Sex and the City runs, or better say sashays, two hours and twenty minutes. That’s a lot of clothes and accessories, a lot of accompanying pop songs, a lot of chatty first-person narration, a lot of superficiality, a lot of vacuity. (The writer and director, Michael Patrick King, is an accredited veteran of the defunct HBO series.) Maybe it would help if you had followed these four bosom buddies — the stringy Sarah Jessica Parker, the Amazonian Kim Cattrall, the pop-eyed Kristin Davis, the pinched Cynthia Nixon — throughout their six seasons of looking for love. To be sure, there’s not much looking anymore, and yet not much relating, either: the men, now that they’ve been landed, are little more than accessories themselves. Tempestuous developments do occur: one of the buddies neglects to wax her pubes, one of them poops her pants, one of them packs on a spare bicycle tire, and the remaining one dyes her hair. (Symptoms of bigger things, but even so.) I say maybe it would help. From firsthand experience, I couldn’t really know, although I very much doubt it. After two-twenty, I felt as if I’d sat through at least two seasons. Somebody would, and somebody did, have to pay me.