“Is this really where we have ended up—with this superannuated fantasy posing as a slice of modern life? On TV, 'Sex and the City' was never as insulting as 'Desperate Housewives,' which strikes me as catastrophically retrograde, but, almost sixty years after 'All About Eve,' which also featured four major female roles, there is a deep sadness in the sight of Carrie and friends defining themselves not as Bette Davis, Anne Baxter, Celeste Holm, and Thelma Ritter did--by their talents, their hats, and the swordplay of their wits--but purely by their ability to snare and keep a man.
“Believe me, ladies, we’re not worth it. It’s true that Samantha finally disposes of one paramour, but only with a view to landing another, and her parting shot is a beauty: 'I love you, but I love me more.' I have a terrible feeling that 'Sex and the City' expects us not to disapprove of that line, or even to laugh at it, but to exclaim in unison, 'You go, girl.' I walked into the theatre hoping for a nice evening and came out as a hard-line Marxist, my head a whirl of closets, delusions, and blunt-clawed cattiness. All the film lacks is a subtitle: 'The Lying, the Bitch, and the Wardrobe.'”
The rest of the bravissimo piece here. And, just in case you catch yourself saying, “But of course--he's a guy, he doesn't get it!,” here's Manohla Dargis of the NYTimes, beginning her review with “A little Botox goes a long way in 'Sex and the City,' but a little decent writing would have gone even further.” Rawr!
PLUS: “The incredibly small Mr. Big”--journalist-blogger Pam Pastor's open letter to Carrie's amour, in today's Inquirer 2bU!
[Illustration: David Hughes/The New Yorker]