The much loved HBO show characters Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda come to the big screen in Sex and the City. A cheap, shallow, and annoying waste of film that made me shake my head so often, my neck needs chiropractic adjustment.
This travesty of character and plot development obliterates any chance I would even call Sex and the City a film instead of a TV movie with really good distribution. Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) spends the entire TV movie trying to get married to Big (Chris Noth). Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) spends the entire TV movie trying to stay married to Steve (David Eigenberg). Samantha (Kim Cattrall) spends the entire TV movie trying to get laid. Charlotte (Kristin Davis) spends the entire TV movie, er, uhm, hmm, well, with nice hair. All the designers of New York masturbate all over the audience.
The writer and director, Michael Patrick King, didn't bother to make one plot that went smoothly through the entire movie. Instead, Michael Patrick King lumped four episodes together, but took out the theme song and credits. Even though there is a somewhat lengthy introduction at the beginning of the movie, this enhanced TV movie absolutely requires that the watcher has seen the HBO show Sex and the City, is familiar with the characters, and the events in their lives. The shoddy writing makes a synopsis nearly impossible.
Sex and the City jumped the shark when a fart joke lasts a solid three minutes and eventually saves the day. Then it turned right around, lined back up and jumped it again when a character's weight causes an entire party to take notice. Who knew that slapstick humor had a place in a chick flick. The whirring and whizzing past my head deafened me as Sex and the City went through an entire tank of gas leaping over selected marine life.
Now I like a pretty dress and shoes like the next girl but I would never consider spending millions of dollars on a movie slated to come out in the summer blockbuster season to try to get the audience to worship at the altar of designer shoes. As much as Michael Patrick King wants shoes to be a character or even a plot driver, they aren't. Am I the only person in the world who thinks a two foot flower on a five foot woman makes her look a little insane? It seems I am alone in the feeling that sleeves should not be wider than the woman. Is it possible that douche-baggery can be transferred to Sex and the City? I think so.
Unless hair dye counts, there is no character development in Sex in the City. After spending two and a half hours of my life with these characters, I didn't gain a single insight into the girls I didn't already know because the point of the movie is nothing changes. The only character who does anything interesting is Steve, Miranda's husband. Too bad his screen time comes to a whopping 15 minutes all together.
There is one cute scene where the girls start to talk about using the euphemism "coloring." The conversation goes on for some time and is the most entertaining part of the movie.
I would give anything to get the two and a half hours back I wasted on this Sex in the City. I would actually have sex in a city. I might even buy some shoes. I am considering suing Michael Patrick King to make him build me a time machine, test it on monkeys and little furry bunnies, go back in time to May 28, 2008 at 6:45pm at the Kabuki Theater in San Francisco and prevent me from ever seeing Sex and the City.
This travesty of character and plot development obliterates any chance I would even call Sex and the City a film instead of a TV movie with really good distribution. Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) spends the entire TV movie trying to get married to Big (Chris Noth). Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) spends the entire TV movie trying to stay married to Steve (David Eigenberg). Samantha (Kim Cattrall) spends the entire TV movie trying to get laid. Charlotte (Kristin Davis) spends the entire TV movie, er, uhm, hmm, well, with nice hair. All the designers of New York masturbate all over the audience.
The writer and director, Michael Patrick King, didn't bother to make one plot that went smoothly through the entire movie. Instead, Michael Patrick King lumped four episodes together, but took out the theme song and credits. Even though there is a somewhat lengthy introduction at the beginning of the movie, this enhanced TV movie absolutely requires that the watcher has seen the HBO show Sex and the City, is familiar with the characters, and the events in their lives. The shoddy writing makes a synopsis nearly impossible.
Sex and the City jumped the shark when a fart joke lasts a solid three minutes and eventually saves the day. Then it turned right around, lined back up and jumped it again when a character's weight causes an entire party to take notice. Who knew that slapstick humor had a place in a chick flick. The whirring and whizzing past my head deafened me as Sex and the City went through an entire tank of gas leaping over selected marine life.
Now I like a pretty dress and shoes like the next girl but I would never consider spending millions of dollars on a movie slated to come out in the summer blockbuster season to try to get the audience to worship at the altar of designer shoes. As much as Michael Patrick King wants shoes to be a character or even a plot driver, they aren't. Am I the only person in the world who thinks a two foot flower on a five foot woman makes her look a little insane? It seems I am alone in the feeling that sleeves should not be wider than the woman. Is it possible that douche-baggery can be transferred to Sex and the City? I think so.
Unless hair dye counts, there is no character development in Sex in the City. After spending two and a half hours of my life with these characters, I didn't gain a single insight into the girls I didn't already know because the point of the movie is nothing changes. The only character who does anything interesting is Steve, Miranda's husband. Too bad his screen time comes to a whopping 15 minutes all together.
There is one cute scene where the girls start to talk about using the euphemism "coloring." The conversation goes on for some time and is the most entertaining part of the movie.
I would give anything to get the two and a half hours back I wasted on this Sex in the City. I would actually have sex in a city. I might even buy some shoes. I am considering suing Michael Patrick King to make him build me a time machine, test it on monkeys and little furry bunnies, go back in time to May 28, 2008 at 6:45pm at the Kabuki Theater in San Francisco and prevent me from ever seeing Sex and the City.