Vow of Silence? Really?

I just came back from the dreaded sequel of Sex and The City. I had the same feeling, after watching the movie, like wanting to like something so bad but can’t really carry yourself to do that, something like a very nice young man or the latest piece of your favourite designer; something that probably ends up at the back of your closet, still wrapped in its original packaging or something that came up now or then and it hits you ‘what was I thinking’.

I love the gals to bits, they reminds me of good times when you were young and perk but should something, like many things in life, just left untouched?

The first thing that shocked me is the price of the ticket. At GBP 6.20, I kept my optimism level high despite the reviews that I have read (and trust me, they weren’t pretty) the movie will be worth every penny. After the usual slew of trailers and advertisements, I was getting a little bit annoyed with the ever continuing giggles of middle age white women thinking that they were having their ‘Carrie Bradshaw’ moment. And then ‘BAMM!!’, I was hit with the gayest opening scene ever to hit the silver screen. It was so gay, even the 10 of your gayest scenes from any of your movie choices combined (plus the old day drag shows in Bluebar) will not be able to match it.

Come on people, Mr and Mr Stanford Blatch in a white wedding (which by the way, almost blinded me) with Liza Minnelli as the officiator complete with choir boys singing show tunes? Maybe Miranda was correct, the gay energy was so concentrated in one room, it manifests itself as Liza Minnelli (or in Malaysian case, Kak Nita, drag and real alike). Don’t get me started with the rendition of ‘The Single Ladies’, I now officially hate that song.

The story line was diluted with all the fancy clothes and ‘sort of’ glamour touches with cameos. Where were the girls’ vulnerabilities which by the way were reduced to no more than 10 lines in the whole movie? Where were the signature Carrie’s questions and paradoxes? Where were Miranda’s cynicisms? And my dear Samantha was reduced to be the accompanying sound effects to beautifully sculptured men bums (as if there were many of them). Luckily, Charlotte managed to maintain her integrity as conflicting lady with Jackie O’s sense of style.

There were some good funny moments which lasted no more than 15 seconds each, successfully enough to hold me back from breaking into tears. I hate watching my gals reduced into living mannequins’ rather than real women (and occasional fags) with real issues.

After watching the movie, I rushed back home and got into the shower, hoping able to wash off the bad taste off my skins. I hope the girls will take the vow of silence now and keep the series as the epitome of late 90’s TV phenomenon. I really do.