Review: Sex and the City: The Movie

With Sarah Jessica Parker playing the role of now household name Carrie Bradshaw, it was naturally expected that women of all shapes and kinds would come out in hordes to watch the movie adaptation of the hugely popular Sex and the City (SATC) series.


And oh! They did come out in numbers. Accompanied by their ever-accommodating guy friends, boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands.

So we have Carrie, sassy writer for a New York newspaper, and show fetishist, who is all set to give up her single status for one of matrimony to Big a.k.a. John Preston (Chris Noth), her companion of ten years, much to the delight of her clique. The clique consists of Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon), a successful lawyer, who, while toiling at her work, grows distant with her husband, who meanwhile cheats upon her, and later confesses his adultery, much to her utter misery. There is also Charlotte York (Kristin Davis), the eternal sunshine girl, who is trying her best to conceive.


And oh of course! How can you forget Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), the predator who candidly confesses her love for all things male, and who takes her love for sushi to new, bare levels (pun intended).


Their lives are all thrown asunder when Big develops cold feet on the day of the wedding, and decides not to go along with the wedding, leaving Carrie devastated. The four friends decide to go along on the already paid-for honeymoon for Carrie and Big, to Mexico, where they try to collect themselves.


Carrie returns to her New York job, hiring an assistant, Louise (Jennifer Hudson of Dreamgirls fame) to manage her administration.


In between the generous doses of Manolo Blahniks, Jimmy Choos, Louis Vuittons, Chanels, Givenchys, Moschinos, Vera Wangs, Jean Paul Gaultiers, Balenciagas, Roberto Cavallis, Fensis, Marc Jacobs, Versaces, Guccis, and Christian Louboutins, a sensitive, witty story of four friends emerges, twirling everyone in its wake.


So while you have the four girls sipping Cosmopolitans and martinis and getting sloshed, you also have the cheeky conversations about that taboo three letter word, all the while wearing the most wow of clothes and footwear, much to best friend and my agony and barely-contained gritting-teeth envy.


A much watch for every woman worth her Dior, SATC is two hours and a few minutes of pure, unadulterated fashion heaven. Though I’m sure that the men may hold a contrary opinion.


I couldn't help but hear the occasional yawning / gentle snoring spells by the men folk who had gallantly shown up.


God bless these noble souls!


And to more silver-screen adaptations of SATC, a huge Amen from all the womenfolk...