The Gold Digger’s Credo.

High Maintenance Harridans.

Four ugly women bitch and moan about men. The End.

Nauseating and irrelevant to men and people with more than half a functioning brain, SEX AND THE CITY THE MOVIE is a temple to the spoiled-hideous First World upper class fem-empowered sub culture. Since its inception as a TV series in 1998 (created by Darren Star) SEX AND THE CITY has become the role model for entitled harridans the world over. Only reason this institution has nominal cred with me at all is because Prince used it in his song Kiss, in live performances updating the line, “You don’t have to watch Dynasty to have an attitude…” to “You don’t have to watch Sex & The City…”

Fans of the television series need not be worried – the hauteur and bitching levels are still higher than the Chrysler Building, as we follow the tiresome, elitist girl-adventures of four New York City dregs so ugly on the inside that they must garb themselves on the outside with the latest “label” couture hoping no one will notice their psychological deformities. It doesn’t work.

There’s frigid, giraffe-necked Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), bug-eyed crone Charlotte (Kristin Davis), botoxed, siliconed MILF Samantha (Kim Cattrall), and horse-faced yuppie snob Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker, wearing enough black mascara to kill a mule-deer).

Carrie’s male companion Mr. Big (resolute Chris Noth) buys them an apartment to co-habit, but Carrie, on the prompting of her gold-digging friends, won’t let Big have his name solely as owner – so badgers for marriage. I know: world-shaking plot events, right? Big reneges on the wedding – on the wedding day. Funniest part of the movie. Don’t know why Carrie takes it like the sinking of the Titanic.

Meanwhile Miranda’s boyfriend Steve (David Eigenberg) confesses to an affair. And in this chick-centric universe, the fact that Miranda has not given Steve sex for six months doesn’t enter the equation at all, and she acts surprised, hurt and outraged. And all her pompous, self-righteous tart friends exclaim, “I can’t believe it!” Six months. No sex. I think it’s safe to say every single man in the audience that was dragged pussy-whipped and screaming to this movie was in Steve’s corner on that one.

Meanwhile, playgirl Samantha is bored of her upscale male model boyfriend as her twat itches for the Euro playboy neighbor.

And though Charlotte is happily married, she can’t get pregnant. Boo hoo!

There’s even the token empowered fat black chick to open out more demographic: Jennifer Hudson with her butt the size of a small rhino.

Mmm, every woman’s fantasy: warm home, big man, expensive art, cozy bed, rich tapestries, good book, deep love… until they get it. Then they want something ELSE… or, uh, maybe not. Or maybe yes? Or maybe maybe? Who knows? Who gives a fuck?

If they are IN a relationship, they bitch; if they are OUT of a relationship, they bitch. If they ARE married, they bitch; if they are NOT married, they bitch; if they are GETTING married, they bitch. If their man DOESN’T buy them gifts, they bitch; if he DOES buy gifts, they bitch about empowerment being usurped from them; if the gift is something they DON’T want, they bitch; if it’s something they DO want, they bitch. And then they wonder why they shouldn’t be allowed to vote or drive.

Production value is excellent – after all, written and directed by a gay guy, Michael Patrick King – but no matter how much makeup these trollops slather over those wrinkled mugs, they look old and tired and worn out. They are. Like the show.

You don’t have to be a dumb chick or a homosexual man to enjoy SEX AND THE CITY. But it helps.

END