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MAN
should not live by bread alone. Every once in a while,
he should turn off The Game, ditch the remote, put on
some clean clothes and embrace his feminine side. That’s
what one man set out to do Friday when I journeyed to
Glendale and dived into the first-night frenzy of Sex
and the City. Following in the steps of the
countless legions of
rabid female fans and their gay male comrades who
packed theaters around the country to worship at the
spiky heels of Carrie Bradshaw and Co., I wanted to see
if I, too, could get “Carried Away.” Accompanying a
female posse of devotees, my attempt at a girls’ night
out hit a few bumps.
Just
thinking about this undertaking probably horrifies the
multitudes of proud, beef-eating men who would rather
endure a thousand shopping trips with their significant
others than spend more than a minute with the Sex and
the City crew. Weeks before the opening, in locker
rooms and around water coolers, they spread their
anti-Sex venom, declaring, “Heck, no, we won’t go.” Only
they didn’t say “heck.”
However,
there exists a quiet ya-ya brotherhood of straight men
who have a divine secret: They can enjoy Sex and the
City even without female coercion or guidance. The
writing on the HBO series was often clever and snappy,
the women were smart and attractive (I always had a
weakness for Cynthia Nixon’s Miranda), and the show
provided valuable insight into how women view men, love
and relationships. And contrary to the beliefs of the
Sex haters, the girls seldom indulged in male bashing.
The husbands and boyfriends had shortcomings, but they
were generally honorable, decent dudes whom most guys
wouldn’t mind hanging out with.
Most
important, I didn’t feel my masculinity was at stake by
attending a movie featuring four sexy women cavorting in
New York City.
Clint Eastwood made Bridges of Madison County,
and his macho cred wasn’t tarnished one bit (OK, maybe
that one scene when he’s looking lost and forlorn in the
pouring rain, but we won’t quibble).
Still,
most of my ya-ya brothers-in-arms—perhaps fearing
ridicule from their more testosterone-driven
buddies—went further underground as the buzz about the
movie reached crescendo levels, so I invited myself to
join a group of first-nighters organized by my friend
Michelle, a professional in her mid-30s who describes
herself as “serially single.” She had purchased tickets
far in advance for a multicultural group of five women,
both single and married.
The
outside of the theater was overrun by groups of women
ranging in dress from classy to casual. Michelle’s
clique was meeting before the show at an adjacent
restaurant, and when I arrived, the cosmo-fueled
gathering at the bar was in full swing. It was too late
to catch up, and my one feeble attempt at preshow
bonding with the women, most of whom I didn’t know
(“Hey, how about that Ugly Betty?”), fell on deaf
ears. It was all about Sex and the City.
“You’re
very lucky we’re letting you into the ‘spa,’” Michelle
said. She bounced with excitement in her purple high
heels.
Sitting
near her was Melinda, 38, a freelance reporter, married
with children. A long-time fan of the series, she said
her husband was all but doing victory laps around the
house over not having to accompany her. “He’s just happy
I found someone to go with,” she said, sipping her
cosmopolitan. “I’m so looking forward to this.”
By the
time the posse, which also included single, aspiring
singer Nichole and Samantha, a publicist who has a
boyfriend, made it into the jammed theater, we had to
settle for the front rows. Filling the venue were groups
of women, a few males sitting together, and some
couples. The number of men inside wouldn’t amount to a
flag football team, but none of them had that “walk the
plank” look.
A huge
cheer erupted at the first hint of the show’s
Latin-flavored theme. Occasionally I would hear a murmur
from Michelle or someone else in the posse (“Who wears
glitter to work? Who would wear pearls to bed?”), but
mostly the audience, which seemed familiar with the
characters, sat in rapt silence. A collective gasp
erupted at a surprise betrayal (no spoilers here). It
was also the first time I can remember when an empty,
double-doored closet almost got a standing ovation (you
had to be there).
As the
final credits rolled after two-and-a-half hours (!!!),
the group filed out with happy though not ecstatic
expressions. “It should have been two hours,” said
Tricia, who works for Herbalife. “Yes, it was long, but
good,” countered Michelle. They passed by many other
impromptu discussion groups dissecting the movie and
costumes. Many were already talking about seeing it
again.
Though I
had a good enough time, I felt that any movie
approaching Lawrence of Arabia length without one
explosion, gunshot or camel needed a bit of trimming.
But it all turned out OK. When I arrived home, the late
edition of SportsCenter was on. |
