Apart from the film’s title being an undoubted misnomer, SEX AND THE CITY 2 fails on many fronts, not the least of which is that many of the proceedings don’t even take place in “the city” of New York from where the Candace Bushnell-penned franchise had pumped its essential lifeblood. Instead, the island of Manhattan is literally just that: a metaphorical island to where the film’s protagonists (Carrie Bradshaw, Miranda Hobbes, Samantha Jones and Charlotte York) travel between exploits at a Connecticut estate and the resort mecca of Abu Dhabi. And for all of the luxurious regalia as well as the overweight price tag of the couture on display, the experience received upon watching Writer/Director Michael Patrick King’s latest flicker verges on valuelessness.
The film is purely high fantasy: not in the epic sense as found in the works of C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien, but with elements that are just as wholly unbelievable. For instance, in a hard-hitting economy that has been likened to a global Depression and economic apocalypse, anyone would be hard-pressed to resign from a career (with potential six-figure earnings) simply because one’s employer rudely ignored an employee (Cynthia Nixon) in a staff meeting. At least Miranda clocked out of her busy law firm with plenty of time to grab a cab and arrive at her son’s grade school to witness his being awarded first prize for a mouse maze he created. Sewn throughout the film is plotting just as contrived. All’s well that ends well in the fantasy realm of this New York City where an executive can make such a decision, however, it is not justified or a logical choice to employ in the real world. Just as curious is the fact that a trader on Wall Street, Mr. Big (Chris Noth), unwinds almost to the point of obsession to classic black and white movies. Even as he expresses regret at the Dow dropping one hundred points in the market, he exudes a lackadaisical charisma comparable to Jack Donaghy on television’s “30 Rock” who rarely takes anything seriously and makes the term ‘high-powered executive’ sound like an oxymoron.
The most fantastic aspect and the film’s ultimate blaspheme is the import of sex to the city of Abu Dhabi where the visual feast of the female flesh (primarily outside of the hotel’s “free zone” e.g. the hotel grounds) is frowned upon and any public display of the physical act of lovemaking invites one to serving time in prison or worse. Whether the fearless foursome of femmes are belting out “I Am Woman” in a karaoke club located in one of the most misogynistic countries in the world or laying out poolside with their erotic zones exposed (when they could have donned a “burqini”) or even when Carrie employs a tactic from IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT to hail transportation in a Moroccan market with her nude leg proving “that the limb is mightier than the thumb”, the inclusion of such details in the script not only borders on the absurd, but sets a dangerous precedent for anyone (especially impressionable teenaged-girls) who may want to imitate such a trip ala “Girls Gone Wild” - - unlike Spring Break in Miami Beach, such a pleasurable yet risky peregrination on foreign soil would assuredly result in a similar re-“hash” of events previously laid out in grisly detail in MIDNIGHT EXPRESS or BROKEDOWN PALACE where one’s sex as opposed to stimulants is peddled and an unfortunate climax (no pun intended) is achieved.
Sex (the act of love-making, not the gender), as it is portrayed in the film, is performed in a raucous and noisy manner and in one edited transition is juxtaposed to a pair of screaming children writhing in and amongst their parents in bed. Romance is sacrificed for a deafeningly, flamboyant and vulgarized act. It is sweaty, loud and only involves a woman skirting menopause (Samantha Jones) with both a middle-aged and a bronzed Adonis. And on one occasion, an unimaginative homage is paid to Hitchcock’s TO CATCH A THIEF as Samantha reaches her sexual apex with her partner as fireworks are released (from an unknown origin) beachside. Similar to the crassest (teen) comedy one might find in the Judd Apatow camp, the lack of refinement is further perpetuated with such ill-mannered phrasing as “Lawrence of my labia” and “Charlotte has a sand-wedge” when referring to Charlotte’s nether region as she sports a tight pair of slacks. This is not to argue that grown women aren’t allowed to engage in such fancies, let their hair down and shake some action, but in the landscape of SEX AND THE CITY 2 where the girls have not only amassed multiple fashionable frocks (certainly not held up by modesty), absorbed unlimited libations and had illimitable access to sex, it’s very apparent their eyes are larger than their stomachs and have devoured more than their fair share of the proverbial cake.
What’s more offensive in a film that obsesses over the superficiality of sex as if it were a new style of fashion that comes and goes with the change of seasons, is that the women in the film aren’t totally confident in their abilities to both have sex or engage in decent human behavior. Coupled with dialogue that makes naughty references to sex abounding in clichéd double entendre a go-go and speaking objectionably to one another veers into a realm of self-deprecating excess. Whether for male or female audiences, this is not the feel good movie of the year. Far from a character study where there might be a sophisticated attempt at a proper analysis into their own respective developments, these women appear as though they’re in their own version of DEATH BECOMES HER and are literally falling apart at the seams; a Venus de Milo personified. Even when her hormone pills and creams are confiscated by airport security, Samantha’s dependency on the medical product turns her into a hormonal junkie as she massages her body with yams and devours hummus for its natural enzymes before menopause overtakes her. Comic relief wanders into the pathetic.
Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda are each but a canvas for its writer to paint upon (and accessorize compliments of Dior, Valentino, plunging necklines, sequins and the latest trends; in that case, the benefit of their cinematic existence is that they help stimulate the economy). Whereas the former three relentlessly journey into shallow terrain bursting with artificiality as they partake in discussions regarding haute couture, a potentially cheating husband and wanting to escape the responsibility of marriage for two days a week, fortunately, Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) has an air of modesty about her character and quite possibly shares the least abysmal dialogue with those in her network. She then abandons this strong characterization momentarily as she texts on her cell phone (absent presence) while others are trying to enter into a dialogue with her. To her advantage, she at least tries to ingratiate the group into the culture of Abu Dhabi by discussing the language and showing consideration to others at every turn. Not soon after, Samantha mars any possibility of a positive affiliation with the natives when she is caught publicly having sex on a beach thereby revoking their hotel privileges. No matter, they manage to procure Business Class tickets on a departure flight returning to the U.S.A.
I don’t see how this franchise can continue any further. Firstly, it is the men of the film (from the Wall Street Executive, Mr. Big, to the faithful Moroccan man servants) who exhibit any confidence and strike up a meaningful rapport with those around them. It nearly always seems like a chore to complete a conversation with any of Carrie’s crew and to do battle with their neuroses. And it’s difficult to admire or follow along in anyone’s adventure who constantly produces an endless stream of ennui and apathy. The female protagonists of SEX AND THE CITY 2 have no control over their surroundings even though they like us to think they do i.e. survival in any city takes more than just being able to successfully hail a cab or order the next round of Cosmopolitan cocktails. Unfortunately, Carrie and her girls prove that it really is a man’s world when they end up conducting themselves as tragic, hapless clowns. If Carrie is such a studied guru of relationships, why does her character revel in avoiding to share advice with her friend concerned for her potentially crumbling marriage; or when she selfishly tries to control Mr. Big’s itinerary complemented by her own gluttonous indulgences of sex, shopping for clothes, shoes, jewelry and making dinner reservations.
Even the original SEX AND THE CITY film opened with Carrie discussing how girls come to New York looking for “labels and love”. It’s self-indulgent fantasy, pure and simple. There is no better visual display of the fantastical than in the Busby Berkeley-esque staged sequence that appears during “the gay wedding” in the film’s opening. Although it’s not as cunningly lyrical as Berkeley, the set-design and the overall choreography is really entertaining and shows King comfortable in this gay element. The appearance of Liza Minnelli is merely the frosting as she channels Beyoncé (as embarrassing as it might come across) in a vigorous dance routine. (Icon-status aside, there’s just something inappropriate and distracting about someone not acting their age. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I was reminded of the tasteful and glorious dance number in MYRA BRECKENRIDGE featuring a booming-voiced Mae West that captured the right amount of sex appeal, sophistication and maintained an edge so campy that imitation is imminent. See for yourself.) With a subtle, yet humorous delivery, Mario Cantone, the gay bridegroom and probably the most talented and accomplished entertainment hyphenate in the cast, grows concerned when he thinks Liza is going to have a heart-attack. As for the audience in my theatre: total flatline.
