I haven't been myself this week. I don't sleep well, I wake up congested and I can't get going in the mornings. I'm probably coming down with something. I decided last night what was needed was some home cooking. So. Toss Girl on couch, add remotes and a glass of wine, and I set out to make something good. The kitchen in our tiny apartment is close to the TV, so I could hear even though I couldn't see. And what I could hear and mercifully not see while stuffing herbs, garlic and cream cheese into a chicken breast, was Sex and the City.
A worse television show was never made than this. Seriously. It's an atrocious mix of tired New York stereotypes, sitcom cliches and tortuous dialogue shrink-wrapped in a tenuous veil of sophistication which threatens to disintegrate near the end of every scene, and hearing while not seeing it really underscores just how worthless it is. The writers never relieve us of the tedium by straying far from the show's core premise: four horny half-single women terrorizing Manhattan by trying to fuck everything short of a Central Park carriage horse, whilst using their experiences to draw meaningful conclusions about urban life. At least, that was probably the network pitch. In reality, no clever observations arrive, no searing insights; only a thin, steady stream of of the blindingly obvious:
At that moment, Miranda realized 'I'm not getting any younger. It's now or never.' If she ever wanted to have sex with Chris again, she would have to swallow her pride and get on with it.
Like that. And as hopeless as the narrative may be, the dialogue is worse. Let me sum it up for you: four women in a cafe. All of them carry the vague appearance of having been deprived for a week of their core diet of cocaine and hot Italian beef and are covering the withdrawal with makeup and inane girly chatter. Remember, despite the depth and vibrancy of New York life (and the potential therein for an interesting show) it's called Sex and the City for a reason. Viewers tune in to hear the hungry women talk about sex. The writers know this, and fashion the script accordingly, thus:
Carrie: "You'll never guess who I had sex with last night."
Samantha: "That falafel vendor on west eighth? I had sex with him last week."
Charlotte: "I haven't had sex in three days."
Miranda: "If I don't have sex in the next three minutes, I'm going to need a new napkin."
Charlotte: "What about that waiter?"
Carrie: "I had sex with him last year. He's an asshole."
Miranda: "He's cute. I'd have sex with him."
Charlotte: "Can you set me up?"
Carrie: "Okay, but you'll regret it. He leaves empty chinese food boxes on the floor. After sex."
Charlotte: "Great. I'm going to get laid!"
Voiceover: At the moment, Miranda realized: there was more to life than art galleries and warm goat's cheese salad. She decided she would have to have sex more often.
God, I wish I had a gun.
That's pretty much the thrust of the show, so to speak, and it's about as insightful as you can hope to get. It's mindbogglingly trite, the narratives all delivered in a tired voiceover by Parker, who has about as much vocal talent as a piece of cheese. Plus, she looks like a horse. Come now... we don't have to believe she's an icon just because the media keep insisting it's true. Sure, I probably wouldn't kick her out of bed, but honestly I can't really see making much of an effort to get her in there in the first place. And the men are no better. I'm not professing to know what New York women want in a partner, but these half-assed GQ throwbacks look like they belong as extras on the set of Muriel's Wedding.
Well, it's been fun hackin' on it but I'm done now. Just do yourself a favour by watching something else.
Oh... and dinner turned out great. I will tell you what I made another day.
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