Mark Kermode recently named Sex and the City 2 as the number 1 worst film he's seen so far this year. Whilst I struggle to understand how Twilight: Eclipse features as number 5 on his top 5
best films of the year (he's seen it 3 times...?!), I find it difficult to disagree with him on this one.
Sex and the City 2 is, unfortunately, a steaming turd of a movie. I say 'unfortunately' because I am a big fan of the series. I also did not hate the first film. In fact, having rewatched it fairly recently I quite enjoyed it. But this one... jeez Louise.
For a start, it's proof, if ever any more proof is needed, that simply throwing shitloads of money at a film and hoping for the best is not a recipe for success. It falls foul to sequelitis, an endemic problem in Hollywood, whereby 'bigger' does not translate into better, just ... dumber.
It's also overlong and pointless. The running time surpasses the 2 hour mark, and yet nothing really happens. If this was Beckett I might not mind, but it's not. The plot is paper-thin, if not non-existent, and the entire film consists mainly of the following: a ridiculously OTT gay wedding, complete with swans and Liza Minnelli gyrating through an ill-advised rendition of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies", a whole lot of interior porn, and a bit of a jolly in Abu Dhabi (actually a dressed up Marrakech). The film was marketed as the fun, light-hearted romp in contrast to its more serious and emotionally heavy predecessor, but laughs are few and far between, and you get the distinct impression that the cast and crew probably had a lot more fun making it than we do watching it.
For me, given that I have such fondness for the series, this is bad enough - better make no film at all than sully the original by making something dull and mediocre - but there are two particular scenes in the film where my mild boredom and disappointment turned into distaste. Both appear towards the end.
So, to the first. Disgraced by Samantha's sexual indiscretions on the beach (though she insists they were 'only kissing'), the girls race through the souk, at risk of missing their flight. Samantha, struggling with menopausal hot flashes, strips down to a strappy top and short skirt. Miranda implores her to cover up, as they start to attract unwanted attention; men nearby become incensed at this show of public indecency. A kerfuffle ensues. Samantha falls down, and her bag falls open, spewing its contents out onto the floor. Shock horror, amongst the make-up and other lady accoutrements is... a string of condoms. Of course, this being Samantha, it's not just one or two; closer to twelve maybe. The fervour of the mob increases. Samantha, in defiance, holds the condoms aloft, like a cockerel puffing out its chest feathers, shouting, "YES. I HAVE SEX. SEX!" and with every utterance of the 's' word, waggles them boorishly in the faces of the nearest male bystander.
Samantha in New York is all about pushing the bounds of propriety, and I am all for that. Her antics are frequently outrageous and hilarious. She has balls. She does whatever the hell she likes, and she doesn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Most of all, she gets away with it. We love her because she says and does things many of us would never even dream of. But this Samantha, in Abu Dhabi? It's not funny, it's just sad! It's positively tragic. Though it sounds like a bit of an oxymoron, even when pushing the bounds of propriety, there's a time and a place and this clearly isn't it. And so in under a minute, one of my favourite characters crosses the line of good taste and transforms into a loud, brash American, inappropriate, insensitive and in-your-face. In short, a bit of a dick. A little part of me died of embarrassment.
Things swiftly go from bad to worse. With Samantha's outburst, the girls find themselves in a real pickle, but they are rescued by the furtive glances and gestures of a handful of mysterious figures, bedecked in burkhas. These women take pity on the four hapless Westerners, sympathising with their plight from patriarchal censure and oppression. The next five minutes are even more excruciating than the last, as these Abu Dhabi women, excited to hear that their newfound friends hail from New York City, doff their burkhas to reveal flashy outfits underneath, from a wide variety of famous Western designers. Female solidarity. Yay. Prompted by this impromptu fashion show, Carrie reflects on how, though she and her friends are a thousand miles away in a strange and foreign land, these women are really, underneath, Just Like Us. *vomits* WHYYYYY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT. It felt like being patted on the head. With a hammer. Incredibly patronising, incredibly annoying, and also quite painful. Cookie-cutter feminism at its most offensive.
So there we have it. This film is about as subtle and as funny as my dad. I.e. not very. It's also about as respectful to the memory of the series as turning up to its funeral in a bikini and pissing on the casket. I think the worst thing about it though is that, for any newcomers to the series, naysayers or skeptics, it will probably confirm their worst suspicions about why they shouldn't bother. Which is a real shame.
