Sex and the City 2 is hollow, dispiriting, witless and a vaguely grubby mess. Absolutely, rancidly, offensively bloody awful. Do I need to go on? I can't really submit an invoice for seven words, but honestly, what more do you need to know?
Sex and the City 2 picks up a couple of years after the events of its pretty enjoyable predecessor. Carrie, Samantha, and the other two are all even further up their own tucked and plucked bottoms than they were when last we met. Carrie, despite having got everything she wanted — the marriage to "Big", the gorgeous apartment, the high-paying job that consists of pecking out a few hundred words every month or so, and the ever-expanding rooms full of Choo and Blahnik — is suffering a little mid-life ennui.
The hubby doesn't always want to go to restaurants for dinner. Some nights he just wants to pick up a takeaway from "that new organic Japanese fusion place", and even worse, some nights Big wants to watch the television and put his feet on the couch. Understandably distraught and quite overcome by this unexpected lack of fabulousness on the marital front, Carrie does exactly what you or I would do: One is worried that her slap-headed toad of a husband is going to get it on with the bounteous-chested nanny.
Another is distraught that her boss is a sexist prig. And the third no guesses is on 40 vitamin pills a day, while loudly opining about the effect that menopause is having on her lady-bits. Things are looking dire for the Manhattanite chattering classes. But luckily, Samantha has been given four all-expenses-paid tickets to Abu Dhabi Look, I know what you're thinking: Graeme just doesn't appreciate Sex and the City.
Well, maybe not, but I have sat through episodes of the show without complaining, and I was happy to give the first film three stars and say some nice things about it. But this sequel is the most venal, pointless and depressing load of rubbish I've watched on this job. The script is an unending torrent of mawkishly expressed adolescent angst. An average episode of Shortland Street could wipe the floor with most of this dialogue.
Meanwhile, Kim Cattrall — the only competent actress in the whole franchise — is reduced to a series of witless puns. Faced with a handsome stranger in the desert, she produces "He could be Lawrence of my-labia". A pool full of male models are passed off as "the Australian Rugby Team", so that Samantha can make three — yes, three — references to how she's feeling "down under".
Listen, a cameo from Liza Minelli, a few hundred frocks, and several million dollars from the Abu Dhabi tourism spruikers do not a film make. And yet that is all that Sex and the City 2 has going for it. The rest is a hollow, dispiriting, witless and vaguely grubby mess, but it'll make billions.
Sex and The City 2 Director: Michael Patrick King Starring: