Wow, there seems to be a fair amount of vitriol out there for the characters from Sex and the City, as well as the women who play them. Apparently, they’re too shallow, they’re too obsessed with sex, they’re too old to be sexy, and they spend a lot of money on accessories.
Who do they think they are? James Bond?
Come to think of it, I’ve never heard any of those criticisms leveled at him. Hm.
When the show first started on HBO, the reviewers and self-appointed social commentators criticized the show because they said that the female characters were really gay male characters. Why? Because they talked about, and enjoyed, sex a little too much? I remember thinking at the time that whoever says that women don’t talk or act like those characters, does not know many women.
Look, I and my girlfriends cannot be the only women on earth who openly discuss the merits of ass fucking. I just don’t believe that we are. We can’t be the only ones who compare bikini wax horror stories. We can’t be the only ones who covet each other’s shoes, or sit around the pool and read trashy magazines and gossip.
Was the show completely unrealistic in its depictions of the standard of living available to women in NYC? OF COURSE IT WAS. IT WAS A COMEDY ON TELEVISION. Television comedies are not realistic. Rednecks are not really that adept at irony. Ugly fat girls with no style don’t really work for fashion magazines. Network executives are not fascinating characters. And nobody really likes Charlie Sheen.
What’s worse about the release of the film, is that now that the SATC characters are in their (ew!) forties, a whole lotta people are apparently grossed out that the women are still not only having sex, but talking about it, for crying out loud. It’s been made plain by the reactions of more than a few reviewers that they find it fucking unseemly or something.
Also, apparently, they’re cougars. Yes, they’re all in their forties and lusty. Therefore, cougars.
To which I say, if they are, then so am I.
Okay, I have a boyfriend, but if I didn’t, I’d be out there on the scene too, people. And without the benefit of a hair and makeup stylist and an award-winning costume designer. I’d be a 47-year-old woman living in the big city, looking for love in a cut-rate wardrobe. So what would that make me, then? Sub-cougar? If my life were to be written about by someone at the New York Press, would I be similarly pathetic and shallow for pursuing sex and talking a lot about men? Would my life be dismissed as too closely resembling a gay man’s to be authentically female? Would someone put me on the cover of a magazine with tape over my mouth and tell me to shut the fuck up, already?
Or, in the manner of Carrie Bradshaw, when is the world going to lose their fear of middle-aged pussy?
Because the whole cougar thing? Really fucking tiresome, guys. My sexuality is ridiculous to you. I get it, already.
Here's an idea. Fuck off. Let me have my fun little movie, and you can go and see whatever poignant expression of the art of filmmaking that Judd Apatow is up to these days, okay?