sex and the shitty

I had been looking forward to seeing Sex and the City, the movie. I did not care if it was the film version of chick-lit or about how (un)feminist it might be. I thought it would be fun. Harmless fun (like the way the show would encourage us to think about sex) and, more importantly, a celebration of women's friendships. Instead it turned out to be little more than charmless puns and a grotesque celebration of women's fashion. Lets face it: the characters of Carrie and company were impossible little boxes (no pun intended) in which no "real" woman would fit. But the movie takes the clichés to the extreme, as if intentionally trying to show exactly how shallow are Carrie (Scary, the fragile fashionista), Charlotte (ain't she sweet; look how sweet she is; oh she's so sweet, there's nothing more to her really, and see: she's the happiest, luckiest, fairest of them all), SaMantha (who's lost touch with herself - she does not even masturbate while spying on the nymphoman next door) and Miranda (I was never really fond of her, so best not say anything). But okay, their friendship runs deep so one is willing to overlook this. A more glaring stereotype is that of Carrie's quick-lets-put-a-black-woman-in assistant (maid), Louise from the South... but maybe they were being ironic. Same goes for all the other others: the comic relief camp gayfriend, the Mexican waiters and/or bellboys... but relax, it's just a movie. I admit, the movie had its moments - there were even parts that made me want to cry (I mean in a good way). It's just a shame that there were only a few parts that really made me want to laugh.