Thousands of girls and women around the world rejoiced this week, after a photo that was uploaded to Twitter showed Sarah Jessica Parker sitting outside what appeared to be Carrie Bradshaw’s old apartment, with a collection of designer shoes. The caption and accompanying hashtags ‘”#longdayforCarrie #whewwwwthosesteps #runninginheels #taxi!’ seemed to suggest a third Sex and the City film may be in the works.
However, I can’t say I am particularly thrilled by this news. Don’t get me wrong, I am the BIGGEST SATC fan – I’ve cringed at Samantha, rolled my eyes at Carrie, sighed at Charlotte and hopelessly fan girled after Miranda, but after what was, quite frankly, the embarrassing shambles that was the second film, I couldn’t help but wonder – should the Sex and the City movies really become a trilogy?
Whilst the first film wasn’t dreadful, I often feel that the TV series finale should have been left the way it was. Everything was wrapped up in a hopelessly perfect, idealistic way that only ever seems to happen in the States:
· Big got his act together and told Carrie what she had been waiting to hear since Series 1 ‘Carrie, you’re the one’.
· Charlotte finally got the baby she’d always wanted with the man she never expected.
· Samantha had found true love with Smith (in spite of the fact he’s basically a foetus) whilst she recovers from cancer.
· Miranda and Steve move away (to a lovely house in Brooklyn, although the way the other characters banged on about it, it may as well be some sort of cesspit) and she finally accepts her role as career woman and mother.
But the first film didn’t seem to want to let sleeping dogs lie. Big realises Carrie may not be the one and reverts back to his difficult ways, Samantha misses being America’s bike (leaving a heartbroken Smith in her wake), and poor Miranda is cheated on by a man who was completely devoted to her throughout the television series. Only Charlotte comes out unscathed, being blessed with a natural pregnancy (although even this had to come at the price of crapping her pants in a five star resort).
The second film, sadly, was actually painful for me to watch. It was clearly apparent that the story writers had absolutely nowhere to go with these characters anymore. Even the razor sharp wit that carried the first film was noticeably absent, relying purely on casual racism and visual gags. The girls, once sassy, funny and feisty, had become ridiculous caricatures of themselves. I almost started to feel sorry for Big when he had just slumped on the sofa after a long day at the stock exchange, just to find Carrie shrieking about ‘working on the sparkle’.
Samantha was a ridiculous hormonal wreck, screaming ‘I have sex!’ and pelvic thrusting at Arabs in a way that cannot be unseen (and God knows, I’ve tried).
Charlotte, the woman so dedicated to motherhood she divorced her first husband over a cardboard baby, is seen to be a mother so incompetent she couldn’t manage even WITH a nanny.
And Miranda, the cynical touchstone of the series and my role mode in life quickly quits her job about twenty minutes in, and is reduced to shouting fun facts about the United Arab Emirates like some sort of ecstasy fuelled tour guide for the rest of the film.
WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO YOU.
The god-awful karaoke scene, of the four leading ladies standing in a line screeching ‘I Am Woman, (Hear Me Roar)’, was supposedly empowering. I had to fight back tears at the sight of my several years’ dedication to the show being reduced to this:
Because of the disaster of the second film, I really hope the cast and the writers agree on a laissez-faire approach to Sex and the City. Much like The Matrix, a second sequel to SATC may completely ruin the franchise, leaving an indelible stain on the brains of newcomers to the series, and fans alike. While many people may be thrilled at the prospect of seeing Carrie and the girls back on the big screen again, I for one, will not be watching if the rumours really are true. Then again, I don’t really think Michael Patrick King will really care what I have to say.
Edited by Harriet Dunlea.