The past two weekends I’ve done something I don’t usually do – I saw two “summer blockbusters” on their opening weekends, jamming myself into the multiplex with the masses. I’m not some indie cinema snob who can’t take the public and their “pedestrian” tastes – I just generally succumb to their tastes weeks after they debut, when the hype has died down and I don’t have to share an armrest with a stranger. The past two weekends were different. With the college basketball season well over, the NBA playoffs trailing off, and Roland Garros being 9 hours ahead of me, I’ve had some extra free time on my weekends. Plus, the two blockbusters making their bow marked the return of some of my favorite fictional characters; it seemed like time to suck it up and go enjoy sitting in the dark watching old friends make their triumphant returns.
Time to preface some thoughts. First, I am well aware of the Hollywood hype machine. Second, I understand the dilemma writers, director, and actors are under when trying to recreate the magic of what made a project so good the first few times around. Third, I give up my right to gripe and complain (too much) when I decide to purchase a ticket to a film that is resurrecting characters and storylines that have lay dormant for years; they could live on just as they were left in perpetuity in my memory, but by seeing a movie I am giving up those memories for their new replacements.
That said, I was mostly disappointed by both films. Let me explain a bit.
Like many a Gen X nerd, I idolized Indiana Jones as a kid. The original trilogy was comprised of whimsy and adventure, making a smart guy (with unbelievable whip skills) the hero and maps, old books, trinkets, potions, and dead languages integral to the happenings. Those films made the world around me seem filled with wonder and possibility; any old thing in my grandmother’s attic could lead me to treasure and adventure if I just worked hard enough to solve the puzzle. With a little imagination, I too could be swinging over lava pits (using a jump rope and chandelier to hop over the throw rug), climbing into tombs (an old creaky armoire), or fighting Nazis (Beck’s cabbage patch kids). I have seen each of the original films on video and DVD, and have watched them on HBO and with commercial interruptions on countless network and cable channels; it may be trite, but these films are a part of me, and played a role in shaping the over-active imagination of my childhood that fueled so many fond fantasies.
The new Indy was entertaining; Harrison Ford is as nimble as ever jumping jeeps and hurdling crates. Cate Blanchett was a worthy villain, a fetishistically-sketched Soviet fembot undone by her unattainable appetite for knowledge and power. Shia LaBeouf, whom I have generally disliked in other films, was passable as Indy Jr. I was most pleased to see Karen Allen back as Marion, as she was always the only true match for Indy in any of the first three films. I can handle the plot about mysterious crystal skulls, Soviets, Inca civilization, avarice, and even aliens. What I can’t take so much are the “family entertainment” moments Spielberg and Lucas injected into the film: prairie dogs, monkeys, and shots to the balls. CGI animal reaction shots are so low brow, that it took me totally out of the movie (especially in the beginning), but to throw them in the mix of the extensive jeep chase sequence is really unforgivable; seeing Shia swing with the monkeys was just plain lame, and even though it elicited chuckles from the little ones scattered around the theatre, it did a disservice to the film. Additionally, the repeated tree/bush limb-in-Shia’s-crotch was totally unnecessary – while it’s realistic to expect that one might get slammed in the balls by whatever vegetation is between two speeding vehicles one is straddling, the repeated shots were for nothing but cheap, unearned laughs.
In hindsight, it’s sad that those seemingly minute details brought me out of the film enough to not have enjoyed it. I’ve heard some people grumble about the alien plotine, but that doesn’t bother me – it’s just as fantastic or supernatural as the Ark or the Grail…it’s simply the creative manifestation of a myth. I knew I wasn’t going to love the film like its predecessors, but I wanted to feel something more than indifference.
If you know me well, we’ve probably at some point had a conversation about Sex and the City. While I would not consider myself a superfan of the show, I definitely enjoyed it throughout its run on HBO, and catch it repeatedly and randomly in sexless syndication. There was something about HBO pre-Sopranos, churning out low-rated gems of television that I would gladly watch several times a week during their re-airings. I count Oz and Sex and the City (in addition to Dream On, which is where I learned 75% of what I know about sex and relationships) among these until SATC hit the zeitgeist jackpot. The early days of SATC were awkward (go back and watch the first season with the random characters addressing the audience), but the characters main traits were introduced and crystallized at this early point. Outside the target audience demographic, I enjoyed the show for its fantastical portrayal of NYC, stories of independence and self-reliance, and the pratfalls each archetypal character suffered through on their individual quests for happiness; it was an easy sell to me as an early twentysomething, unhappily tucked into either my aunt’s or parents’ spare rooms, watching episodes multiple times during bouts of insomnia, yearning for fantastical adventures of my own (not necessarily having to involve cosmopolitans, shoes, trendy clubs, and bountiful sex). Most of all, I yearned for the friendships the four lead characters shared; the significant others in their lives came and went, but they were always there for one another. Having had different groups of friends drift away from me and from one another at various times, I was jealous of their camaraderie. It was the hook that kept me coming back.
The seasons of SATC blur together, but from what I recall seasons two through four were some of the strongest sitcom seasons I had ever seen. The development of the main (and secondary) characters from archetypes to full-bodied, multi-dimensional characters was neither forced nor automatic; they learned from their mistakes and their relationships evolved. The last two seasons of SATC were not as affecting to me; I understand the need to create tension and drama (will-they-or-won’t-theys for each character), but at some point the characters slipped into caricature, as the stakes were constantly raised. Charlotte =irritatingly hopeful; Miranda = hardass with a heart of gold; Samantha = independent slut with commitment problems; Carrie = self-obsessed and self-sabotaging. That said, I was generally content with the way the series ended…which is why I shouldn’t have seen the movie.
I knew SATC the movie would be an event. In the ten(!) tears since the show debuted, it has come to encompass female sexual empowerment, female bonding, label whoring, wedding porn; it made NYC a new destination in the Disney-fied Times Square era. Four years is a long time to revisit the characters of a tv show; unlike the first three Indys, which totaled about 7+ hours of film, SATC aired 94 episodes – the viewers and fans of this show are intimately familiar with these characters and their stories. When I went to see the movie this weekend, I think I underestimated just how much of an event the film’s opening would be. Off of work on Friday, I figured I would head to the gym and then sneak in a matinee showing at the crazy large multiplex downtown, before the post-work crowds came flooding to the theatre; no dice, as every showing was sold out for the whole day. I decided to try again Sunday, after I had to work in the afternoon; I had to book a showing 3 hours later than I initially wanted because of more sold out matinees.
The scene at the theatre was crazy. A line of about 200 people was already in place 45 minutes before the film started – they had us line up back into the emergency exit hall. Going solo to the film I wasn’t too concerned with finding a seat, but people actually pushed past one another and got into fights on the way from the ticket-ripper to the theatre door. Once inside, I found a seat in the middle near the top…about 30 seconds later, I was surrounded by two gaggles of ladies of indeterminate age, drunk off their asses, and loudly navigating the stadium seating with shopping bags aplenty and voices several decibels past acceptable “inside” voices. I watched as people flooded in, running up and down the stairs looking for an odd seat hear and there, hopeful that somehow a coat on a seat would not mean “taken” as it does in any other instance. I watched as several groups of women in elaborate dress (drag is the only word) took pictures of one another with cosmo-filled martini glasses. When the film began, there was applause and shrieking, and intermittent talking throughout the opening credits re-establishing the audience with the characters and their storylines.
The first thing I noticed was how everyone had aged. Had Cynthia Nixon’s neck always been so thin? Has SJP always had Madonna/yoga arms? These women gave new definition to sinewy. As the film got going, I started to see where and how the director Michael Patrick King was going to draw the target audience in – with the label whoring and wedding porn, two by-products of the series I could always do without. The most audible sound the audience made during the film (possibly aside from Charlotte’s bowel issues) was the sight of the giant closet Big has made for Carrie…I mean, really? I know it’s NYC real estate and all, but why is a huge closet (very mausoleum-like, I might add) cause for a collective gasp? I know it’s because we’re all not OCD and neat freaks. Additionally, the film had at least three movie montage fashion shows, which I think can be accepted as useless filler after being parodied countless times – even for a film that embraces label whoring and questionable fashion.
Aside from the (mostly minor) squabbles above, I just didn’t get into the movie. I’ve always had little patience with Carrie’s inability to take a stand for herself and always need approval, and she was definitely the focal point of the movie’s plot; I think what made the tv series so interesting was the weight and balance given to the various storylines in each episode – while Carrie has always been the main character, the viewer was equally invested in the other characters, in seeing their multi-dimensionality shine through the subplots. I felt like the movie didn’t allow Miranda, Samantha, or Charlotte any room to maneuver; their story arcs all resembled retreaded plotlines from the series. Even the trumped up fight between Carrie and Miranda occurred in the series, at least twice. It would have been far more interesting to see a conflict between Carrie and Charlotte or Miranda and Samantha. In all, I felt like there was especially no tension in Charlotte’s arc; the most hopeful and perky character gets everything she wants and is blindly happy, aside from crapping herself. Meanwhile the skeptic and logical one, Miranda, is cheated on, considered crazy for separating from her husband because of said cheating, and is blamed for the ruination of a wedding for a basic human reaction, all while being the only one of the characters who has any job duties to be concerned with.
Ug. To be honest, I wanted some disruption at the end. I wanted more than one of them to be on their own, and I wanted to see a more balanced treating of their characterizations (Miranda’s skepticism proving true or Charlotte’s perfect life having a non-silver lining). Like I mentioned earlier, I loved that the show (initially, at least) purported independence and self-reliance as the most redeeming qualities of these four friends who were family to one another. But why do Carrie and Big have to get married (when so many millions of Americans are happy not to)? Why does Charlotte get to have her own baby (when so many fertility-challenged Americans can only adopt)? Why does Miranda take Steve back for an indiscretion that would unravel marriages in most cases? I know, I know, this show is a fantasy of a target audience of which I am not a member: one that perpetuates the bizarre (unseemly if you ask me) wedding culture/industry; that trembles at the mention of Blahnik, Westwood, YSL, and Marc Jacobs; that gasps at the sight of a huge, empty closet. I just never realized how big a gulf existed between this target audience and myself…it was a bit like seeing a foreign language movie in a foreign land.
Wow. If you made it this far, congrats – who knew I could write a post this long on a blog I forget I have?
Adventures in Relocating to the West Coast 
