Word around the campfire is that there just might be one more romp in the hay for the lovely ladies of the greatest thing to happen to modern feminism since Madonna, Sex and the City.
Co-creator, longtime showrunner and director of the two feature films Michael Patrick King recently said, in response to star Sarah Jessica Parker’s comments that there is one more chapter to tell:
“Sarah Jessica and I both know what that final chapter is. That doesn’t mean it will or should be told, but I do think there’s one story left. Whether it ever happens is a whole other situation. But there’s four girls, and those girls are still in my mind. There are other stories to tell and characters that haven’t even been written yet.”
The show, which aired on HBO from 1998 to 2004, was actually kind of amusing in this man’s opinion, at least in its first couple of seasons. Yes, I actually watched it occasionally, and found myself laughing in spite of myself. At times, I wondered aloud, “Is this what women really think of us?”
Indeed, the writing staff evidently consisted of mostly women and gay men, plus one straight guy consultant, the great Greg Behrendt. I once attended a talk with him and fellow writer Liz Tuccillo, who also wrote for the show. Behrendt explained that after months and months of his female co-workers coming into the office complaining that some guy didn’t call them or wouldn’t commit to a relationship, he finally blurted out, “Ladies, he’s just not that into you.” And the idea for the book (and later the movie) was born.
Anyway, the first “Sex and the City” picture was the Super Bowl for women and gay men everywhere. They camped out the night before, had multiple viewing parties and couldn’t believe their good fortune that the adventures of Carrie Bradshaw had finally made it to the big screen.
The film itself is actually watchable. Catering to its target audience of gold diggers and fashion snobs (I liked the show, but man, its obvious obsession with materialism just whacks you over the head), the film even features a “fashion show” sequence that begs the question of, “Do you know how many third world countries you could rescue with just 2 seconds of this scene?” Still, things actually happen; Carrie gets left at the altar by Mr. Big, Steve cheats on Miranda, Charlotte has a baby and Samantha sees a dude’s schlong in the shower.
Then the sequel came out in 2010. Oh my dear lord what a giant piece of crap. Nothing happens. Nothing. Well, this happened; at one point, an exasperated new-mom Charlotte cries out, “I don’t know how people do it without help!” She says this to her fellow one percent-er in her 5 zillion-dollar Manhattan penthouse apartment. Right. Lindy West, in describing the second film, accurately called it, “Essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls.“ Nailed it, Lindy.
Get this; I even saw it myself in the theater (wait for it) 20 minutes after 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I giggled my tail off, especially at the point in the end when, after Big finds out that Carrie (SPOILER ALERT) cheats on him, he decides the most appropriate response is to get her a big f—king diamond ring. I shouted out, “OH COME ON!” and everyone in the theater laughed. All 4 of us.
So will we get one more? I’d say yes, this is gonna happen. Money talks and Prada bags walk down 5th Avenue. And let me defend the show in this way; at least it’s dramatic fiction, aiming for laughs and humor as opposed to every God-awful piece of garbage reality show that I inexplicably find my wife watching at night when I come to get a glass of water while I’m watching baseball.