“Sex and the City: The Movie” debuts in London Monday night. The cat will be out of the bag, so we’re free to let loose now at least somewhat on what happens in Michael Patrick King’s very well-made, funny movie.

The last time we did this, the New York Daily News got frightened, bypassed their movie reviewer and put a feature writer’s notes on the front page and passed it off as a review. Tsk, tsk. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen again.

But I digress: People keep asking me if someone dies in this film. The answer is: No. No one’s even sick, for that matter. This is an urban myth. All the characters remain alive and breathing, ready for a sequel. Or a sequin.

Is there a happy ending? You’d better believe it. King and Warner Bros. are counting on at least two sequels. They will have them. This installment satisfies a lot of questions from the TV series but leaves the door open ajar.

From various teasers, spoilers and coming attractions, there has been a lot of speculation about Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) and Mr. Big (Chris Noth). It is fair to say, then, that their big wedding at the New York Public Library is cancelled. Big leaves Carrie at the altar. This occurs about halfway through the film. It seems based on Bennifer — I mean Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez’s — cancelled nuptials of just a few years ago.

Samantha (Kim Cattrall) and Smith (Jason Lewis) are living in Malibu, where he’s a big TV star now. Suffice to say that Samantha suffers sexual temptation watching a very good-looking couple next door have sex constantly. She is obsessed with the man, who has a body carved out of marble. Will she make him another notch on her belt, or remain faithful to Smith?

Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) and Steve (David Eigenberger) break up when he cheats on her, but not before we see them getting graphically horizontal. Miranda’s story has an ancillary effect on Carrie, a big secret is created and used as a pivotal story point. More than that, I can’t say.

Charlotte (Kristin Davis) and Harry (Evan Handler) get pregnant. Suffice to say that Charlotte is used as the anchor of the story, but nevertheless has plenty of funny stuff to keep her busy.

In the end, though, "Sex and the City" revolves around our heroine, Carrie, who’s written at least two more books since the TV series ended. The movie is all about her romance with Mr. Big, now known as John James Preston. Their clinical decision to marry is the catalyst for everything in the film. When that falls apart, the movie almost does, too, and it takes about 15 minutes of patience before it finds its footing again.

Don’t worry: it does, and the girls get to set off on some great adventures. There’s even a trip to Mexico reminiscent of the old Nevada trips gals used to take in weepers when they wanted a six-week divorce. It’s among the many, neat homages that King whips up for the observant.

Be warned though: the version I saw was long, like considerably more than two hours and that was without credits or all the music — including India Arie’s lovely version of Don Henley’s “Heart of the Matter.” A little trimming would have gone a long way — and I don’t mean Samantha’s priceless take on pubic hair.

As I said in my first review of this last week, King has fashioned an old-fashioned women’s film, a weeper with a lot of comedy. He’s remade “The Women” as if Jacqueline Susann had written it and it was for the 2000s — something very hard to do. It’s a fantasy world and one in which the gals will revel.

What happens to the subsidiary characters? Not much. Both Mario Cantone and Willie Garson are severely underused, although Cantone scores some good lines. Candice Bergen has one scene, as Carrie’s editor, and makes it memorable. She could have been used more, though, I think.

And then there’s the other character: the clothes. Not since Robert Altman’s “Dr. T. and the Women” have I seen such outrageous get-ups on screen. There are times when the clothes make the movie feel as though you’re watching “The Jetsons.”

The product placement is way over the top, too: Gucci, Chanel, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Vivienne Westwood, Manolo Blahnik. There are lots more; I don’t even know all their names. Strangely missing, unless we missed it: the name Jimmy Choo. Maybe they couldn’t make a deal.

One odd thing about “Sex and the City,” which still doesn’t make sense: we never see of the girls’ families. Carrie’s elaborate wedding doesn’t include even a mention of parents or siblings. Charlotte’s pregnancy, ditto, includes no doting grandmother. I dimly recall some mention of Miranda’s family in the TV series. Here they are non-existent.

I think I know why King has done this: stripped of any background or prior baggage, the girls become an empty screen upon which women in the audience can project their own hopes and fears. I’ll let it go at that.

So get ready for the American premiere on May 27 in New York, which I’m sure will be celebrated like a holiday. Fifteen days — how will fans survive? And how much will the British press let leak? I hope not all the surprises from the ending, which is so well-written that it manages to address a lot in just a few strokes.