Needless to say, Sags in the City or whatever the movie is called isn’t on my list to go see. But the poor male reviewer cruelly given the task nicely captures why men find not only the bygone show, but its cult, so loathesome.
If the atmosphere inside the cinema bordered on the devotional and the theatre was filled with the sounds of women emoting, outside the atmosphere was hysterical.
Don’t get me wrong, I would have loved to write the script for the big move to the big screen. Two-thirds of the way through, after the usual montage of tiresome romance, relationship babble in expensive restaurants and designer retail therapy, the four aging ghouls would be revealed to be vampires. That’s right, the perfect blending of the Sexually Empowered ’90s Woman and Dark Romance! And after two hours of this excruciating sensory torture, what man wouldn’t pay to see a grand finale of the Unsexiest Woman Alive thrashing around screaming and spraying blood all over the place with a wooden stake hammered through her chest?
For how can you celebrate la petite mort in a situation that cries out for La Grand Guignol?