2012 was a year for revelations – the only one relevant to this article is that I realized Sex and the City is not overrated codswollop, but actually heartfelt, refreshingly honest television way ahead of its time.
Maybe Carrie’s lifestyle is unrealistic, and the proof of her supposed fantastic fashion sense at times painfully absent, but the love she has for her three ‘soulmates’ is palpable and well-acted.
During this time of filmic change towards producing entertainment for audiences ‘over the age of 30’ – The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and Quartet as examples – SATC should well be remembered for following characters that were not young or naïve. Miranda, Charlotte et al are not bright young things any longer.
For me, that was the element that really sealed the deal. Having dismissed the show casually as an arsey, fifteen year old feminist, I was exposed to it at university. Perhaps I had just become more sensitive, or perhaps I have grown old before my time, for I can empathise with the pressure ‘the gals’ are under – from society and at times themselves to conform.
The awkward queries of “how’s your love life?” are deftly answered, and conversations about children, marriage and moving out of Manhattan are resolved in various ways by the different characters.
These mature women – although often playful and realistically scared of the choices they have to make – demonstrate to the viewer that even if you live in a swanky New York apartment and can eat out every day, difficult real life choices still have to be made. These moments of painful realism make the series’ for me, as opposed to the constant shopping and party-going.
Constant throughout – whether in the midst of an AIDS scare or a very public fight with breast cancer – is the ever-lasting, forever inappropriate Samantha Jones. Long may she show us that claims that women ‘peak’ at the age of 22 are a load of bull.