My one man quest to rid the world of all this Sex And The City madness continues. (’In’ the city? ‘And’ the city? Who knows. I can’t be arsed to look it up.) This from the first review of the new movie which debuted in London, puzzlingly:

There may be a problem with a film when a narrator constantly tells you the meaning of what you have just seen, gift-wrapping each scene with a moral.  There may be a problem with characters who shop with such conviction while the audience looks up from the trough of a credit crunch.  There may be a problem with stretching Sex and the City into a two hour and twenty minute film - it can feel like a never ending dinner party: however pleasant the courses, after a while you can hardly eat another one.  None of these problems seemed apparent to the women who sat around me in the cinema in Leicester Square, laughing and weeping in quick succession. After a while I began to reason like one of the characters: maybe the problem was me.

To seeing a movie that gets reviewed like that, I’d say no. Honestly, I’m just happy to read a review of any movie that isn’t just a padded-out press release. We don’t really seem able to say anything nuanced about film in the U.S. anymore; it’s either “best movie evar!!!1″ or “sucked!”. There’s no in-between.

But this pile of dick jokes wrapped in a thin veil of sisterhood deserves whatever horrors befall it.