I, dear readers, am a die-hard Sex and the City fan. Pathetic, perhaps, but I shall be one among the masses of females proudly trotting about in their Manolo (and Manono) Blahnik heels on May 30, sipping weak cosmopolitans in outfits inspired by the imagination of a sixth grader playing dress-up in mommy’s night-time work clothes. (Parental occupation censored.)
I oddly worry for the legacy of the series, about it being campy and shtick. And this worry is not baseless, considering that such a fate did (arguably) befall Seinfeld, one of the last great sitcoms. I doubt I’m alone in thinking that Seinfeld should have ended in its 7th season, upon the departure of Larry David. The latter seasons saw Seinfeld become a caricature of itself (i.e. think how unrealistic Kramer’s antics became, or how the combination of the individual story lines actually took away from the “heart” of Seinfeld, turning it into a shtick show about something).
I digress.
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