Unless it’s considered as a prequel to “Golden Girls: The Motion Picture,” there ‘s not much left to say. A few drafts and a few conversations later, I can tell you: “Sex And The City: The Motion Picture, Not The Collectible DVD Series Endlessly Rerun In Cleaned-Up Versions On Cable” is review-proof. My favorite caution was from a twentysomething female friend who was going to a Cubs game the night I was to see the movie: anything you write that’s honest will make you seem sexist, or worse. Anything you write will be subject to attack: this is not for you. She’s right, too: the cultural phenomenon of the coverage of the opening weekend of this dishearteningly sloppy movie makes me wish for only one thing. Good movies about women and women’s lives, even women who shop, even women whose materialistic lives are no worse than the male characters in myriad studio pictures, even women who seem to be the avatars of misogynistic gay men. Even movies by men about women, men who like women, are good, open the doors. If not… admire the fury. Plus: somewhere, Luis Buñuel is smiling at the advanced level of foot fetishism. 154m. (Ray Pride)
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