like finding the perfect partner…” No shit, shithead, that’s pretty self-evident. But no, she doesn’t stop there. She has to make the observation even more obvious by adding, “…It can take years.” Way to rob that previous statement of any cleverness it had by bludgeoning the viewer on the head by explaining it. It’s like the screenwriter was thinking, “Hey, I’m being clever! Not really, but I think I am. In case you’re too retarded to get the connection I’m going to over-explain it, thus robbing any clever narration and dialogue what little subtlety it has.” It’s like the filmmakers assume its core audience is made up of morons and mental defectives. As the film progressed I began to think this assumption was correct.
Kristin Davis is really the only attractive one of the bunch. Unfortunately the movie’s script gave this MILF barely anything to do. So what does the screenwriter do to her? He goes out of his way to make her the least attractive one of the bunch. During a shower scene at a Mexican Resort (in which they don’t even have the decency to give us a boob shot) Davis’ character accidentally swallows some of the local water.
That’s right, a poop joke in a chick flick.
This culminates in a scene where Davis shits her pants while all her friends laugh hysterically as she runs away embarrassed. Sarah Jessica Parker’s glib narration even insists this degrading moment is “really, really funny.” Sorry Parker, your bitchcraft spell of persuasion isn’t working on me.
Not only are the starlets of this film not hot, they’re fucking annoying as fuck. They spend the whole movie wallowing in self-importance, and emitting high-pitched soul-piercing squeals of excitement through montage after montage after montage of expensive clothes and blatant product placement. Hey Movie, the ‘80’s called. They want their materialism back! This movie’s shallow superficiality knows no bounds.
I had to stop watching this movie about an hour and fifteen minutes in. The halfway point. I just couldn’t take any more of this shit. I just don’t give a fuck about these superficial super materialistic self-absorbed over-the-hill drag queens. I didn’t want to know how it ends. I didn’t care how it ends. I just wanted it to end. That’s when I deleted the bootlegged video file from my computer’s hard drive.
Like I’m sadistic enough to actually pay to see this steaming pile of estrogen! Like I’d actually allow myself to be seen in public seeing this movie with those sorry souls of society who’d actually enjoy such a predictable film. I’m not that masochistic.
The quality of the bootleg was pretty low, even by bootleg standards, which makes the film lose even more points in this review. This was my first experience of a bootleg by “BTarena” and I can promise you will be my last.
First of all the first five minutes of the film are missing, which makes things even more confusing for someone such as myself who’s never seen an episode of the series. Then the aspect ratio changes from this…
(Looks like they’ll be going down together. Ah, elevator humour.)
…to this…
The bootlegger’s framing is slipshod at best. Characters’ faces are frequently cut out of frame.
Believe it or not this is supposed to be a shot of Parker and “Big.”
There are even moments when you can see the edges of the theatre screen. Way to take me out of the moment!
Hey look, it’s Cynthia Nixon without make-up!
At one point a web address popped up on the screen.
Advertisements in movies? Does Hollywood have no shame?
Entire scenes are out of focus. Like this one where “Mr. Big” admits his hesitance to marry Sarah Jessica Parker.
You can really see the anguish on his face. Or is it her face?
Shame on you, Btarena. If that is your real name!
The sound is really garbled and tinny. It sounds like it was recorded in a lavatory. The film is frequently interrupted by the noises of munching popcorn, the rustling of bags and candy wrappers, and people incessantly talking. I almost wish I had been in that theatre so I could tell them to shut the fuck up.
Sex and the City: The Movie is like watching a train wreck. At first it’s so bad you can’t look away. But after a while you realize people were harmed, serious damage and destruction was done, and you just can’t bear to look at it any more for fear you yourself will be traumatized.
I want my Sex and the City virginity back. But sadly no amount of prayer will restore it. No amount of protection will prevent you from becoming infected if you experience this movie. Don’t see it. Abstinence is the best policy.
Instead of this movie I recommend Cougar Club.
I haven’t seen it. But the DVD cover promises “Topless Menus”. Sure it’s sleazy. Sure it’s humour at its lowest common denominator. But the same is true for Sex and the City: The Movie. Cougar Club is at least man-friendly and I can guarantee you it won’t have any MILFs shitting their pants.
My Rating: 0 Boxes of Monistat out of 5 – Avoid it like gonorrhea!
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