Sarah Jessica Parker's
Carrie BradshawKinney Littlefield
Welcome to MY World:SEX & THE CITY Bitchin' From Every Angle
By KINNEY LITTLEFIELD
of TheColumnists.com
MY HERO, Carrie Bradshaw is. Make that my she-ro.
For me 9 p.m. Sunday is
a sacred time to spend with bitchin’ single babe Carrie
(Sarah Jessica Parker) and best buds on HBO’s way witchy
womanfest “Sex and the City.”
Femme that I am, I dig “Sex’s” bold, witty, down-and-dirty
dish of men, life, love, relationships, friendship, single womanhood
and--let’s be honest about this--sex.
But what kind of message is “Sex” sending men?
Only one way to find out.
Recently I plunked down with my very significant male other to catch the two-episode season premiere of “Sex.”
I thought, how could My Guy not love it? The menu includes a quartet of smart, independent and way hot New York women--dreamy, idealistic Parker plus Kim Cattrall as sexually hungry Samantha, Kristin Davis as Miss priss-and-prim Charlotte and Cynthia Nixon as man-wary Miranda.
There’s hip, flirtatious dialogue. There’s the always-sleek HBO look.
Parker, Cattrall, Davis and Nixon are aces in the acting department.
And some of the men are good guys. (Well, at least the gay guys are. Hetero dudes are a bit more dubious).
Here’s what happened.
Me: “So, uh, 'Sex
and the City'….How did you like it?”
My Guy: “Not very much.”
Me: “Um, why not?”
M.G.: “It’s too cynical.”
Me (getting defensive): “Well, the girls are kinda smart-ass.
But they’ve been through a lot.”
I mean they really have. Carrie has had monster, major, heart-breaking upsets with her off-and-on-again one and only Mr. Big (Chris Noth, former star of “Law and Order”). In the premiere doubleheader--all about soulmates--Mr. Big is off again but turns up for her birthday with a bunch of balloons procured by his chauffeur. So thoughtful.
Then he drives away, leaving her standing in his dust.
Also in the doubleheader, Charlotte’s uptight estranged husband Trey (Kyle MacLachlan of “Twin Peaks”) uncontrollably ejaculated on her clothes in their moment of amorous reunion.
And Samantha tried to seduce a priest (Costas Mandylor) with cans of Le Sueur peas.
Inventive, no? (I liked it better than Tony Soprano’s wife Carmela trying to woo her priest with pasta).
Poor sad Samantha. She just doesn’t understand herself. She keeps trying to hook up with weirdo types who fulfill her physical fantasies but not her yearning heart. And she knows the famous biological clock is ticking.
And Cynthia. Wedded to her work, she’s a nut too tough for most men to crack.
So. of course, these battle-scarred veterans are bound to crack wise and sharp. They’ve been in the trenches, where the battle of the sexes is more like a massacre.
My Guy: “The characters all sound the same. The show doesn’t get inside their heads. It’s an outsider’s view.”
Me (winding up for the pitch): “Well first, the characters are really different. Carrie is kookie and quixotic and questioning. She’s seriously looking for serious love. Charlotte is proper and demure. She wants to be taken care of by a husband who’s a white knight. Samantha needs to stay on a sexual high. She doesn’t know how to do anything else.
“And Miranda is just mad at the world - which pretty much means all men.
“Each of these flawed but fabulous femmes represents one component of the complicated female psyche. Put them together--their lust for safety, security, passion and sexuality--and they make up the many warring parts of all of us chicks.
“And outsider? This, my guy, is Real Girl Talk. And I feel like I’m sharing in it. The “Sex” quartet--they’re my friends.”
OK, so we women bond easily. Recently I made a new best femme-friend over the feline flea powder in Petsmart.
I’ve talked about lost loves with supermarket checkers.
I’ve seen women who barely know each other delve into deep discussions of estrogen.
Women just have to yak.
And for me it’s oh-so-easy to relate to the messy little sexual snafus and great big boneheaded gaffs that “Sex” serves up.
Trey’s overeagerness was kinda yucky. And Samantha’s lust for Friar Fuck--her rhyme, not mine--was a bit fantastical. (Unless you remember “The Thorn Birds”).
Still, beneath the gooey details there’s some righteous if embarrassing truth.
“Sex’s” sensitive core--its yearning for physical closeness and emotional transcendence --is real on wheels.
Take that, My Guy.
My Guy: “The women have each other but they’re still so desperate for soulmates.”
Me: “Well, they do care about each other. But they want more. They want the other kind of closeness. They want love.”
M.G.: “Well, they keep talking about needing a man. Why don’t they say they’re looking for someone to passionately love? I mean it sounds like lesbians don’t count.”
Good point. But that’s another show.
M.G.: “Besides the show’s written by men. It’s a very muscular show.”
Well, as usually happens in Hollywood, the men are the head honchos and the women do the real work. Darren Star and Michael Patrick King are creator and executive producer. But “Sex” boasts six femme writers--Cindy Chupack, Antonia Ellis, Amy Harris, Jenny Bicks, Julie Rottenberg and Elisa Zuritsky.
Me, getting curious: “So,
do men talk like this?”
M.G.: “Men don’t get anywhere near this specific. Society
really puts too much pressure on men to perform. So men usually
will only say ‘She was good’ or not. Men only talk
about sex in general terms.”
Me (ready to raise the white flag): “Well, I guess you know
more about that than I do….”
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-- and she has big hair, too! |
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Obviously “Sex’s” cleverness did not impress my own soulmate. Still, I am not defeated.
There’s just too much about “Sex and the City” to love.
If this is a peep show, there’s as much fragility as cynicism on view.
There’s kookily clad Carrie, teetering on her stilettos in the shadowy night, dropping her $70 birthday cake smack in a construction zone as a group of hard hats heartlessly jeer. Teetering home alone after her three best buds played no-show at a dinner for her much-feared Big 35.
Carrie, forlorn and forgotten in the shower afterward, goopy mascara owl-ing her eyes.
It makes you simultaneously laugh and cry harder than “Bridget Jones’s Diary.”
I adore “Sex’s” wily word play too:
Kristin with her “depressed vagina” that needs a little mood lift after Trey’s boner boo-boo.
The “Sex”ies various masturbation fantasies: Russell Crowe is the current fave. But George Clooney is “always in style,” like a Chanel suit, Carrie notes.
True, Ann Landers once wrote that women complain about sex more than men.
Well, if this is complaining--carp away girls. I get it. And boy is it good to vent.
Besides “Sex” has its scattered bits of triumph.
Carrie strutting down the runaway at a fashion show after she skidded off her sky-high heels, playing amateur supermodel in sequined panties. She showed that snotty Manhattan crowd. She got back up on her hoofs and wowed ’em all.
And she had awesome big hair, too.
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Our Kinney Littlefield has awesome big hair, too!)
© 2001 by Kinney Littlefield. Photos © 2001 by HBO.
You can comment on this column or contact Kinney Littlefield with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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