Sex and the Megaplex

All week I've been waiting for it like some love-addled, desperate female... like a well, typical character on Sex and the City. Not the movie, but rather the New York Times review OF the movie. For the men (and brave but cynical women) reading this before seeing the movie, feel free to click here. For those hopeless romantics, just wait and see the flick. In fact, stop reading this post altogether.

OK - the rest of you who are still with me - what is it about expectation that can have such an impact on perception? Carrie herself devoted an entire episode to "Great Sexpectations," and on the eve of the movie's American release, I find myself waiting in mixed anticipation and dread. Before you cast me off like last season's Manolo's, let me say that I have always been a huge fan of the show. I routinely (however unhealthfully) turn to the show's backlog for solace, advice, validation and fashion how-tos.

More than perhaps any other piece of television, SATC has deeply influenced the buying, relating, dating and mating habits of women all over the world. It has even, dare I say, influenced men and given them permission to emote and provided role models for men in relationships with strong women.

However, taking all that brilliance (that always seemed to fit in 30 minute chunks) and stretching it out for 2 plus hours scares me a bit. Just look at the Monty Python boys. Unbelievable hilarity abounded in the TV show, but when they got into a movie, it often lagged (except for that giant rabbit thing). The Simpsons didn't fare much better.

While I have absolute confidence that the clothing will be fabulous and the cinematography quintessentially soft-focused, my expectations of the plot, characters and the all-important dialogue are much lower. I relish the idea of a girls' night out and I'm stoked to get dressed up and have a fun night with my friends. But, I don't think I'll be getting the one super-long, luxurious, orgiastic episode that all the fans have been waiting for either.

Have I been harsher than Michiko Kakutani? Perhaps. Who knows, maybe like Charlotte the perfect, pearl-wearing, Episcopalian princess with her schlubby, sweaty, Jewish husband, I too will be surprised.