The Ladies With Labels

Opening not with the traditional rattle of the xylophone and static of the HBO logo, the film adaption of Sex and the City vibrates the theatre with the pulsating beats of Fergie's new song "Labels and Love". The cascading scale that we have come to love is buried within its back beats somewhere, but isn't easily discernible above the electric noise that permeates the tune. Much like that sliding progression, over the past few years, the four ladies who viewers have seen in more outfits than stars in the sky had been lost somewhere in the boroughs of Hollywood. Amidst paycheck scandals, budget woes and alleged "catfights" on set, fans of the series have been as lost and neglected as an imitation brand in Carrie Bradshaw's closet. However, after just returning from the first showing of the day, I can joyfully report that the Fabulous Four have securely brought their charm and designer brands to the big screen with all the joy a girl could wish for in a fairy tale ending.

Without going into an in depth review of the flick, I'll just state that the celluloid hasn't fallen to far from the TV dial, and any casual viewer or ardent devotee to the source material, should feel as wonderful as when staring at a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. I am writing now to address a theme that seemed to permeate the movie that didn't always show itself openly in the series; no it's not the belts that found their way onto almost every outfit in the movie- but to a woman it may be just as constraining; age. The word was as common in the film as "change" has been in this most recent presidential campaign. For years, girls and women have used Sex and the City as something of a guide on how to live the glamourous metropolitan life. The big-screen adaption of this fable seemed to be teaching us how to die. Or, at the very least, surrender gracefully. Talk of condoms was replaced by gossip of Botox, the need for forgiveness replaced the need of optimism and freedom, and instead of dreaming the big-city dream, we were treated with something they called "honesty". As Samantha blew out her 50th birthday candles, I couldn't help but ponder how Harrison Ford, as Indiana Jones, continues to swing from his whip with nary a crack about his white hair, while the promiscuous Samantha is forced to cover her sexual urges with chocolate, and single-girl Carrie harness her individuality with marriage. It depressed me somewhat to see a show as forward in its outlook woman fall in line with the Hollywood standard that when a dainty wrinkle begins to show on a lady's face, she needs either a diamond ring or to retire from the club and bar life with dignity.   

    As the conflicts which arose began to resolve themselves and the credit music began to role, we were treated to some of Carrie's tell-tale wisdom about the wonders of friendship and tolerance; something not unwelcome in its simple happiness. Yet something onscreen echoed faintly of a Disney movie- beginning with love and ending with marriage- the "controling" of the woman. Let me bring back one of my favorite Carrie-narrations:

   "Maybe I didn't break Big. Maybe the problem was, he couldn't break me. Maybe some women weren't meant to be tamed. Maybe they need to run free, until they find someone just as wild to run with." I enjoyed visiting the ladies of NYC once again in the theatre today, and felt giddy checking out their wardrobes and wondering how I could manifest a $50 imitation of them, but I'd rather not think of Carrie Bradshaw as one of the many women walking around with a golden band on her finger. For me, she will always be that wild idol in single-dom in her white tutu- untamed and free.