The Ruinous Legacy of SEX AND THE CITY
Unlike many women in “Sex and the City”’s target audience (single, thirtysomething urbanites), I hated the show from its first episode. (Thanks to roommates, though, I’ve seen them all.) I know I am in the minority. Never mind that the show somehow managed to convince legions of women that flash and glitter were more important than substance, that Manolos, Mojitos, and meaningless sex were the keys to life—never mind that this produced mystifying hordes of women who pay $545 to walk on what appear to be very tiny stilts.
It seemed, on the surface, to be such a watershed moment for feminism in pop culture when it debuted: a show about sexy, older women facing mishaps while trying to meet Mr. Right, talking as dirty as men do and leaning on their female friends when it counted most. But the farther we get from the series finale on HBO, the more I see through its shock value to its detrimental core. The “Sex and the City” women, with their designer clothes, faceless sex, and glitzy fundraisers, have somehow become the parody of the real New York woman—indeed, of the quintessential modern woman anywhere—one who works hard to achieve goals that have little to do with multiple orgasms (though we do consider them a bonus).
And somehow this insidious thing that supposedly ended two years ago (by sending Carrie into Big’s arms and thus shedding its entire aforementioned girl-power packaging) seems to seep into our mainstream culture more and more every day via
TBS reruns and never-ending DVD releases (
Complete Series Collector’s Giftset for a “discount” price of $187, anyone?). And that's not to mention the daily—nay, hourly—reminders we're getting thanks to the uber-promotion for "Failure to Launch," Sarah Jessica Parker's latest (and most successful yet) effort to translate her sexy reputation to the big screen. (Minus, naturally, any actual sex, since it's just one more romantic comedy that's higher on concept than on any realistic carnal relations.)
True, most women I talk to are aware that "Sex and the City" is just a fantasy. “Watching it is like reading a glossy magazine,” my roommate says. She started watching it while living in Spain; it made her want to move to New York. Still, “you can’t take it too seriously,” she insists.
Unfortunately, many do. One of the first post-finale warning signs was 2004’s publication of
“Reading Sex and the City,” a compilation of critical studies about the show’s relevance to society. The contributors, among them film studies professors and noted feminists, discussed the show’s place in society.
Give me a break.
We are all guilty of our stereotypical visions of New York, and mine was very different. I came to Manhattan 10 years ago imagining that I would hang out at CBGB and hear the rock heirs to Blondie and the Velvet Underground. I came to New York to be this kind of bohemian, adventurous woman, one who took risks and cared deeply and discovered the beautiful things in life. I did not come to the city to shop at Henri Bendel or sip $20 martinis while trying to impress some stockbroker. But suddenly that’s America’s vision of the New York girl; that’s what makes New York glamorous.
I believe that pop culture tells us a lot about who we are; I also believe that it’s possible to fill up empty images full of arbitrary meanings. Andy Warhol first showed us this with his painting of a Campbell’s soup can, giving the empty advertising image of a corporate commodity new “meaning” and artistic integrity.” That’s pretty much my impression of any cultural study of “Sex and the City”: an essentially shallow plot with stereotypical characters pumped full of authority. After all, you can’t have it both ways; it’s either a fantasy of New York single-hood, or it’s a very poor representation of reality.
Even as a fantasy, it leaves a lot to be desired. It’s true, as Betsy Israel pointed out in her book,
“Bachelor Girl,” that single women are often poorly portrayed in the media. But there have been exceptions. There was no doubt, for example, that Mary Richards worked hard for her living on “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” And the real sense of grief when everyone at WJM parted ways in the last episode was far more convincing than the strenuously unfunny girl bonding that took place in every “Sex” episode.
And it’s not a question of morality or promiscuity. The “Sex and the City” girls are badly written, identifiable only by their faults and neuroses. As early as 1925, with the publication of the hilarious and sexy “Gentleman Prefer Blondes” by
Anita Loos, it has been possible to portray the sexually aware, amoral gold digger as a heroine, someone you root for. In more recent times, Elaine Benes on “Seinfeld” was a gorgeous, funny, hot, no-longer-twentysomething woman who had casual sex with moving men and baseball stars. This was a girl who was always on the lookout for the right guy (even converting a gay guy temporarily), but refused to suffer fools or play sex kitten. Creating smart, sexy, realistic women isn’t impossible, but “Sex and the City” relied instead on assigning each of its actresses to a bundle of nervous ticks and bad habits instead of a personality.
Then why is it successful? The same reason the Spice Girls were. Like mass-marketed products, the show is generic, badly assembled, easily dated, made for fast consumption and eventual insignificance. In simpler language, it just goes down easy. It’s the Big Mac method of portraying single women, and the show deserves a “Super Size Me”-type expose, not scholarly adoration.
In the end, “Sex and the City” did more harm to single girls than it helped. It argued that style was something bought on Madison Avenue, not found within. It deluded many into thinking that glamour at 30 needs to mimic glamour at 16. This is a bald-faced lie, and it irritates me to no end. It’s made even worse by the critical idolatry of the characters. I agree with
Josephine Hart, the author of “Damage” and “Sin,” who noted in Vogue that these “icons of a kind of knowingness in sexual encounters” have “not a shred of erotic power.” They have nothing to teach us.
Even its fans agree: “I think its entertaining escapism,” says my roommate Mary, who subjected me to almost every episode, “but I don’t think there’s anything intelligent about it.” Let’s just hope for a day when equal TV time is given to the real New York bombshell, the one whose beauty is earned, not purchased.
I look forward to being one of them.
