Sex and Slapstick Comedy

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.)

Excitement is such an understatement.

My one gripe? Upon sneaking some views of some of the costumes worn by the characters in the much anticipated Sex and the City movie, I cannot help but fear that this movie may be an embarrassing caricature of the show. And my fear is definitely not eased with this image of Sarah Jessica Parker’s outfit at the London world premiere.

Sigh. Of all the outfits...

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 7^th 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.

Despite knowing I shall undoubtedly roll my eyes at the Halloween costumes created by a deep-in-her-cups Patricia Field, I, in my Manolos, shall join several of my friends over three or four cosmopolitans and give Sex and the City the proper farewell toast it deserves. Until the second and third sequels hit the big screens, of course.