dir. Michael Patrick King AKA The Zookeeper
Starring: Sarah Jessica Parker AKA Mr. Ed, Kristin Davis AKA C.J. the Orangutan, Cynthia Nixon AKA Francis the Talking Mule, Kim Cattrall AKA Willy the Whale, Chris Noth AKA Ben the Rat, Liza Minnelli AKA Clarabelle Cow
Review By Greg Klymkiw
A few minutes into Sex and the City 2, you might find yourself wondering, "who let the dogs out?"
Well, look in one direction and one direction only - Michael Patrick King, the worst camera jockey (he doesn't deserve the title "director") who has ever inflicted his utter lack of taste and talent upon the silver screen. Once again, those four dishrags who somehow managed to catch the attention of movie-goers the world over in the horrendous Sex and the City (based on the TV series I have never bothered to watch) are on the prowl and those of us who dare sit through all 146 minutes will have been deprived of considerable and precious time on this Earth.
Okay, let me repeat one sad fact: 146 MINUTES!!!
146 minutes in which nothing much happens save for shopping, whining, complaining, shopping, lusting, shopping, travelling, shopping, riding camels, dining, drinking, talking utter bone-headed nonsense, uttering lame double entendres and shopping.
So, where to begin?
Oh, who cares?
No... that's not fair. I am here to review the movie. I must continue.
Let's see if I can remember anything.
Have I mentioned there is... shopping?
Ah yes, I have.
Well, there are a few things I remember.
Early on in the movie, one thing I shall never forget is the sad appearance of Liza Minnelli who, playing herself, is presiding over the gay wedding of those two delightful fellows whose names I can't remember (because I have never bothered to watch the series and I have successfully repressed the first feature). Now, the notion of Liza officiating at a gay wedding is, in theory, not that horrendous an idea. Unfortunately, she can barely utter her lines and we are forced to look at her face which is clearly suffering the ravages of the sort of plastic surgery that, by comparison, renders the hatchet jobs on the likes of Joan Rivers and/or Phyllis Diller so perfectly, that one can even imagine conjuring up their mugs to keep an erection going when ploughing some seed into a triple-bagger.
The gay wedding sequence itself - replete with a choir of gorgeous hunks singing "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof, delightful white bridges over ponds and fountains as well as, uh... swans, is enough to make one think that such a wedding reception might well be a lot of fun for gay OR straight couples. However, whatever magic this sequence could have had goes up in a puff of smoke by the fact that Michael Patrick King can't direct. He's not really even a competent TV camera jockey. The camera, during this sequence especially, is always in the wrong place at the wrong time. All we get is the IDEA of the reception rather than experiencing and seeing it as it should be.
Another unforgettable moment involves, once again, Liza Minnelli. She is forced to perform a musical number during the wedding sequence and I swear to Christ Almighty that I thought I was watching a female impersonator. Alas, it was not to be. It was Liza - in the flesh, all several tonnes of it. I also realize I am denigrating the art of female impersonators everywhere by even suggesting such a thing. Nobody, but nobody does Liza in her prime like a great female impersonator and the makers of the film might have been better off doing so rather than forcing us to submit to the abomination of the real thing.
It appears to go something like this. Carrie (Sarah the talking horse) and Mr. Big (Chris Noth, furry friend of Willard and subject of Michael Jackson's hit love song to a rat) are richer than ever and snugger than bugs in a rug in their marriage. Or are they? Carrie, damn it all, misses going to fashionable openings and nightclubs every night on Mr. Big's arm. Poor thing. Mr. Big, however, is happier staying at home with his flatscreen television. Now, given that going out on the town with Carrie means he would have to put up with one or all of her ugly, neurotic, pathetic friends put me firmly in his corner on this one.
In fact, watching Chris Noth laying back and watching a flat screen television for 146 minutes might well have had more entertainment value than anything else in this abomination.
Okay, where was I?
Oh yeah, so Carrie's getting bored with marriage. This is no surprise since she has the mind of a 12-year-old. What's up, then, with the rest of the clothes-horse buffalo herd?
Well, Charlotte (Kristin Davis, furry co-star of Clint Eastwood's Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can) is happily married and blessed with two beautiful children. But is she REALLY happy? Well, not with that pinched face of hers. She's become obsessed with thoughts of her hubby cheating on her with their Irish nanny with gargantuan bra-less pendulums.
Christ, it's hard being a woman in the modern world.
Then there's Miranda (Cynthia Nixon the talking mule). Well, all seems pretty good with her. She's as bourgeois and stupid as ever and looks like she might be the most satisfied of all the girls.
Of course, none of this would be complete without Samantha (Kim Cattrall, free as Willy) who has not changed much since the last picture. She's still trying to convince herself that she has sex appeal and lusts over anything on two legs with abs of steel. She also gets one of the worst lines in movie history. Ogling a handsome man in the desert she quips, "Lawrence of my labia!"
I'm still laughing. Are you?
When Samantha lands a free, all expenses-paid trip for herself and her three best friends to the United Arab Emirates city of Abu Dhabi, we leave the confines of New York and sally forth to a new city where the gals can do what they do best. For most of the movie's interminable running time, our bovine foursome traipses around aimlessly on this hideous vacation. They shop, they pine, they whine, they sight-see and, oh yes, they shop.
The entire world of this and the previous film is so reprehensible in its unbridled ode to consumerism, but having the sequel primarily set in a world of religious fundamentalism, misogyny and exploitation of the poor while these four bourgeois sows indulge themselves (and supposedly learn something to make their pathetic lives better) is simply beyond the pale. Not only does each woman have their own personal servant (slave), not only do they go camel riding, but they are, at one point, adorned in horrendous fashions modeled after indigenous clothes that are meant to repress the women of Abu Dhabi. It's not only stupid and dull, but it's more offensive than any of the nasty jokes I or anyone else could make about this pointless movie.
And beyond any of the above mentioned transgressions, Sex and the City 2 is like going out to the movies to watch bad television on a big screen. Replete with closeups and dull two-shots, there is absolutely nothing going on in this picture to qualify it as a feature film other than its 146 minute running. But then, I've mentioned the running time, haven't I?
146 minutes! Of nothing.
I was, and still am, agog!
