Morning:
2°c
Forget the election. Apparently all that the entirety of womankind will spend the next 32 days thinking about is the dose of designer labels and drama that the second Sex and the City film will soon deliver.
Or so the hype from Hollywood would have it. Already we've had details of what the cast will be wearing and been told that Sarah Jessica Parker's character Carrie may ditch her Mac for a PC. God knows why we should care, although this does suggest we can expect a product placement parade on a par with the first flick. The bid to flog film-related-goodies has begun too, with news of the SATC soundtrack and nail varnishes.
And expect magazines' fashion pages soon to be filled with Carrie and co's looks to copy, even though their outfits in the trailer would have most drag queens suggesting they “tone it down”.
It is, of course, only a film. An hour-and-a-half of escapism. So how come — before it is even in cinemas — I already feel Sex and the City-weary?
No doubt I wouldn't feel this way if the first film had been any good.
On TV, Sex and the City was an enjoyable and occasionally subversive show. Sure, its mix of shagging, shoes and sorority was a sort of feminism-lite, but the lifestyle it held up was a fairly liberated one.
Materialism may have been the maxim but the women worked for their Miu Mius and their Marni. They considered themselves better off single than in a bad relationship. Above all, though, it was a rare celebration of female friendship and intimacy, a long way from the back-stabbers of Wisteria Lane or Gossip Girl's Upper East Side.
But Sex and the City: the Movie felt like an embarrassing postscript to the series. It may have raked in the cash, but not only were the producers guilty of mis-selling (there being an almost total absence of any actual intercourse) but they sold its fans short too.
All sense of female camaraderie was lost. When one of the main quartet added a few pounds to her still slender frame the other three were horrified. And when one of our ladies lost control of her bodily functions, how the rest of the girls giggled.
Worst of all, though, the message was “forgive men their trespasses”, even if those include cheating on you or leaving you at the altar. Oh, and after you've been left hanging round groom-less in your Vivienne Westwood gown, the film suggests you can still get your happily ever after.
For a show that once prided itself on celebrating singledom, the focus was Jane Austen-like: entirely on marriage, as though every woman was still in want of a husband.
The trailer for take two inspires me with a little more confidence: Samantha, the lone character without a ring on her left hand, appears to have returned to her man-eating ways. But it's not enough to make me splash out a tenner.
Because, its obsession with marriage aside, the first film seemed hollow-hearted and shallow. And even the clothes weren't that great.
Sex and the City mark one was heralded as the film that would divide the sexes. Yet when a male friend of mine — recalling being dragged there by his ex — groaned “never again” at news of a sequel, I found myself agreeing. Get “Carried away again”? No thanks: I'm just not that into it any more.
