Over the last couple of weeks, the internet has been going bonkers over the fact that Kim Cattrall allegedly put the kibosh on there ever being a Sex and The City 3. Thousands of poor, ill-informed cretins scattered across the globe (SJP included) are devastated and even angered by this news. Meanwhile, I’d personally like to go on the record and thank Kim for saving us all from whatever fresh hell was awaiting us.
In case you’ve forgotten how flabbergastingly horrific the last instalment of this franchise was, I’ve dug out my review of Sex and The City 2 for your perusal…
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Apart from finding out at the tender age of thirteen that Will Young (winner of the UK's "Pop Idol") was gay and therefore unlikely to become my future husband, Sex and The City 2 is probably the biggest disappointment of my life. I'm not sure if there's anything I can say about this turkey-slap of a movie that hasn't already been said, but I don't think I'll ever be able to lead a healthy, happy life if I don't at least try and get it off my chest.
Despite what some might say, I thought the TV series was great. It might not have been everyone's cup of tea, but I for one found the characters relatable, the content controversial (at the time) and the writing tight, witty and sharp. In fact, I spent my teens watching the show and my sarcastic writing style is heavily influenced by it. As an avid fan, you can imagine my disappointment when the first movie came out. The punchy dialogue and strong sense of female empowerment had given way to over the top fashion and cliches. Granted, I wasn't overly impressed, but upon further inspection (i.e watching it for a second, third and fourth time during life-threatening hangovers), I came to appreciate it for what it was - a “turn your brain off and just enjoy it” chick flick.
The second film however is another story. What was vaguely tolerable drivel in the first film morphed into insufferable, insulting nonsense in the second. So, for those of you who haven’t wasted valuable hours of your life watching this utter bollocks, let me take you on a little journey through the exasperating plot of this shit-heap film...
It starts with Stanford and Anthony's wedding. My beef with this is not only were the characters never a likely couple, but it also bares absolutely no relevance to the rest of the plot whatsoever. Some (or several) twat(s) obviously decided that they wanted a big fat gay wedding in the movie so they whack it on at the beginning as a ridiculous spectacle which is so horrendously over the top that it completely undermines the progress of gay rights by making the whole thing a punchline to a series of lazy puns and crap jokes. Charlotte literally (and I actually mean literally) squeals "my best gay friend is marrying her best gay friend” whilst Carrie (who, by the way, still looks like a foot) wears an actual, real life crown (urgh!). But the cherry on the shit-sunday that is the opening sequence of this film is none other than Liza Minelli murdering a Beyonce classic whilst playing a game of chicken with death by gyrating mercilessly throughout the song.
After the wedding - Smith pops up to invite Samantha to a premier. He has bugger all to do with the rest of the film but introduces Samantha to a rich man who invites her to visit his hotel in Abu Dhabi. Meanwhile, major problems with the overprivileged women of Manhattan… Miranda is unhappy at work; Charlotte’s nanny has bouncy boobs (and a terrible fake Irish accent) and her daughter gets paint on her vintage Valentino skirt (so she cries in the kitchen closet). And of course Carrie, as always, is a self-absorbed, dramatic dickhead. Despite finally having the man we’ve watched her mooning over for six seasons and entire movie, she still isn’t happy because he would rather spend time with her than go out on to the town every night. The final straw comes when Big buys a TV for the bedroom so they can watch romantic black and white movies together. Carrie would have preferred jewellery so the girls all fuck off to Abu Dhabi on a much needed holiday.
(Note, they couldn't actually film this in Abu Dhabi because the script was so insulting. You would think that this raised some alarm bells amongst Hollywood execs but apparently not. They just hopped on over to Morocco and proceeded to shit on the religion and culture from there instead.)
Once they get to Abu Dhabi, nothing really happens except for a series of unnecessary costume changes with some god-awful dialogue sandwiched between. And just as the writing deteriorated after the series, so did the acting. Over the next hour and a half (yes, there’s an hour and a half left at this point), Miranda shouts “woohoo” at everything she sees whilst the rest of these ridiculous caricatures walk around obnoxiously judging the culture. They can’t believe how the women there are treated and frown upon the traditional clothing. Meanwhile, Samantha’s appalled that she isn’t allowed to bring drugs into the country, walk around with her vagina hanging out, deep-throat a Shisha pipe at a restaurant or dry hump a Danish architect in public. This all builds to a climax whereby Samantha gets arrested and the ladies have to pack up their things in one hour (which apparently is the most stressful, unachievable task imaginable) and get out of Abu Dhabi. They’re in a real hurry too, not because they’re embarrassed to have defied the laws and customs of a country in which they are guests, but because if they don’t get to the airport in the next two hours, they will have to fly coach instead of first class. This leads to a showdown in the local market where Samantha throws condoms around and screams “I HAVE SEX”. It’s the most disgustingly inappropriate thing I’ve ever witnessed in a film (and I’ve seen ‘The Human Centipede’).
It stinks of this arrogant notion that America is good and all other cultures are bad. The whole delivery of the message is just so condescending. Which brings me to another annoying scene where Charlotte and Miranda hash out the woes of motherhood. As they sit in their private bar, getting drunk on cocktails prepared by their two personal butlers, Charlotte wails “Being a mom is so hard. How do the women without help do it?” Miranda gives her a knowing look and they raise a glass “to them!” ‘Them’ presumably being those poor normal people who can’t afford to spend more money on Manolos than on rent.
And of course it wouldn’t be Sex and the City if Carrie wasn’t at the middle of it being a self-centred twat. Still in the midst of a tantrum because her relationship with Big is now too stable, she bumps into none other than Aidan (seriously, was there no story they could think of other than going back and forth between the same two guys?). They kiss, Carrie melts down and demands that all her friends come to her aid immediately. They advise her to sleep on it before telling Big, and despite having yanked Samantha out of a relaxing bath specifically for this advice, she promptly ignores it and calls Big anyway.
But don’t worry, nothing happens. Carries runs home to Big, he gives her a diamond ring and it all goes back to the way it was at the end of the series (and the first film). Meanwhile, Miranda gets a new job where she finally ‘has a voice’, Samantha fucks the Danish guy on a car bonnet “in the land of the free” (where I’m pretty sure it’s still illegal, actually) and Charlotte’s bouncy-boobed Nanny turns out to be a lesbian so she’s no longer threatened (we don’t hear anything about the fate of the paint stained Valentino skirt but I assume a free holiday to Abu Dhabi means that she just about managed to forgive her six year old daughter for this barbaric act).
There are so many other truly awful things about this movie but I can’t go into any more detail for fear of bursting into flames. At best it’s trying to say something meaningful and insightful but (in case you hadn't guessed) fails miserably. Half of me would urge you to watch it, just to see how bad it is, but the other half worries that I could be held directly responsible for the assassination of Sarah Jessica Parker as a result.
Suffice it to say that at the end of this film, I couldn’t help but wonder (see what I did there?)… how people who had such a fresh vision of real women in the late nineties could get it so wrong ten years later.
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So, uh, yeah… don’t cry in to your cosmos about there not being a third film, kids. We’re all better off without it. Cheers, Kim.
