'Sex and the City' writing fails

Directed by Michael Patrick King

Rated R

(Two and one half stars)

By Bruce Bulloch

"Sex and the City," the television series, was a restless piece of fun. Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) and her cohorts led viewers across an exotic Manhattan landscape on the hunt for a good man and a perfect pair of shoes. Even the dialogue had a predatory bent, shooting barbs of satire into the show's romantic sensibility.

The saga kept us entertained and on the move for six seasons and then tied everything up in a neat bow. Each of the women got her man - and her wardrobe - and called it a day.

"Sex and the City," the movie, arrives four years later with a decided disadvantage: it has to resurrect a story that has already come to an end. It is a reunion tour of sorts, long on nostalgia and short on the haute-couture gonzo narrative that made fans out of its viewers.

The story centers on Carrie's efforts to marry Mr. Big (Chris Noth) - the one unfinished piece of business from the series. As Carrie plans her ideal wedding, she enlists the help of her pals Samantha (Kim Cattrall), Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), and Charlotte (Kristin Davis). It wouldn't be much of a spoiler to let slip that things don't go according to Carrie's plans. In fact, each of the women find a monkey wrench thrown into their recently settled lives. Much drama ensues but none of it is particularly compelling. This is a story that is not told for the sake of telling a story. The plot of "Sex and the City" is an excuse to trot out our favorite parts of the series: a great supporting cast of character actors and some magnificently over-the-top fashions.

One could argue that the highlight of the film comes when Vogue editor Enid Frick (Candice Bergen) talks bride-to-be Carrie into modeling for a photo spread on wedding gowns. Sarah Jessica Parker has a face that defies a traditional definition of beauty. That long nose and exaggerated jaw line never made for the textbook ingredients of a Hollywood starlet. Instead, Parker's features concentrate and broadcast her sexuality with a surprising intensity. Combine that face with the uncompromised extravagance of haute couture and something amazing happens. In "The Devil Wears Prada," Anne Hathaway was essentially playing dress-up. In "Sex and the City," Sarah Jessica Parker puts on a dress and makes a statement. She wears fashions that would look ridiculous on most women and they read like art.

But "Sex and the City" offers more pleasures than watching Parker cavort in the world's longest pair of argyle socks; it is a chance to reconnect with some old friends. Lynn Cohen shows up as Magda, Miranda's stone-faced nanny and Charlotte loans Carrie her gay friend Anthony (Mario Cantone) as her wedding planner. Wait long enough and most of your favorite characters will show up on screen, though they aren't given much to do.

The film is self-indulgent in its running time (almost two and a half hours). It doesn't have the narrative ambition to warrant that amount of exposure and, in the end, only serves to remind us that the best stories about Carrie and her friends have already been told.

If you're a fan of the series, "Sex and the City," the movie, is a fun way to touch base with your favorite New Yorkers. But the mystery left at the end of the film is: what happened to "Sex and the City's" writers? "Sex and the City" wasn't just a show about a writer; it was a writer's show. The plotlines careened along with reckless abandon and the dialogue was a wonderful alchemy of bubbling optimism and cool satire. It was, in its day, one of the best-written shows on television. For some reason that didn't show up for the reunion.

Bruce Bulloch may be reached via wseditor@robinsonnews.com