Sex and the City:The Lying, the Bitch, and the Wardrobe

Yesterday, I was one of the uncountable women who met up with some of my best girl friends and viewed the highly anticipated Sex and the City movie.  The whole thing was a gigantic production: for the first time in my life, I was carded to see a movie, and all the ladies were ushered around the theater like cattle, forced to show our ticket stubs every time we left the theater to buy popcorn or go to the restroom, and made to stand in particular lines and take particular exits.  While my girlfriends and I were not as into the whole experience as the three ladies in front of us who squealed that they'd "never forget this moment!" we were certainly looking forward to being reunited with some our favorite four female television characters, and seeing which, if any, of the rumors and spoilers we'd been reading about over the past few months were true.

Because I knew there would be some pretty heavy criticism of the movie, and because I wanted to form my own opinion of it independent of the opinion of others, I purposefully avoided reading any reviews, and, I think, this was my saving grace for the movie.  I'm only slightly ashamed to say that I really enjoyed it.  Sure, it was overly sentimental and I definitely felt emotionally manipulated and drained when I walked out of the theater -- my friend Meri and I both felt dazed and slightly confused as we walked down to Wine Bar -- but I also laughed, cried and mostly enjoyed myself.  Only now, when I feel far enough removed from my experience to not feel offended by people who are highly critical of the movie, have I allowed myself to read some reviews and I have to say that I basically all the way agree with Anthony Lane's review in the New Yorker.  

Importantly, too, I feel as though the movie has come entirely full circle in such a way that I don't feel the characters have matured or developed beyond the women we were introduced to back in 1998, and I can't tell whether or not I'm upset or glad for this.  Should I like that these women, in spite of all the things they've been through with men and relationship, have been able to maintain their initial opinions and outlooks on these topics, or should I feel insulted by their lack of growth?  While I might not have the answers to these questions now, I can say with full certainty that it is time for the Sex and the City empire to fall.  It's run its course, and most of us have enjoyed the ride, but I just don't think that I can take anymore.  

Union Square Fight Club

What is so awesome about watching people (try to) beat each other up, I'll never understand, but apparently a lot of hipsters and Union Square wanderers were really fascinated by the real life Fight Club that took place last night in the park. For me, violence has always made me really uncomfortable: I can't stand to watch boxing matches, I would purposefully not gawk at fights that broke out when I was in school and, often, I find myself feeling mostly nauseous at the sight of people engaging in any sort of phsycial struggle. Which is why all the hype and the write up about the event is so confusing to me. Maybe it's a masculine thing and has to do with power and struggle and all that sort of thing, but, seriously, why is it so cool for this to be happening in public, with referees and people cheering and getting excited that someone could get really injured? Mostly, I'm just saddened that it seems to indicate that we, as a society, are not nearly as civilized as we'd like to believe.

King Yum

Chances are, you've never even heard of the 5o+ year-old Tiki Bar, King Yum, which is located way out in Hillcrest, a historically Jewish neighborhood in Flushing, Queens; but this is certainly a place that every New Yorker should have in their back pocket of tricks for those times when all other options just seem lackluster and stale. The restaurant has been written up on a few blogs, including Gothamist, but what these reviewers fail to address is the fact that King Yum has a karaoke night every Wednesday and Friday that is probably the most fun you've ever had at a restaurant. Indeed, the kitsch of the place does make you feel as though you're in Disney's Epcot Center, but, unlike that cash-trap, you can escape with your wallet relatively unscathed and with the assuredness that you will be unable to speak the following day, your vocal chords and throat so tired and scratchy from screaming along to songs ranging from It's Raining Men to Big Spender, and Don't Stop Believing to I'll Make Love to You. My trip there on Friday night was even more incredible than I could have imagined or prepared for, and I won't soon forget the entire restaurant standing up to dance to Sugar Hill Gang's Jump On It or the flaming drinks and entrees that left me feeling as though I'd been gloriously dunked into a vat of both run and MSG. I can't wait to go back.

Artist and muse

Recently, a painting by Lucien Freud sold for over 17 million pounds, which is the most a painting by a living artist as ever sold for, and now, of course, the speculation about the work, about him as a painter, indeed about the history of art itself has begun. This article in today's Guardian, seeks to question the role of the muse in the world of art and argues that women are generally muses for male artists, and that this relationship perpetuates the idea that men are active (seeing the woman, painting her) while women are passive (they are looked at, often in a submissive position -- sitting or laying down -- and are thereby made into nothing more than an object). I get this argument, and I can certainly also find a certain validity in it. There are numerous examples in the history of art where the man's gaze has been used to exploit the female body, causing adverse affects on the psyche of the woman herself and, possibly, on the idea of the female in general.

However, I can't help but think about way, way back, in the very beginning of the history of art all the way through the present, and how women are not always represented in a negative way. Take the Venus of Willendorf, for example. She's one of the very first pieces of art ever, and certainly one of the first artistic renderings of the female form. She's exaggerated, her breasts, vulva, buttocks are all heightened in their representation but this is not an objectification of female sexuality. Rather, she's a celebration of the female form, of fertility, of the idea of reproduction as a beautiful and innate part of a woman. Of course, there are some feminists today who might object to this as being a primarily positive representation of a woman and claim that it can be aruged that this piece is the basis for the belief that women are nothing more than baby vessels. I just don't see it that way, and I think that it's important to note that yes, perhaps there have been instances in which male artists have taken advantage of their artistic authority when it comes to their female subjects, but there are also a whole school of male artists who are celebrating women and their bodies. We live in a patriarchy, yes, but sometimes, there are men who celebrate the matriarchy, and I don't think their efforts should be overlooked or overshadowed.

Consolers of the Lonely

Today has been one of those days and so now that I've nearly reached quittin' time, I've found myself blastin' The Raconteurs' new album and letting myself get lost in my strange but undeniable obsession with Jack White. See, I'm totally digging this new album. I really enjoyed Broken Boy Soldier, but, for whatever reason, feel like there's a depth to this record that was lacking on their first and so I'm listening to Consolers of the Lonely almost on repeat, exciting myself with all the little musical gems that I keep finding with each new listen. Plus, look how awesome they are on Jools Holland:

The way Jack and Brendan play off each other both vocally and instrumentally is pretty fun to watch, and sort of makes me wish that I'd bought some tickets to one of their three sold out New York shows this summer.

America's Next Top Average-Sized Model

When I sit down to watch an episode of America's Next Top Model, I rarely ever pay very much attention to anything but the last fifteen or so minutes. That is to say, I only really care about the end results of the photo shoots and the many inane ramblings of Tyra Banks during judging. And even though I'd probably only give this show about a four or five on a ten-point scale of enjoyable trashy television, I basically never miss an episode (thanks, DVR!) because I'm always interested to see how these girls develop as "models" and which least-deserving girl will win. Last night, for the first time in the show's seemingly infinite cycles, the "plus size" model actually won. It was both really exciting and really anti-climatic. Whitney is, undoubtedly, gorgeous. She has a really lovely bone structure and knows what she's doing in front of the camera. Also, she's probably the thinnest of any plus model that's ever been on the show -- well, there was Robin from Cycle One, but she was old and too intensely religious to be a Top Model. Anyway, I was happy that, finally, after Tyra's preaching for the past five years about how a "juicy" girl could be the winner of Top Model, she finally delivered on her word. But, now I feel like I can never root for the token plus size model again. It's already been done. It's over. And it's a little disappointing. Plus, there's this gossip, which, though unsurprising, is still pretty upsetting.

Faster than a speeding bullet

While I've never been at all a fan of comic books, I've recently found that I'm surprisingly interested in a lot of the culture surrounding it. Two of the most enjoyable books I've read in recent history have been The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and The Fortress of Solitude, and I thought that Michael Chabon's piece in a March issue of the New Yorker about how to dress superheroes was fascinating and enlightening. And now, the Metropolitan Museum of Art has jumped on board. Last night, they opened their newest exhibition, Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy, in conjunction with their annual Costume Institute Gala. I, for one, am really thrilled about this new exhibit. It's just the sort of merging of pop and high culture that I've come to find as very stimulating and I feel as though the whole thing will somehow be very empowering. The exhibit opens to the public tomorrow, May 7th, and while I've not yet seen it, I'm fairly confident that I can strongly recommend it to anyone interested in fashion, superheroes, comic books, art and/or adventure.