I always try to view a movie through the eyes of its intended audience. But sometimes it’s just not possible for me. Case in point” “Sex and the City,” which I saw tonight at Ronnie’s with an overflow crowd that was 90 percent female (some of whom were drinking $11 cosmopolitans in light-up martini glasses).

I was grateful that my colleague Gail Pennington volunteered to review the movie for the newspaper, because she’s a woman who is familiar with the series, which I’ve only seen by accident while flipping to the mud-wrestling and beer-chugging channel.

I not only couldn’t relate to the movie, I disliked it so thoroughly that I walked out before the halfway point. (I’ve heard it gets better, but I couldn’t spare 148 minutes to find out.) With the country at war and gas at four dollars a gallon, a ‘90-style celebration of designer labels and penthouse apartments struck me as bad taste. “Sex and the City” makes its quartet of big-city sophisticates seem like such superficial nitwits, it feels like it was created, written and directed by men.

Oh wait–it was.

Honestly, I’m heartened that there’s still a market for what some of my brothers call chick flicks, and I’m sure that this one will pack them in (at least for the first week). But in this man’s opinion, “The Devil Wears Prada,” which was written by women, cuts this thing to ribbons.