In defense of Sex and the City

By now, we're well familiar with the charges against Sex and the City. It ruined New York City. It turned otherwise quality ladies into brand-obsessed slags dribbling pink cocktails down their giant-flower-festooned décolletage and shoveling overpriced cupcakes into their man-hungry maws. And, of course, it gave us a new brand of slut. The worst kind of slut. The slut who really, really just wants to have relationship talks and, of course, ultimately marry a rich man with an important job.

Three reasons to stop worrying, chill out with some Arbor Mist, slap down the price of admission, and enjoy the happy slag reunion without an ounce of shamePerhaps in light of these allegations, media coverage of the upcoming movie has not been particularly kind. Last week,Time Out New York Photoshopped duct tape on the mouths of the Sex foursome, promising readers a "Carrie-free summer." Radar took its own shots at the "vapid young women" heading to the multiplex. And even the forgiving articles seem accompanied with an eye roll. (See the New York Times' painfully titled "One for the Ladies—and Their Friends," which, the New York Observer aptly noted, painted female fans as so irrationally giddy about the movie premiere they were "totally freaking out and practically pouring Cosmo mix into their stilettos.")

So where does that leave fans of SATC, when expressing genuine, non-ironic excitement for the film is about as cool as joining a Diablo Cody fan club?

Below, three reasons to stop worrying, chill out with some Arbor Mist, slap down the price of admission, and enjoy the happy slag reunion without an ounce of shame.

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1. Sex and the City is modern mythology, with bad sex and good clothes.
Could Carrie afford that apartment? Or those shoes? Would four professional women gather together regularly to quaff white wine and discuss their pubic hair arrangements? No, probably not. But arguments against the "believability" of SATC tend to ignore the fact that entertainment doesn't have to be realistic to be relatable and resonant. (Just look at Star Wars, Star Trek, and other star-related franchises.) It's been argued before, but it's worth repeating again: Carrie and Co. weren't supposed to be like us or like anyone we actually knew. They were roles women could take on anytime—the slut, the prude, the kooky overfeeling narcissist, the brain. Sex's men were also archetypes—broadly drawn characters you'll find in nearly every woman's personal dating mythology. Get a group of ladies together to swap dating war stories and the featured players will inevitability include: a nice guy we couldn't commit to (Aidan), and a toxic bachelor who kept us coming back for more (Big). No, we couldn't dress like them, we couldn't have sex like them (without serious risk of infection), but we could feel their struggles against loneliness, irrelevance, and, occasionally, their glee at being the bawdiest bitches in the room.

Sure, some people believed it wholesale. Some women lost years of their lives arguing over who was the Charlotte and who was the Miranda. (Hint: No one ever wants to be the Miranda. Something about the hair.) But some people also believe the Da Vinci Code is real, that forwarding an e-mail will earn them a dollar from Bill Gates, and that sometime in the year 2012 we're going to be delivered into Jesus' arms while Kirk Cameron stays behind to battle the Antichrist.

Let's give the majority of SATC viewers a little more credit. Yes, even the TBS ones.