Romance Unlimited

What makes a great chic flick? That may be answered with a counter-question… What is it that we chics want?

There is a point to all of this, I promise…

Here is a list of things (in random order please note) that would constitute necessities in any chic’s life:

1. Shoes and bags (only gargantuan quantities applicable)
2. Romance and love (this website uses conservative terminology only)
3. Clothes and more clothes (and even more clothes)
4. Bitching and gossip (get me a forklift, will ya?)
5. Weight loss information and validation (it's kinda like research... first, 'what is it???' and then, 'is it working??? seriously??? are you sure???')
6. All of the above (to the power of infinity)
7. Did I forget jewellery? (sacrilegious!)

Let me clarify right away that it is with extreme pride that I state these as absolute necessities. I may be sounding trite but that does not bother me as much as it would bother me to know that I can’t have one or more of the above.

That is why it is with great awe and undying devotion that I have pledged my life to Sex and the City. 6 seasons of the BIG, the BAD and the OH SO HOT! Followed by the ultimate chic movie of all time!

Now you have to understand that a great movie is not always about ground breaking cinema, wonderful performances and unparalleled direction.

Sometimes, it’s just about lust.

Let’s take the Sex and the City movie, par example. Carrie and BIG (I love him, he’s so tall) indulge in shoulder to head combat (again) until love finally triumphs (again) as the movie simultaneously pays tribute to great friends, Cosmopolitans, that hideous it-can-only-be-a-Louis Vuitton bag, Chanel, Vera Wang, Vivienne Westwood and of course, Manolo Blahnik… There were more names, I think, but I’m just not THAT much of a fashion gal. :P

What’s pathetic is that tug I felt as my stomach lurched when Carrie walked into what was to be the BIG (sorry, I can’t stop) home of her dreams and straight inside the shoe closet that would make any New York rent-paying tenant see red, and saw the two most important aspects of her life in front of her… the BIG and the MANOLO… Ohhhh, the agony, the ecstasy, the brain swarming with a million thoughts ready to explode… How much of a sucker am I?

Ooops, this was supposed to be a review… I’ll get right to it!

HBO’s uber-successful 6-season long show finally came to the BIG (damn it) screen earlier this month, in what was probably an effort to milk whatever emotion was left, from us chic’s that had already gone gaga over the clothes, the accessories and the men many times over. The island of Manhattan, where Brooklyn is another country and New Jersey probably isn’t even on the map, is the playground of Carrie and her 3 friends, the sex bomb, the crazy lady on the bus who loses her mind every time the driver brakes and missus optimistica bouncylicious… It’s not that hard to allocate the appropriate names.

There’s no point going into details. It’s the commitment phobias, the misunderstandings, the ‘it’s so hard to stay loyal these days’ drama once again, perfectly complementing that Manhattan-esque sense of ‘anywhere else is a curse word’.

What works for this movie is the oestrogen factor. Fashion, friendship and forever come together to provide the perfect orgasm. Basically, an extended episode with a happy ending. Pun absolutely intended.

In a moment of clarity, I wonder, not for the first time, how the neurotic Carrie can afford her little New York apartment AND pay for all the shoes AND conveniently forget her $525 Manolo’s in a penthouse that she may never call home. The rest of them either have lucrative jobs or are married to people who have lucrative jobs. Fairly believable. But only in the dreamy world of television and film can a curly-haired complicated shoe-obsessed gal be in a Vogue fashion story and get a wedding gown completely free of charge because the designer liked her in it! Appalling, a scandal, this is too much!

The cloud returns and I tell myself to look at the BIG (OK that’s it, I’m just going to whack myself now) picture… A movie like that for women is like a rugby match for men… You get all beat up and injured, and your clothes are all torn and stained, and your helmet won’t come off and… Wait a second, guys actually like that shit? Excuse me, but I’ll take the Manolo Mania any day!