Michael Patrick King
Sex And The City

Starting with the best possible expectations, a promotional campaign so grandiose as to rival "Star Wars," the preemptive fame of being the film of the year, here it is in theaters "Sex and the City." Well, now that I've seen it, I really hope it turns out to be the flop of the year. And that it is as thunderous as the hype that preceded it. The film adaptation of the cult TV show produced by HBO, which boasts legions of fans worldwide, has very little of the verve that characterizes the original. Almost nothing. As much as the four protagonists Carrie Bradshaw, Samantha Jones, Miranda Hobbes, and Charlotte York are cheerful, dazzling, and super fashion in the series, they appear dull, aged, and slightly depressed in this syrupy concoction. It's true that they're now on the brink of their fifties, whereas initially they were between their thirties and forties, the prime time for a woman. It's true that life changes, with all its load of satisfactions, disappointments, joys, and sorrows. But seriously... Here, we've also lost the sense of humor that was one of the basic ingredients of the soup. Another missing spice is the rhythm, the dynamism of the scenes: after the preparations for Carrie - Sarah Jessica Parker's wedding with Mr. Big (finally!), the narrative fabric, which in a comedy should be as solid as a Swiss bank, miserably collapses. And for a film that is a direct descendant of the most beloved series by women all over the world, it's an unforgivable sin. The jokes can be counted on one hand, perhaps director Michael Patrick King should take lessons from Norah Ephron, while Carrie's downward spiral, after the wedding falls apart, unfolds in a mega Mexican Spa where the friends, especially Miranda - Cynthia Nixon and Samantha - Kim Cattrall, compete in vulgarity and disarmingly banal phrases. Even the blonde man-eater now has clipped nails, she doesn't even believe in herself anymore, and it shows. It all sounds so predictable, already seen. Reality, or the real world?, crashes into the film with the love story, recovered at the last minute, between the lawyer Miranda and the devoted Steve. The clarifying meeting on the Brooklyn Bridge is one of the few truly touching moments of "SATC." More thanks to the setting, New York is unrivaled, than the actors. The City in the end is the true protagonist, swallowing everything in one bite and overshadowing everything else.

But there are at least a couple, actually three things that I can't stand. The first, Carrie's constant references, as a well-known writer of the Big Apple, to house prices. That "Can we afford it?!" Sounds more like a boast and no one believes it. Then those close-ups on the faces, highlighting with a certain sickening effect the exaggerated makeup and crow's feet. For a show that made image a diktat, it seems to me a fall in style. Finally, the rowdy audience in the theater. Groups of women who idolized the show feel compelled to express their enthusiasm with hysterical and misplaced squeals. Buuuh.

To discard: the slowness of the whole, the lack of spice. Where is the allure of the original? Honestly, I'd also throw away Charlotte's flatulence and Miranda's forest on her legs.

To save: the blue Manolo Blahniks with precious stone, the latest model Louis Vuitton, and the stilt-like Gucci: 15-inch heels? Not for everyone. In short, the accessories. Then, personal opinion, the scene of Samantha, truly in love with her stallion, "dressing" herself with sushi and waiting for him for hours. Like a geisha, but romantic.