By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
By now, you've probably heard the rumors that someone dies in the new Sex and the City movie. So widespread is this buzz that it has been publicly denied by the film's director. But that was just to get you off the scent! In fact, as the Voice has learned, not just one character expires in the upcoming film—everybody croaks. How else to ensure that endless sequels featuring a doddering Samantha drooling over the dildo counter at Toys in Babeland and a silver-haired Carrie traipsing around in chic orthopedic shoes don't dog us for the next three decades?
But how does it happen that four plucky gals in the bloom of middle age meet such untimely fates? Perhaps you've seen the trailer on YouTube in which a hangdog Steve Brady is heard to say: "It only happened once." You probably think he's referring to some niggling infidelity, but nuh-uh. It turns out that Steve-O suspects that his wife, Miranda, is cheating on him with Syd, the lesbian lawyer from season one, and he's apologizing for getting blotto at the law firm's annual dinner and calling his Miranda a "pussy-gobbling dykey-doo." His fears are confirmed two days later, when he comes home early and finds her rolling around on their Duxiana mattress with Syd. Pulling out a Grohmann steak knife from their Poggenpohl kitchen cabinet, he cuts Ms. Muff Diver out of his life forever.
Steve hires Harry Goldenblatt, Charlotte York Goldenblatt's attorney hubby, to defend him. (If you have any doubts about Harry's lawyerly acumen, you have only to recall that he managed to up Charlotte's divorce settlement from a proffered stamp collection to a splendiferous Park Avenue apartment.) To raise money for Steve's defense, Harry convinces him to burn down Scout, the trendy-if-already-dated-looking downtown saloon Steve owns, for the insurance money. (In the current economy, the place is tanking anyway.) Unfortunately, neither Steve nor Harry is an expert in pyrotechnics: The saloon goes up in flames, but so do Harry and Steve.
Charlotte has no time to grieve. That very afternoon, she meets her maker when she slips on an errant square of coagulating matzo brei left on the floor by her adopted daughter, Mai Pang Goldenblatt. (The blob blended perfectly, to Charlotte's peril, with the terrazzo-tile floor of the Goldenblatts' Clive Christian kitchen.)
At this very same moment, Samantha Jones is strolling happily out of her oncologist's office, having just gotten a super-clean bill of health. And how does she want to celebrate this good news? What do you think? She can't call her most recent paramour, the hunky model-actor boy-toy Smith Jarrett, since he passed away the week before, having developed a fatal listeria infection from the raw food he insisted on eating. So she looks up old paramour Richard Wright, the hotel mogul/compulsive cheater, for some make-up sex, and he suggests a quick trip to Rio in his private plane. Unfortunately, while renewing their membership in the Mile-High Club, the plane's steering column gets stuck up Samantha's preternaturally perky keister. As she spirals to new heights of ecstasy, the Cessna spirals to the ground.
Carrie Bradshaw never finds out about this. She is still reeling from the obituary she sees that morning on the front page of the Times: In a freak accident in Paris, Aleksandr Petrovsky spills a tumbler of Stolichnaya all over the circuits connecting his latest large-scale light installation to the power of his Montparnasse art gallery. Voila! Electrocutionaire! This, coming on the heels of reports that her old flame Aidan Shaw flamed out after succumbing to a vicious bite from a rabid raccoon in the backyard of his revoltingly rustic cabin in Suffern, New York. Luckily, Carrie never hears the worst news of all: Mr. Big wasn't that gargantuan after all. Poor Carrie. If she had taken the $30,000 that Big offered her to buy her apartment in episode 64, she might've gotten over him a whole lot sooner, since the check probably would have bounced. The only thing big about Mr. Big's financial picture, it turns out, is his ability to convince people that he is a multibillionaire, not just a smooth-talking Blood Sweat & Tears fan in an empty Brioni suit. Once the SEC starts investigating the financial shenanigans propping up his Napa vineyard, the extent of Mr. Big's malfeasance is revealed to be so grand that even the ministrations of the late Harry Goldenblatt couldn't help. At least Big goes out in a big way: He rents the nine-room Peter Marino/I.M. Pei–designed Ty Warner suite on the 52nd floor of the Four Seasons Hotel and shuffles off this mortal coil from a massive floor-to-ceiling bay window.
But just as his flailing carcass is flapping in the wind, just as his handmade Peel loafers are flying off his feet and thudding onto an air-conditioning duct far below, Carrie is exiting Jeffrey's in the meatpacking district, her arms so full of new Choos and Louboutins that she can barely see over the top box. Thus impaired, she catches a heel of the sky-scraping Manolos she's wearing on a sidewalk grate, pitches forward, and is forthwith flattened by a 14th Street cross-town bus sporting a poster of a come-hither Carrie on its side.