Everyone else seems to be watching The Apprentice at the moment. Including the strangers who tell me what I look like:

‘You remind me of Rafe from The Apprentice‘ – said to me by a man in the Boogaloo the other day.

I’m not a fan of The Apprentice, so this is lost on me. All I know about Alan Sugar is that he reminds me of the officers in Catch 22. The ones who offer Yossarian everything he wants: get him out of war, give him a medal, be a hero back home, if he only does one thing for them… ‘Like us’. Mr Sugar knows that money can’t buy love, or make a dull rich man any less dull, but it can buy TV stardom, and so it can buy TV love.

As reality TV shows go, I prefer Big Brother‘s shameless encouragement of dayglo, party-girl narcissism. Rather that than a programme where everyone’s heart’s desire is to tug their forelocks and defer to a successful businessman who wants to be on TV, in TV studios pretending to be boardrooms.

I’d only agree to be on the show if I could bring a camel and a giant needle with me.

***

Wednesday night: with Ms S to Holloway Odeon for the Sex And The City movie. Something of a current hot ticket, as we plump for Holloway after failing to get into showings at three other cinemas the same evening. Our preferred venues, Islington Vue, Bethnal Green Rich Mix, and Barbican Screen are all sold out in advance. And as we go in to take our seats, there’s a tannoy announcement that Holloway has sold out too, and we pass a queue of disappointed couples and women on a girls’ night out, now having to decide whether the latest Cameron Diaz romcom would be an adequate substitute.

Unlike those artier areas of London where you’re never more than ten feet from a discussion about The Kite Runner, Holloway Road’s pavements are resentful at best, putting the tension in unpretension. I don’t take it personally: the street glowers at everyone regardless, with its unruly length and width, struggling not to be known as somewhere to go through, rather than go to. It’s not quite rough with a capital R, but neither is it up there on the Top 10 Happiest Roads Of London chart.

Accordingly, Holloway Odeon is no stranger to the requisite bored, aggressively unquiet teenagers who go in order to throw popcorn at other people with one hand, while having loud mobile phone conversations with the other. Last time I was there, two girls down the front kept turning round to point at me and discuss my own appearance among themselves – and on their mobile phones – rather than watch the film. And this was in the dark. Admittedly, the film in question was the third Pirates Of The Caribbean flick, full of actors who seemed curiously distanced from the watery antics themselves, but I digress.

Although the Sex And The City movie isn’t exactly Citizen Kane, or even Citizen Carrie, the film is still a definite event. Its roaring success despite lukewarm reviews – and despite the high price of cinema seats – says something about current trends in what people want from their movie-going.

The first scene of the SATC film depicts the main characters sitting around discussing Naomi Klein’s book No Logo. Then they start seeing Western consumerist greed for what it is, boycotting designer labels, and finally donning burkhas and veils and converting to fundamentalist Islam, where they find true happiness… because they’re worth it.

Well, okay, no it doesn’t. That’s the whole point. Some films offer a journey to somewhere you’ve never been. Others take you along a tried and tested, familiar and favourite route to a known destination. This is very much in the latter camp, in every sense.

Whether it’s Indiana Jones 4, The Simpsons Movie, or adaptations of the Harry Potter books, these films celebrate – and exploit – past conversions to previously existing material. They turn cinema audiences into congregations of the faithful. They are made, quite simply, for fans. Cinema tickets are so expensive, after all, so why risk any surprises?

What happens is that by trying so hard to please the fans and carry no surprises, such films let the fans down. The fans want it the same as it was, except different. Except not too different. It won’t be as good as it was, but they’ll go along and buy it anyway. But there’ll always be a certain settling-for feeling.

Angry Fans: That was so formualaic.

Studio: But we thought you were fans of that formula?

Angry Fans: We are. We just want it different. But not too different.

Studio: (sulkily) Well, why don’t you just write your own wretched movies or novels?

Angry Fans: Have you seen the Internet lately? Fan fiction, you know…

Studio: But that’s breach of copyright. Invent your own characters!

Angry Fans: But we want to see THOSE characters…

Studio: Well, they’re OUR characters.

Angry Fans: But we know them better than you do.

***

And so on. I keep thinking of a quote by Stevie Smith.

Fan: I loved your last novel and can’t wait to read another.

Stevie Smith: Well, read it again, then.

One exception to this diminishing returns rule is the revived Doctor Who series. I think one of the reasons for its success is that it forgets about pleasing the fans, and concentrates on pleasing non-fans. Which means the old fans can finally feel less alone.

Unlike The Apprentice, I ‘get’ Sex And The City. It’s not about happiness through the pursuit of wealth, ruthless enterprise and never turning your back on Sir Alan Sugar. It’s more about allowing the pursuit of expensive things because they’re pretty and shiny expensive things. And providing a few dirty laughs doesn’t hurt. Maybe I don’t care for The Apprentice because it’s just not funny, or pretty and shiny. Sir Alan has all that money, but does he even once experiment with a new lipgloss? Or even once wear a gold lame suit? No.

What the SATC film IS like is a box-ticking reunion gig for fans of the TV series. Except, curiously, there’s far less bawdy conversation. Some of the TV episodes actually broke a few Tynan-esque taboos concerning the various ins and outs of, well, ins and outs. Though the movie has a few Rabelaisian moments, not least one particular instance of male nudity, there’s still far less sexual content than you’d find in an average arthouse drama.

It used to be the case that you had to go to the cinema for more sexual content than TV would allow, and TV would only show such movies in frustratingly bowdlerised versions. These days, it’s all on (and all out) on late night TV, particularly the digital and cable channels. While in the cinema the money-making factor is now so important that any racier scenes that might pare down audience numbers have to go. More bums on screen equals fewer bums on seats.

Even so-called sex comedies like American Pie have to hold something back, in order to sell the DVD to people who have already seen the movie. Inevitably, the DVD cover comes emblazoned with promises of extra naughtiness.

But the sexed-down Sex And The City film still makes for a memorable night out. The latter-day Mae West quips are present and correct, and the designer clothes are given their widescreen due.

But my most abiding memory is of the audience around me. Not just overwhelmingly female, but fans of the series, and so happy to be there in the first place, particularly when the film is selling out so quickly every night. The Odeon shakes with hundreds of women laughing uproariously, or cooing ‘Awww…!’ or cheering and breaking out into applause. I feel unusually safe and comforted – mothered, even – in this huge dark cave of happy ladies.

Then I remember what else this area is known for. Around the corner from the cinema is HMP Holloway. Another huge dark cave of ladies. Albeit less happy.