Entertainment, Movies - Navy Times

Self-indulgent ‘Sex’

Confession time: Your resident action-adventure junkie here was a regular viewer of “Sex and the City” during that show’s run on HBO from 1998 to 2004.

I’m sure I wasn’t the only guy in that boat. After all, this was four cute women with naughty streaks who spent much of their time having sex — when they weren’t talking dirty about having sex.

Yes, the emotional schmaltz and the designer shoe mania that consumed Big Apple newspaper sex-advice columnist Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) and her BFFs could get a bit thick. But that’s what TV remotes and ESPN are for.

The show was always a trifle — a modern, urban fairy tale most notable for the self-absorption of its heroines, who existed in a weirdly insulated bubble that no vestige of the outside world could pierce.

The self-indulgent narcissism wasn’t overbearing in 30-minute chunks. But it hits pathological levels when poured over nearly 2½ hours of the new big-screen version of “Sex and the City.”

The movie picks up four years after the TV show left off, reacquainting us with Carrie and pals: sexually voracious public-relations goddess Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall); uptight, high-powered lawyer Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon); and sweet heiress Charlotte York (Kristin Davis).

After breaking up about 15 times on the show, Carrie and her longtime love, high-powered financier Mr. Big (Chris Noth), are finally tying the knot.

Big would prefer something simple and low-key, but almost against her will, Carrie swiftly goes bridezilla.

Anyone familiar with the duo’s dynamic knows what must happen next. This sparks a gal-pal road trip — so Carrie can have a breakdown at a five-star Mexican resort.

This draggy, funereal sequence is broken when one of the girls swallows some water in the shower and develops a case of Montezuma’s revenge, which leads to a gastrointestinal crisis that is the film’s comedic apex, as far as I’m concerned.

Then they all head back to New York, where Carrie deals with her heartbreak in typical fashion — by changing her hair color and hiring a personal assistant (Jennifer Hudson of “Dreamgirls,” far too talented for a borderline-patronizing role that seems to exist mainly to add some color to an otherwise very pale cast).

As this plays out, all of the other women circle like planets around Carrie’s sun with subplots of their own — which serve only to further soften the already flabby narrative focus.

Samantha, who’s been with hunky model Smith Jerrod (Jason Lewis) for five years, apparently is reaching her monogamy limit.

Miranda is cracking under the pressure of trying to have it all, barking at laid-back bartender Steve (David Eigenberg) like she’s auditioning for a remake of “Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS” and going Ice Age in the bedroom, too.

Charlotte, who has always had the least emotional baggage of the four, has finally gotten pregnant with loving hubby Harry (Evan Handler) — but with bad things befalling all her friends, she’s sure she is due for tragedy.

Writer-director Michael Patrick King, who pulled similar duties on a number of the TV episodes, crams in too much of everything — which serves only to remind viewers that these characters can be annoyingly unlikable.

Some of the best moments are the quiet ones. A New Year’s Eve montage set to a gorgeous version of “Auld Lang Syne” by Scottish duo Mairi Campbell and Dave Francis is powerfully poignant.

In fact, that could have been a workable ending. But fairy tales need to be happily-ever-after, so we get 40 more minutes of sudsy drama before the preordained wrap-up arrives.

Such carping will fall on deaf ears among the faithful; “Sex and the City” is a big, wet smooch to the show’s cult, which will gladly break out the Manolo Blahniks one more time.

Whether that cult is still big enough — and devoted enough — to ensure boffo box-office returns remains to be seen. If it were 40 minutes shorter, I’d say yes. But whoever green-lighted 145 minutes of this fluff was slurping down one too many Cosmos.

Rated R for nudity, dirty talk and obsessive-compulsive shopping. Got a rant or rave about the movies? E-mail cvinch@atpco.com.