The finale for "Sex and the City" is controversial. That's because Darren Starr, among others, felt that the writer, Michael Patrick King, was betraying the show's principles. SATC was about the challenges and perks of being single and having great friends. Why betray that tradition with a standard romantic comedy?
Fair enough. Like Emily Nussbaum, we can dream of something bolder, more experimental--something closer to the startling finale of "The Sopranos."
But I can't help but wonder: Does the SATC finale get enough credit? This is the work of a particularly shrewd gay male student of Nora Ephron, Ernst Lubitsch, and Rodgers and Hammerstein. It's a writer who has romantic-comedy knowledge deep within his bones. It's a triumph of craftsmanship. Does it really make sense within the context of the series, and given our knowledge of Mr. Big's sociopathic past? No. It does not. But it's still a small, sparkling jewel. Examine it with me.
Carrie begins in her Ordinary World: New York City. There's clothing! There's will-she-or-won't-she melodrama! (Mr. Big haunts Carrie's stoop like Casper the Friendly Ghost. There are jokes about phone numbers: "In case you might have forgotten mine, it's...") Mr. Big barters with his ex--remember, the first episode of this season was called "To Market, To Market"--and Mr. Big realizes, if he can't have either dinner or drinks, he really is in a crisis. A standard routine--one we have known well for six years.
Then: the summons to the Enchanted World, which is Hell, disguised as Paris. Carrie's wraith-like demonic captor is the powerful artist Petrovsky, who seems to do something involving lighting installations, like George, Jr., in "Sunday in the Park with George." It's evident to us, right away, that Petrovsky is a trickster: He is Satan in disguise! He speaks rudely in French with his sullen, scary daughter, while Carrie is left to twiddle her thumbs. He dumps his ex-wife on Carrie, and the ex-wife alludes to horrors from days of yore. He, Petrovsky, even encourages Carrie to smoke! And we moralistic Americans know this is a bad sign. Freud is trotted out: If Carrie is not satisfied with the penis on offer, she can at least comfort herself via a surrogate phallus, a Gauloise.
Other forms of compensation materialize: We see Carrie stuffing her face in various patisseries. This is not the Carrie we know! The link between sadness and culinary over-indulgence is less-than-subtle; the writer's finger-wagging is also evident; Roxane Gay would have a field day. As Carrie struggles not to recognize that her move to Paris was a mistake, the story takes on the tone of a silent film. Carrie has wordless encounters with dog poop in the street; Carrie washes her Louboutins in a fountain, while nasty Parisiennes mock her; Carrie feeds a Napoleon to a woeful mutt tied to a table. The moment of identification between stranded protagonist and stranded puppy is sweet and airy; it makes me think of classic black-and-white comedies, which seems to be the point.
Carrie's crisis arrives by means of a party. (Doesn't it always?) Carrie stumbles on some French lovers of her book of essays; they confess that they dress like her and try to talk like her. (One is a single woman; one is a gay man. This is a sly tip of the hat to SATC's core audience. It's always a way of acknowledging what a global phenomenon SATC had become by Season Six.)
Carrie sacrifices her party to help Cry-Baby Petrovsky, and then Petrovsky doesn't even care or treat her well. This is the last straw. Carrie knows she is a strong person; she has support in the form of adoring masses in Paris cafes! She has her CARRIE necklace back--found! after a frightening interlude buried in a secret pouch in her purse! She tells off Petrovsky; she slays the dragon. Her journey in Hell is over.
Now, Carrie can return to her Ordinary World with a precious elixir: a new understanding of her worth, and an awareness that all that glitters is not gold. This new wisdom helps her to see Mr. Big for what he (apparently) is: A flawed, funny shmoe who really loves her. Mr. Big stumbles over his own macho ego; he wants to assault Petrovsky, without context! Carrie tackles him in a hotel hallway--because Carrie is the adult here--and the two laugh and laugh and laugh. They will laugh all the way to the altar.
Meanwhile, there are charming subplots: Like the talking raccoons in a Disney movie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha all struggle with amusing problems of their own. Everyone is triumphant before the fall of the curtain.
Does all this acknowledge the real pain Mr. Big has caused for six years? No. Do we really even have a sense of who Mr. Big is when the lights finally fade to black? Maybe not. But Michael Patrick King has built a thriller: It's sexy and easy on the eyes, and its pacing is masterful. There. I've said it. In the dramaturg business, we talk about "animals" and "machines." A machine is a well-crafted story that just never comes to life. (An example of a machine would be the current musical "Mean Girls," on Broadway.) An animal is a story with craft that also happens to become a living, breathing thing; it's not merely proficient; it can move people. (Examples include "Carousel," "Sweeney Todd," "Hairspray.") The finale of SATC is an animal. It has life, almost in spite of itself. It was written with love.
Why does all this matter? Well, because Michael Patrick King also wrote the third movie, the movie we will never see. I believe there is genius in that there brain. And Kim Cattrall is preventing us--ALL of us--from helping Mr. King to LET THAT GENIUS OUT.
P.S. One of many grace notes I love in this episode: The gruff, no-nonsense Arecibo dispatch person who leaves a message for Carrie. CAR FOR BRADSHAW. That accent! This is New York City. No time for hemming and hawing.
Fair enough. Like Emily Nussbaum, we can dream of something bolder, more experimental--something closer to the startling finale of "The Sopranos."
But I can't help but wonder: Does the SATC finale get enough credit? This is the work of a particularly shrewd gay male student of Nora Ephron, Ernst Lubitsch, and Rodgers and Hammerstein. It's a writer who has romantic-comedy knowledge deep within his bones. It's a triumph of craftsmanship. Does it really make sense within the context of the series, and given our knowledge of Mr. Big's sociopathic past? No. It does not. But it's still a small, sparkling jewel. Examine it with me.
Carrie begins in her Ordinary World: New York City. There's clothing! There's will-she-or-won't-she melodrama! (Mr. Big haunts Carrie's stoop like Casper the Friendly Ghost. There are jokes about phone numbers: "In case you might have forgotten mine, it's...") Mr. Big barters with his ex--remember, the first episode of this season was called "To Market, To Market"--and Mr. Big realizes, if he can't have either dinner or drinks, he really is in a crisis. A standard routine--one we have known well for six years.
Then: the summons to the Enchanted World, which is Hell, disguised as Paris. Carrie's wraith-like demonic captor is the powerful artist Petrovsky, who seems to do something involving lighting installations, like George, Jr., in "Sunday in the Park with George." It's evident to us, right away, that Petrovsky is a trickster: He is Satan in disguise! He speaks rudely in French with his sullen, scary daughter, while Carrie is left to twiddle her thumbs. He dumps his ex-wife on Carrie, and the ex-wife alludes to horrors from days of yore. He, Petrovsky, even encourages Carrie to smoke! And we moralistic Americans know this is a bad sign. Freud is trotted out: If Carrie is not satisfied with the penis on offer, she can at least comfort herself via a surrogate phallus, a Gauloise.
Other forms of compensation materialize: We see Carrie stuffing her face in various patisseries. This is not the Carrie we know! The link between sadness and culinary over-indulgence is less-than-subtle; the writer's finger-wagging is also evident; Roxane Gay would have a field day. As Carrie struggles not to recognize that her move to Paris was a mistake, the story takes on the tone of a silent film. Carrie has wordless encounters with dog poop in the street; Carrie washes her Louboutins in a fountain, while nasty Parisiennes mock her; Carrie feeds a Napoleon to a woeful mutt tied to a table. The moment of identification between stranded protagonist and stranded puppy is sweet and airy; it makes me think of classic black-and-white comedies, which seems to be the point.
Carrie's crisis arrives by means of a party. (Doesn't it always?) Carrie stumbles on some French lovers of her book of essays; they confess that they dress like her and try to talk like her. (One is a single woman; one is a gay man. This is a sly tip of the hat to SATC's core audience. It's always a way of acknowledging what a global phenomenon SATC had become by Season Six.)
Carrie sacrifices her party to help Cry-Baby Petrovsky, and then Petrovsky doesn't even care or treat her well. This is the last straw. Carrie knows she is a strong person; she has support in the form of adoring masses in Paris cafes! She has her CARRIE necklace back--found! after a frightening interlude buried in a secret pouch in her purse! She tells off Petrovsky; she slays the dragon. Her journey in Hell is over.
Now, Carrie can return to her Ordinary World with a precious elixir: a new understanding of her worth, and an awareness that all that glitters is not gold. This new wisdom helps her to see Mr. Big for what he (apparently) is: A flawed, funny shmoe who really loves her. Mr. Big stumbles over his own macho ego; he wants to assault Petrovsky, without context! Carrie tackles him in a hotel hallway--because Carrie is the adult here--and the two laugh and laugh and laugh. They will laugh all the way to the altar.
Meanwhile, there are charming subplots: Like the talking raccoons in a Disney movie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha all struggle with amusing problems of their own. Everyone is triumphant before the fall of the curtain.
Does all this acknowledge the real pain Mr. Big has caused for six years? No. Do we really even have a sense of who Mr. Big is when the lights finally fade to black? Maybe not. But Michael Patrick King has built a thriller: It's sexy and easy on the eyes, and its pacing is masterful. There. I've said it. In the dramaturg business, we talk about "animals" and "machines." A machine is a well-crafted story that just never comes to life. (An example of a machine would be the current musical "Mean Girls," on Broadway.) An animal is a story with craft that also happens to become a living, breathing thing; it's not merely proficient; it can move people. (Examples include "Carousel," "Sweeney Todd," "Hairspray.") The finale of SATC is an animal. It has life, almost in spite of itself. It was written with love.
Why does all this matter? Well, because Michael Patrick King also wrote the third movie, the movie we will never see. I believe there is genius in that there brain. And Kim Cattrall is preventing us--ALL of us--from helping Mr. King to LET THAT GENIUS OUT.
P.S. One of many grace notes I love in this episode: The gruff, no-nonsense Arecibo dispatch person who leaves a message for Carrie. CAR FOR BRADSHAW. That accent! This is New York City. No time for hemming and hawing.
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