I am not going to get all high-and-mighty here and pretend that I don’t absolutely LOVE “Sex and the City” and that it didn’t get me through several break-ups (along with enormous bowls of buttered popcorn liberally doused with chili powder), but I will freely admit that I was deeply offended by the first few episodes I saw and prepared to DENOUNCE IT FROM THE PULPIT. A funny thing happened on my way to researching that sermon further, though: I found myself crying over an episode and that was it — I was totally IN with Carrie and her posse. I never trusted Big. I wanted Carrie to stick with Aidan because he was so good for her and to her. In the end I wanted her to stay single, because she seemed at her best as a single gal. I rooted for Charlotte’s marriage to work and wasn’t surprised that Miranda cancelled her abortion appointment. I laughed myself silly over Samantha’s exploits (and deeply admired Kim Cattrall’s under-appreciated gift for physical comedy employed while maintaining a convincing femme fatale vibe– no small feat for an actress). I never went so far as to start drinking Cosmos and I LOATHED the final episode, but I’ll be on line with the rest of “SATC” America when the film comes out later this month. I know that even if the screenplay is a dog, the clothes will be outrageously fabulously. Or maybe just outrageous. I see from this photo taken at the London premiere that SJP has already started with the seriously crazy:
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