I was too tired to face the drunken hordes of Brighton last night, so I decided to just chill out and catch a late show of Sex and the City at the cinema near my hotel. There’s no point in giving a review of any kind, since there are so many others out there who are actually bothering. (Overall? Meh.) I just have a handful of quick thoughts:
- Um, that’s not the lending library.
- David Eigenberg is still my favorite of all the men who’ve been trotted out on that show over the years.
- I’ve finally figured out who Samantha Jones has reminded me of all this time: Alison Steadman in Abigail’s Party.
And that’s praise, not criticism.
- Is it just me, or was the whole movie a lot more explicit about the label whoring and the obscene wealth of the characters than the show ever was? I mean, the references were always there, but it all just felt a lot more vulgar in the movie. Maybe it was just the effect of seeing so many of those aspects of the show crammed down your throat all at one time.
- Oh, and there’s a term for this kind of script that comes at the end of a long-running series and tries to make everything hunky-dory in the most contrived ways: fan service.
- It was weird to walk out of the fantasy version of my old home town and into the streets of Brighton on a Friday night. I couldn’t help but notice the trickle-down effect of the SATC dream as it manifests itself in the real world, elsewhere.