It was last Thursday.
Last Thursday, after work, inexplicably, you and Raf have found the energy to meet in the cathedral and go to the movies together.
There is to be noted that you and the RAF have a pluricollaudata expertise on the subject. When you were living in Taranto, when I went to high school, in that strange age they do not smoke, do not drink, I hardly think that the tricks and embroidered jeans are terribly trendy, well then you fishing around at the film's most wanted among the numerous proposals of the five cities of the two seas, and having your limbs in slings puberty .
And here, 15 year olds issues, to look at the film The Son's Room by Nanni Moretti, who tickles the tonsils would have been more pleasant, Holy Smoke, a movie with Kate Winslet and Harvey Keitel that only you and Raf remembered in history the world, from Pangea onwards, Snow Falling on Cedars, which apart from the feminine beauty of Ethan Hawke, all to be saved, even those who can not. However, the apex, the apogee of your film experience was "Journey to Kandahar".
classmates, the RAF has always claimed to have you hated at first sight, the first day of high school, back in September 1999, because you were blonde and had a bag of Phard (ommioddio the Phard!). Actually I also had a long denim skirt with a row of buttons on the front, something very abhorrent, that would sincerely ask: but it was the fashion? It was our fault or our mothers had to vent in our wardrobe a late form of post-partum depression, brood for fifteen years and finally exploded in a orribondo adolescenticidi repertoire of clothing?
Who knows.
However, you and the RAF, the old friend so similar and so different (she's thin, neat, early morning and eat the coconut ice cream and melon ...) I picked up on each other behind the Mondadori di Piazza Duomo and drag you to the cinema . Both know that it will be a sad movie and damn commercial, commercial that bad, but you have undertaken not to read reviews, not to watch the trailer, to cross the threshold of entry as spurious any injury.
Along the way the RAF tells you that you have changed jobs. Another time. She says she is being a low, that his boss is mad, that are drying up, but that is happy. Enter the cinema and concert chats yet Jons and your last conversation. Around only women and queers, there is nothing to be done. The room is old and you, being on a diet, up to drink still mineral water.
Then the lights fall and Sex and the City 2 starts.
You make a clear premise: you loved the series. Made you laugh, made you empathize, you made her cry. Towards the end there was already a decline, there was the Russian who made it possible to milk the knees and even smurf would have been more exciting. Then the triumph of Big, the absurdly improbable happy ending, as if Mr. Big would change and after being huge assholes for six years suddenly become the ideal companions. However, that's fine. They decide to treat us with little women, to give us an ending with hearts and we take it there, without denying everything that was there before. The spirit of irreverent, over load, but exaggerated in some way, so sincere in the series a whole.
Then came the first film two years ago. You were in London and you saw the Odeon in Leicester Square. Several things you liked, but could make you smile and, undeniably, when Carrie suffers from the abandonment of yet another Big in Mexico and is depressed in some way, suffer with her. When Steve betrays Miranda, did you see in the eyes, which do not cry for her the character previously known.
Sex and the City 2 seems landed from another planet.
missing the soul of what has been, there is almost total absence of plot and the fashion, luxury, glam, which had been the backdrop to the personalities of the protagonists, became undisputed master of the scene, in full, total, embarrassing the expense of the quality of the narrative.
For half the film, technically, nothing happens.
Carrie and Big look like a boring couple and she is, as usual, taken by jerking off his ever-present: 50 years can not be resigned to watch a movie on a 52-inch flat screen TV with the man for whom he brought her there for 10 years, but it needs to "twinkle." Charlotte for most of the film is a portrait of a middle class on the verge of a nervous breakdown, exhausted by two daughters, despite the full-time nanny.
Miranda, a character perhaps more beautiful, more human and also more cynical, it is completely flattened in the role of American tourist in Abudhabi.
Samantha continues to fight against time is the only laugh, pity that they have made a caricature of itself, reducing it to just be an old girl intent on shoot his last cartridge, roughly without that cheeky wisdom that made her so special. becomes a sort of surrogate female Christian De Sica, with excesses of trash worthy of the best Italian cinepanettoni.
One last note about the madness with no return of Carrie, magically, he met Aiden on vacation, we went to dinner, she kisses him and tells everything taken from epileptic seizures, and by telephone during the night, Big. Upon returning to New York, the most pure psychedelia, that if it had existed at the time Sex and the City, Syd Barrett would have gone in for that and not for LSD: Big shows the faithless - if you will - with Carrie a large black diamond the same as Carrie, so that she can remember wearing it every day to be married.
She laughs, he's happy and Giulia.
But it takes so long to realize that the ring means that Big, during his absence, has apparently pushed sex with Penelope Cruz?
short, even the vaunted friendship seems to fail, the "girls" seem more than ever taken from their personal struggles and unnecessary, so much so that until the second half of the film Miranda decides to talk with Charlotte - just a woman in decline psychic - how difficult it is to be a mother and, meanwhile, make a toast to women that they succeed without a nanny full-time.
circumstances, be for or against Sex and the City is not to be feminist or sexist. It wants to intellectual honesty to recognize that the decay of some characters, exactly as in the past if they recognized the beauty.
Among the elements to play on the TV series, there was complicity with the audience and a degree of empathy rather than concrete because, as unfounded, all in some stage of life, men like assholes and heeled shoes. And everyone has at least one of the misfortunes that happen to the protagonists.
But in the movies, especially in the past, this calm and strong bond is broken. Altogether. Humanity Drowning in a modus vivendi completely away from the daily ups and downs of any normal spectator.
Probably, if between Dior and Blanik, they added a pinch of reality, a taste of that spirit that we had won, the film would come to the heart. But it did not happen. And the glitter can not replace the complete lack of inspiration.
You and Raf, exits, yawning.
With your flip-flops, the exhaustion of a working day, the smell of a city anxious and distressed and wearing an incredibly simple desire to leave, sea, sun.
Finish.
A minute's silence for the death of freedom of information .
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