Sex and the City 2: movie review
The story line is barely there, but fabulous clothes are on full display throughout ‘Sex and the City 2.’
Craig Blankenhorn/Warner Bros/AP
A sequel to “Sex and the City”? I don’t mean to offend all you “SATC” fanatics, but do we really need to prolong the agony?
It’s not that I’m against chick flicks. I actually rather like them, especially when, as in the case of “The Devil Wears Prada,” the chicks are expert performers and not simply standing around quipping campily and modeling for the boudoir. Chick flicks are often more fascinating than guy films, at least to this guy, because they offer a window into a world that is usually kept out of the movies.
But there are windows and then there are windows. The turquoise-tinted one in “SATC2” could use a deep scrub. I realize that gaudy fantasy is essential to this franchise, but why does the fantasy have to be so stunted?
Things begin semipromisingly, as the ladies – bestselling author Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker), mother-of-two Charlotte (Kristin Davis), workaholic lawyer Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), and man-eater Samantha (Kim Cattrall) – attend a gay wedding featuring Liza Minnelli as headliner. This sequence is so purposefully over the top in displaying its camp credentials that it functions as a winking piece of self-satire. Nothing that follows has the same loony spritz.