I am woman, hear me snore.
Is that too cliché a dismissal? Pardon me for not putting more effort into trashing this completely unnecessary self-indulgent film, which undermines both global feminism and gay equality by reducing them to their most shallow denominator. Oh, I get it: to have is to be. Uh, but hello: I think those French existentialists meant that as a criticism?
Oh well. Here's some other things I don't like:
When I think of "the city", I think of Manhattan, not Abu Dhabi, underscoring that this entire narrative is woefully misplaced and lost. Talk about an ostrich sticking its head in a Mideastern sand dune. Maybe it was embarrassed?
I didn't mind when the girls were single and having problems dating—as a gay guy, I could relate to that—but, this litany of marital problems bored me to tears. All these years later and what we get is not sex in the city but wrecks in the city. (And, no, I'm not even going to segue into the Liza Minnelli cameo.)
This film seemed intent on making us not like the characters we once loved. Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker)—who was once endearingly neurotic—just didn't seem to "get" why the New Yorker drew a caricature of her with her mouth taped shut. Enough with the whining, please. Especially about kissing old boyfriends. And if the ostrich stuck its head in the sand because it was embarrassed, it was no doubt over some of the worst clothes I have ever seen a woman wear in public. A hat that looks like roadkill? Really?
Which leads me to Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall) who wins the award for best product placement wearing her Yves Saint Laurent earrings as if this is somehow attractive? Not only that, but the libidinal abandon gay guys once worshipped in her has now become the latest inflection of the Ugly American. Her actions are completely reprehensible in this film. I felt like I had to wash her menopausal sweat off me after coming out of the theater.
Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon)—who, admittedly, has always been the smartest of the bunch—would have to be the one to quip, "Abu Dhabi doo." I'm wondering if—since coming out as a lesbian (duh)—Nixon finally had enough clout to refuse doing any more love scenes with Steve Brady (David Eigenberg), who these days is best served in his cameo spots on Justified.
And Charlotte York (Kristin Davis) comes across as a prune-nibbling prude.
Did I mention that I really didn't like this movie, despite its occasional jokes, and glamorous objectification of men? Not only does it offensively flaunt its worshipped privileges, but it's too long, it's too boring, and, ladies, it's way too late. The big screen does nothing to flatter these broads. I only went because my plus one Andy Samwick desperately wanted to see the film; but, even he had to concede it was the gayest film he's ever seen. Frameline has been put to shame for not scoring it as their opening night chick flick.
Finally, leaving the theater, we were all given a souvenir can of sparkling Sex & the City 2 diet ice tea. Andy insists we should never open these cans and that they should be revered as collectibles to maybe later auction off on Ebay. Dare I admit that I've already poured it down the drain and crunched up the can for recycling?
Stick to your fond memories and the syndicated reruns, folks.