surreal

Amongst the ladies of Sex and the City , Kim Cattrall and the character she portrays Samantha Jones are my favourites. Except probably for Miranda, I’m exhausted with all the Carrie and Charlotte storylines. Both Samantha and Kim have shown that the way to cool and happiness is not always about the picket fences and the little nippers. Damn those writers who gave Samantha the cancer and escape to LA to be with Smith as TV star plots. Okay, most guys call Samantha Jones slutty, because of her bed choices and prospects. While men who sleep around are called playboys (as Jeanette reminded me yesterday). Well, as I’ve beamed and beholded over the years, men and gossip-mongering women are obsessed with the good girls, the quiet type who sits by the corner, goes to church and reads the bible. But what lurks beneath the good girl images are the sharp tongues of judgments. They bite more than the figure-hugging sound bites.

Anyhow, Kim Cattrall’s forays in the West End are wonderful gigs to all of us fans. Her latest, playing a role at least twenty years younger opposite an actor 18 years her junior is something only the beautiful and highly-talented Ms Cattrall could muster in such elegant fashion. Private Lives, a 1930s comedy of manners by Noel Coward, focuses on a divorced couple reigniting their passion while honeymooning in the same hotel with their new spouses. It’s a completely hilarious play replete with beautiful set decorations. Cattrall’s posh English accent is so credible that I was trying to recall her authentic speaking voice all throughout the hours I was glued in the stalls of Vaudeville Theater. But unlike the movies, where you can watch replays on the movie channels, being part of an audience in a play is like a surreal flash, absorb the performance and the moment, as this is it, the next night’s interpretation wouldn’t be the same ( if we have the money and the time).