Sex and Sensibility

I finally caught up with that much abused chick flick, Sex and the City, directed by Michael Patrick King, from his own screenplay, based on characters from the book by onetime New York Observer columnist Candace Bushnell. I happened to have been a steady patron if not a rabid fan of the half-hour television series. How did the two-hour-plus movie compare with the HBO series? As the French would say, pas mal. It started slowly and unpromisingly in a giggly fantasy fashion, and when I use the term “fashion,” I do so advisedly. But when Sarah Jessica Parker is left at the alter by Chris Noth, all the pathos of a rejected 40-year-old woman floods her face with a burst of Zolaesque realism. For her to look in a mirror with such a damning recognition is to plumb the depths of despair. The movie, for all its subsequent silliness and sentimental backtracking, had me from that moment on. The moral was clear. Time Waits For No One. This is why I think there can never be a sequel.

asarris@observer.com