This past weekend, I went to go see "Sex and the City" like every other gal out there, and like most, I loved it. But other than the (somewhat predictable but thoroughly enjoyable) storyline and (shockingly mature but somewhat blurry) message of forgiveness, I found myself focused on the main attraction: the fashion.
The movie was a label whore's paradise: Chanel, Louis Vuitton (although I thought that Motard Firebird Bag was a hideous but thoughtful gift from Carrie to her personal assistant), Nancy Gonzales, Carolina Herrera, Vivienne Westwood...the list goes on and on. This is partly the New York City appeal: the glitz, the glamour, the glory of Fifth Avenue. And like a true sucker, I fell for it.
While this may sound like a shocking betrayal, I must admit that New York has become less glamorous as of late. I see more shlubs than sartorialists, and more and more the latter get raised eyebrows than the former. Sarah Jessica Parker herself has lamented the loss of "Old New York," and the movie captures the essence of all that it once was: when style was individual, not mass produced; when labels were optional, not mandatory; when clothes were a prop, not "it."
Today, style has become so watered down, even in the Big Apple. I grow tired of the all-black look, the Louis Vuitton Speedys on every wrist, the slinky jersey dresses on equally slinky girls at night. Part of the pleasure in watching the clothes in the movie was the mixture of recognition and mystery in a surprising ensemble. Perhaps this belief is as equally fantasized as the movie itself: after all, we all can't have Patricia Field dressing us with a limitless fashion fund to match. But I can't help hold onto the hope that the movie may inspire a newfound return to old New York City glamour.