These women have done it all. They’ve done threesomes, S&M, lesbianism, exhibitionism, shoe fetishism, tantric sex, phone sex, and Viagra. They’ve done younger men, older men, married men, gay men, uncircumcised men, small men, big men, too-big men, Catholics, baseball players, bartenders, millionaires, celebutantes, porn directors, personal trainers, drag queens, movie stars, sports fanatics, control freaks, alcoholics, politicians, firemen, doctors, bisexuals, underlings, liars, cheaters, thieves, and jazz musicians with ADHD.
Thanks to the four vixens played by Kristin Davis, Cynthia Nixon, Kim Cattrall, and Sarah Jessica Parker, we know that sex with an ex can be depressing, that compromise can become compromising, that you can become impregnated by a man with one testicle, and that relationships and partial lobotomies go together like peanut butter and chocolate.
We also know that it’s possible to afford a massive Manhattan apartment and a closet full of $300 stilettos on a writer’s salary, that a girl can feel perfectly comfortable hobbling down a crowded city sidewalk in the world’s raciest, most bizarre fashions, and that New York women pick and choose between available, attractive men the way the rest of us select liquid hand soap.
For four years, Sex & The City has brought us dynamic caricatures of the sexually ravenous, urban, single woman in four flavors: sweet (Charlotte), sour (Miranda), spicy (Samantha), and bittersweet (Carrie). They’ve made us laugh, and they’ve consistently made unabashedly slutty behavior look like fun.
Americans are not exactly known for their long history of fondly embracing promiscuous women. In fact, most of us can rail off the names of high-profile temptresses faster than state capitals: Monica Lewinsky, Fawn Hall, Jessica Hahn, Donna Rice, Gennifer Flowers, Anna Nicole Smith. While we’ve certainly had our fill of fictional male characters with strong sex drives—James Bond, Han Solo, Rhett Butler—when a strong female lead hits the sack, you know that either the hero’s about to fall, or a demon with a hatchet is about to bust out of the closet, his heart set on some messy Judeo-Christian vengeance.
But as the show enters its fifth season, the only question left is this: What more can they possibly do? After jumping into bed with a steady flow of men (and women) from every walk of life, skin disease, and/or personality disorder, our casual sexperts must be exhausted. The show’s go-to formula certainly is. Instead of showering, shining those Manolo Blahniks, and slinking down to the theme bar du jour with the girls for the umpteenth time, we’d really rather crawl into bed with a box of Pop Tarts. Suddenly it’s easy to see why people get married. Because staying single for years on end is just way too much work.
Over the course of Sex & The City’s last season, its writers seemed to sense that their one-trick pony had been beaten to death. Despite winning an Emmy and two Golden Globes, there’s only so long you can have all four of your leads hopping into bed with one special guest star after another, until each subplot features all the high-jinx and zaniness of your typical Love Boat story line. So instead, the girls got serious real quick-like.
The writers seemed to toy with serious drama and depth the way a cat fiddles with a half-dead shrew before it loses interest and wanders off. The same dramatic turns that transfixed us last season—Carrie’s affair with a married Big, Miranda’s troubles with eminently likable bartender Steve—felt arbitrary and flat this season. Show after show, Charlotte is frustrated with Trey, despite the fact that the relationship was obviously destined to fail before they even got married. Show after show, Carrie is embroiled in some mundane drama with boyfriend Aidan, as played by John Corbett with all the feisty enthusiasm and unpredictability of dry wheat toast. And some of the dramatic turns weren’t just lacking in laughs, they were downright unfathomable: Fertility drugs that cause hormonal rage? Dogs with leaky diapers? Testicular cancer? These are dark twists best left in the hands of the masters of dramatic subtlety across the hall at Six Feet Under or The Sopranos.
Which is not to say that the writers of Sex & The City don’t occasionally hint that they’re capable of a much greater range and depth. Strangely enough, the most satisfying episode of the season was the darkest. Miranda’s mother dies, and the way each woman responds to the event beautifully reflects her particular blend of coping strategies and dysfunctional tics: Charlotte kicks into neurotic preppy high gear, planning bouquets and fruit baskets and booking flights to the funeral, Carrie has a petite-sized nervous breakdown, and best of all, Samantha is utterly unfazed but suddenly can’t achieve orgasm, only to break down sobbing in the middle of the funeral like the class bully who weeps openly through the school production of Godspell. Denial wears many veils, indeed.
Otherwise, it seems like the show’s creators have become so charmed by their own cleverness that they’re treading water, yet the show hovers around the level of cliche introspection (“Is a bird in the hand really worth two in the bush?” “Does love bite, and if so, will that bite become infected?”), instead of gracefully tackling complex subjects with humor as it’s done so well in seasons past.
Will Carrie find a mate who’s appealing and multifaceted enough that we can stand him for more than two episodes in a row? Will Miranda’s experiences with a new baby fall into whining cliches? Will Charlotte transcend her prison of tedious yuppie desires? Will Samantha do anything but chase meaty boy toys? Most importantly, will it be funny?
Lest we hold Sex & The City. up to HBO’s impossibly high standards, let’s appreciate what these women have done for us already. They’ve swilled and swaggered and squealed without a thought to their reputations or to whether oversized lapel flowers or bunny tails would ever really catch on with the wider population. Best of all, they’ve shown us that sluts’ dreams really do come true. Here’s hoping that our favorite sex fiends can mature gracefully, and continue to make us laugh while refusing to shy away from the complicated terrain of adult relationships.
The fourth season of Sex & The City is now available on DVD. The fifth season premieres on HBO July 17.
Heather Havrilesky eats Pop Tarts in bed in Los Angeles.
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