Seeing how bad movies are my thing, Sex and the City 1 & 2 are two of those that are on the top of the mountain. A mountain made entirely of Gucchi bags, Prada shoes, Calvin Klein dresses and starving African children.
Recently we had our own little marathon of Sex and the City 1 & 2. I would like to call that 'The Guantanamo Bay Experience', but even the U.S. government could not pull this shit off. For you people that are offended already, I can safely say that you are either in the women's rights movement or in the Bush administration. Anyway, onto the story.
The story start with Carrie and Mr. Big (which sounds like a name ripped right of a Quintin Tarrantino movie or a porn flick). They are going to move into a ginormous apartment in New York. The size of this thing is more than enough to house all the homeless in the Big Apple. They buy this nice piece of real estate right away, and Mr. Big surprises Carrie with her own personal wardrobe, which she fills with a plethora of shoes. By this time their apartment looks more like a small shopping mall.
How they can afford this place is beyond me. Mr. Big's job is never really explained, so it is probably something illegal. Carrie is supposed to be a writer. I say supposed to be, because she clearly isn't. We never see her write. Seriously, during these two excruciatingly long movies with a total worth of 291 (!) minutes we never see her type more than a single line.
Then they decide to get married, not because they love each other, but because of financial benefits. How romantic. So a wedding is coming. Naturally, she has to get a wedding dress and a grown and all that stuff, which is a perfect opportunity for some really blatant product placement that made me cough up blood.
Meanwhile, we have met all the other twats. We have the grumpy old wife, the stressed 30-something year old wife, and the corpse from The Shining with a libido that would embarrass Hugh Hefner. Let's call them Miranda, Charlotte and Corpse.
Miranda is a first class bitch. She is always whining and complaining to her husband Steve. Steve does the righteous thing by cheating on her. Serves her well. Somehow Steve loves this old hag, which I really don't understand. She could easily be replaced by a Jack in the box who shouts insults at you and punches you in the face whenever you get close.
So there's your plot outline. A wedding and a broken marriage. Miranda, being the humanoid typhoon that she is, decides to spread her misery onto others. She tells Mr. Big not to get married, and he's like: okay. So the wedding is off. By this time we are supposed to find Mr. Big an asshole, but in all seriousness, he is the only living being I can sympathize with. I wouldn't want to get married to that thing either.
Carrie decides to move back to her old apartment. Because she is depressed and ridiculously rich, she gets a personal assistant, called Generic Female Black Person, or GFBP. GFBP takes over all of Carries activities, except for breathing maybe.
During all this shit, the Corpse breaks up a long term relationship with a guy half her age just to have sex with her neighbour. When she has the opportunity, his visible dick scares her off, and she is single again.
Now we fast-forward a bit, and we see that Carrie goes to Mr. Bigs apartment (many months later!), because she forgot a pair of shoes. Since shoes are to those women what food is to normal people, she decides to get them. Why the fuck she didn't get them earlier beats me. Anyway, she meets her man (who is camping in her oversized shoe closet), and they bury the hatchet. They get married and the movie ends.
The end, right? Wrong. We are treated with another film, called Sex and the City 2: Blood on the Sand. Menstrual jokes aside, the plot is about them travelling to the New Arabia to piss on their culture and be worse slave drivers than Ilsa Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks.
But first our ladies go to a gay wedding. On this gay wedding the gayness level reaches unknown heights, which makes Liza Minnelli spawn to perform a dance routine. I am not kidding. Did I mention that it is a gay wedding? They certainly do, about 50 million times. This is the equivalent of "Is it safe?". And no, IT IS NOT SAFE!
All the women have problems this time as well. Superficial ones of course, being the pervertedly rich and successful human beings that they are. Miranda is whining about the lack of respect her boss gives her for all her hard work. Wait, what? We have never seen her come in a 30 mile radius of a pen, let alone write something useful down. Miranda quits her job instantly; she doesn't need the money anyway. The Corpse is whining about her menopause, and is using an astronomical amount of vitamin cremes to cover up that she has been dead for decades. This is about as effective as hiding a nuclear reactor by drawing a big innocent-looking smiley on it.
Meanwhile, Carrie is extremely offended by Mister Big because he buys her an enormous television set. But she wanted diamonds to decorate herself like a human Christmas tree. The spoiled twat. Because she doesn't get instant gratification of all her desires, she starts a fight and decides to spend two days a week away from Big in her own apartment. How she can afford two apartments is beyond me, seeing she writes books at glacial speed. And even if she did shit out books like Stephen King does every week, two houses in central Manhattan are way too fucking expensive!
Last on the list is Charlotte, which is a good follow-up to Elizabeth Bathory in the worst mother of the universe competition. She is barely at home, so she has a full-time nanny for all the social interactions. When Charlotte finally is home, this happens: she is baking cookies with her children in her over-priced designer dress. Then one of the kids touches the dress and messes it up in the process. For Charlotte this is the final straw, and she gets a pathetic mental breakdown. She locks herself up in the closet, and starts crying. Poor Charlotte, who could have guessed that her fancy dress could be ruined during cooking...
Then our plot device comes rushing in, being 40 minutes late. The Corpse has arranged that all the girls can go on an all-expense-paid trip to Abu Dhabi, paid by a local oil sheik. This is an ideal opportunity for the women to offend as many people as possible. Arriving at the hotel, they find out that they have their own personal slaves. Carrie immediately relates to one of the slaves as he explains that he can only see his wife once a month, because the plane ticket to India is too expensive. In her twisted reasoning, this is precisely the same as her problem with Mister Big. What a load of bollocks. How could she even say that without sounding like a complete egocentric twat! She has all the money in the world, but she chooses not to be with Big. The slave makes so little money serving her every wish, that he cannot afford to be with his woman. Even though he clearly wants to. Oh well, what's the difference?
During a jeep ride, the ladies meet a handsome adventurer in the desert. The Corpse immediately wants to ambush the poor man and have sex with him on the sand. But her vagina is probably so dry that he wouldn't notice the difference if he had sex with the sand itself! Carrie also meets an ex, but I was to distracted by the mental image of the Corpse and Indiana Jones making out, to actually care.
Back in town, the Corpse seems to have completely lost any sense of sanity as she starts throwing condoms around while making clear that she is indeed a woman (which experts doubt). The locals don't take this very well and the group of brave feminists have to flee. Fortunately, they find shelter in a house full of women dressed in burqas. But they reveal that they all have designer lingerie hidden beneath their monotonous black rags. And kids, this shows that all the women around the world are actually the same. It does not matter where they live, they are all shallow and consumerist cardboard cutouts of human beings. With this very important lesson, we conclude the second movie.
Sex and the City used to be a franchise made for women to express their feminineness. Today it is a persiflage of itself, a hideous caricature that has lost all dignity. The women in these flicks are so horribly two-dimensional that I want to smash their brains in with a brick. These two movies have to be the worst enemy of feminist groups, because there is no single anti-women-rights cartoon from the 1920s that is so insulting and degrading as these two asinine productions.
The burning question is how this could get any worse. The next movie will probably take place in Siera Leone, where it turns out that the poverty, rape, genocide and mass mutilation are all a big charade and that everyone is actually walking around in the most beautiful designer clothing.
Advice: avoid like the plague.
Rating: 3/10
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