After months of anticipation, I finally saw Sex and the City the other night.
It was admittedly surreal, queuing up 3600 miles from home on the Champs-Elysées, with a mélange of Frenchies and ex-pats, young and old (and us in-betweens); watching the big screen fun and drama with little French subtitles and an audience that was more riled up than the crowd I saw the first one with in NYC.
And I wasn’t as affected by the second one as I was the first. That’s not to say I didn’t love it, because I did (of course). But it’s just been the strangest thing: despite going out for cosmos afterwards (Seriously, we did. Really bad cosmos, too—big goblets of iced cranberry juice and vodka with straws. Oh, so few places do a good cocktail here in Paris, but that’s another story), and despite having had 48 hours to think about it and discuss the loves and hates of it with anyone who would listen, I… just haven’t.
But I read a review today that finally gave me pause and made sit still for a couple minutes to reflect. And I think, for me, the movie all came down to one thing: strength.
Sure, there’s plenty in that movie to gripe about: the unrealistic lifestyles; the whoring of the labels and celebration of consumerism; the bad acting; the gloss and the botox and the bouncing breasts. But at its heart, this movie is an homage to strong women. It’s a movie about strength.
Personal strength, the strength of relationships, and strength of character.
It’s about the strength to grow up and to grow old. Having strength in the face of challenge. And the strength to be true to yourself.
And mostly, most beautifully, it’s about the strength of female friendship. Which is why we all love it so.
So good ahead and knock it if you want to and get all defensive and righteous about it. But I will watch it again and again because silly and fun—and beautiful and poignant—things like this are sometimes what give me the strength to keep going.