'Sex And The City 2' ...
I saw the trailer. I read the reviews. Pan city, baby. Pan, pan, pan.
I really liked the series, and I thought the first movie was OK. But I vowed not to see the second. I would not stand in line at the theater. I would not even add it to my Netflix queue.
But then, the other day, in the mail, a card arrived from DirecTV. Five free on-demand movies? Really?
I had never bought an on-demand movie before. But here was DirecTV, trying to convince me that it's not such a bad guy after all, despite the insane amount of money it demands from me every month. (I have no premium channels. I pay for the second-to-last tier – what's the point in having satellite without HGTV? – and have a second box on a second set. And I pay more than $80 a month. Thanks, digital conversion!)
But as I was saying, I'd never bought an on-demand movie before. I hadn't even used the free one-off coupons that I received when I signed up for service and that arrived in one of my first bills. I pay Netflix a wee amount of money every month and can watch as many movies as I can watch and return, so I've never been inclined to give DirecTV $4.99 per.
But free? For free, I would break my vow. Because my objection was based partially on not wanting to add to the box office, but I couldn't help but wonder: How bad could it really be?
Now I know.
It's bad. It's nearly-turn-it-off-in-the-first-15-minutes-because-hey-I-didn't-pay-for-it-anyway bad. I'm all for gay marriage in principle, but if it means ever having to attend something so Blatchtacular, I might have to have plans that day. I promise to send a nice gift.
Liza, as the officiant? Really? Liza, covering Beyoncé, in sequins? Really, really?
Though I must say, Liza is rockin' her 60s. Nice gams, doll.
The one moment I found even remotely redeeming was between Miranda and Charlotte. Every circumstance was over the top, from the private bar in the $22,000-a-night suite to the we-have-nannies-and-we-still-can't-seem-to-manage annoyance, but I applauded the core of the scene: two women who admit to each other that being a mother is really, really hard and that the Martha Stewart/soccer mom/have-it-all facades are loads of crap. I'm not a mom, but sometimes, as Charlotte does, I guess you just have to go into the pantry and cry. Even for a moment. Even while your kid is banging on the door.
As other bloggers have said, it's irksome to see these women remain mired in their superficiality, especially in these economic times. Samantha making a one-off comment about two years of a crappy economy does not do enough to justify their gal-pal romp in the Middle East, even if all the expenses are being paid. Gross excess is still gross excess.
And speaking of Samantha, also as other bloggers have said, enough with the libido and accompanying jokes. I have nothing against a woman continuing to have a robust sex life (though that's purely hypothetical for me), but her desperate attempts to stave off any effects of aging are simply sad. Then again, I've never liked Samantha. She's always been the most fake.
So, I watched. Until the end. Even though I really needed to go to the bathroom. I suppose I could have paused it, but I thought I'd see it through.
Really, Sarah Jessica? Did it not strike you at all as out of your depth to shoot a scene on a camel? Remember when Carrie was too scared to let go of the trapeze?
Your audience forgave the Poughkeepsie pun in the first film. Heading to Mexico in the first film made sense.
But Abu Dhabi? If you and Michael Patrick King are going to make a statement about women and oppression and such, then make it. Don't let it glance off the audience as one of Samantha's snits.
If there will be a third film, keep it in New York. There are eight million stories in the naked city. Surely you can find an arc to tell a handful of them in a compelling way.