Reading the New Yorker is an addictive mixture of pain and pleasure, enjoying the writing while wishing that you'd written it and wondering if you actually could.
Anyway, the latest issue finally defines the reason I have never taken to Sex and the City. This was a little hard to do in the time when the show was revered by my office and used as a reference point for everything anyone wanted to explain to you. But I just couldn't take to it and this has always seemed weird to me. On the surface it has all the elements for the half-hour of escape or fantasy that is all that is required of a TV show - a parade of stunning clothes and shoes, romance, sex, urban girl life. But all that left me cold this time, even a little put-off. I realise now that I was recoiling automatically from the horror of their obsession with the ring, the man and his ability to pay for it. This was just one of the problems, but I think the greatest.
And now Anthony Lane, reviewing the movie in the New Yorker, writes the article I should have written.
I will probably have to wait a while to watch the movie though - it seems local censors want to replace the word "sex" with something else and as per latest reports, the argument is not nearing resolution.
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