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BY MAGGIE SCOTT

They say you can’t step into the same river twice. But, apparently, in the romantic comedy “Sex in the City” you can drive into the same traffic jam twice. Michael Patrick King, the creator of the innovative television series, has given its adoring fans what we think we wanted—-a big screen saga of the classiest, brassiest, sassiest dames in Manhattan.

But, alas, to paraphrase Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, “the picture’s big, but the girls got small.” Four years after the series ended and 20 years after Carrie Bradshaw first hit the streets of New York “looking for labels and love,” the girl has become a woman; seasoned by numerous affairs of the heart and other parts with the opposite sex and sustained by her greatest love—her friendships with Charlotte (Kristin Davis), Samantha (Kim Cattrall) and Miranda (Cynthia Nixon).

Loyal protectors and supporters, they have been through the wringer with Carrie and her off-again, on-again affair with Mr. Big (Chris Noth). Now, all have settled into domestic tranquility. And, alas, that means that the audience will settle back into big-time expectations unmet.

While many of the television show’s half-hour stories were gems, King’s screenplay barely manages the odd facet here and there; with its disappointing mix of same-old, same-old and puzzling omissions of such beloved features as Carrie’s wise, witty and wonderful analysis of the single life, heard in narration and seen in the dazzling leads to her newspaper column, “Sex and the City.”

Carrie is writing her fourth book. Not about seeking love, but finding love. Mr. Big is making her ultimate fantasy of a penthouse suite with an acre of walk-in closet and a rooftop garden a reality.

Miranda is suffering long-term relationship doldrums and shutting down sexually.
Samantha is chafing at not being the center of attention in her five-year relationship with her actor lover, Smith Jerrod (Jason Lewis).

Charlotte has found her bliss with husband Harry (Evan Handler) and adopted daughter Lily.

So, the friends’ lives are still about sex: Samantha is obsessed with a hot body she can’t have; Miranda puts Steve (David Eigenberg) into the doghouse for an indiscretion; Charlotte discovers she’s still fertile and Carrie gets her heart whip lashed by the botch-it-big Mr. Big (whose real name, by the way, is revealed in the film).

So, what does King do for these gals with all the complexities of real life that have transpired since Carrie last strapped on a Jimmy Choo? He gives Carrie a twenty-something assistant (Jennifer Hudson) with a hankering for high-end fashion; a designer dog that loves to hump pillows to Sam; a new apartment in the “old Ukrainian” part of the city to Miranda; and another goo-gooing tax deduction to Charlotte.

Not the stuff of unforgettable drama. King has done the unforgivable: made our girls shallow and their lives negligible. On TV, the girls coped with the reality of the possibility of no happy endings, and we were caught up in their struggles and enthralled by their curiosity, carnality, smart minds, dumb moves, vulnerability and chutzpah. But, just like that, the magic is over.

A New Line Cinema release, rated R for strong sexual content, nudity, language.

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