I went to the movie Sex and the City on Friday evening. I’d been planning to go all week but didn’t try to make plans until too late. I called a local girlfriend, but she had accepted last minute tickets to the Giants game. I called another girlfriend, but she’d accepted another invitation somewhere else.
Was I the ONLY girl who knew that Friday was the first day the movie was in theatres?
I decided to go anyway. If you can’t be single and to a movie about being single–you might as well give it all up right now.
I dolled myself up with a new pink satin dress and the highest heels I have ever tried to walk in. (Good job I only had to walk from the car to the theatre.)
I bought my ticket and went to find a seat. The theatre pretty crowded already. I found a seat right in the middle of the second row and settled in and waited for the previews to begin.
People kept arriving. The woman on the end of my aisle started directing people to seats and negotiating with people already seated to move one or two seats over so a group could sit together.
The theatre was packed with women and cosmopolitans. Actually, the cosmos were packed in the women and the women were packed in the theatre. I wished I’d had one or two myself.
I won’t give it away if you haven’t seen it. But I will say, when I got out of the movie, I felt a bit sorry for myself. I wasn’t able to go with my good girlfriends (who are now randomly spread throughout the world). And it was that kind of movie–the kind where you want to go with your girlfriends so you all realize how much you appreciate one another. And then you would go for a few girl drinks afterwards and talk about the movie and about your lives and what’s going on in your lives and … well…girl things. Girl things.
Sigh. I’m going to call my girlfriends this weekend and catch up.
Back to the movie. It was sort of like four episodes of the TV series…in one two-hour or so marathon. I liked it for that–because I like the TV series. There was a Carrie story, a Miranda story, a Samantha story, oh…and another Carrie story. There was a Charlotte story, but there wasn’t really a cataclysmic point to her story—it just a story.
The Carrie story reminds me of how people (especially women) get carried away with the bigger-is-better mentality—when it comes to weddings. Planners. Dresses. Cakes. Dinners. Guests. Entertainment. I see it all the time here in wine country. Me—I believe in small weddings. Personal. Intimate—with meaning for the two people involved. (And now I’ll channel Samantha here and say: Honey, bigger is better, but I’m not talking about weddings—wink!).
The Miranda story was difficult—especially for the woman behind me. I’m guessing she must be going through something similar herself right now. It is so painful to see your own personal hell being played out right in front of you on the big screen. I wanted to comfort the woman behind me with something like: It’s alright darlin’. We’ve all been there. You’ll get through it.
I liked the Samantha story. She’d eat so she wouldn’t cheat. Bascially, she was eating emotions and burying her own needs. Ladies, who out there hasn’t done that?
I didn’t get too emotional or teary during the movie or anything. I did choke at one scene though. One scene. When Charlotte gathers Carrie protectively in her arms (after Carrie beats Big with her bouquet) and she screams: No. No (with that indignantly fierce look on her face — Don’t you dare come any closer. You’ve hurt her enough).
How could you possibly ask for anything more in a friend?
Oh, PS: the fashion was over the top. OVER-THE-TOP! More so than the series. Some of the wardrobe was good (belts for example). Some was normal (Miranda-wear on the Brooklyn Bridge). But there were a few gross outfits. Just gross. What happened SATC?
PPS: He should have whispered: I will love you always, Carrie Bradshaw. I will love you always.
I’m such a romantic.