Monday, 31 May 2010

Botox and the City

Photo of a big bunny rabbit!


**spoiler alert**

On Friday 29 May 2009 a good friend died. Someone who had, until that point, been so reliably funny, intelligent and great company it came like a shock to the heart that, despite the warning signs, they could suddenly crash and burn.

That someone was Sex and the City.

I’m left feeling angry, helpless and betrayed. Sure, I blame myself. I ignored everyone who told me they were a bad influence, they would meet a sticky end, that they didn’t have my best interests at heart.

Sex and the City 2 has, in its brash, condescending and frankly offensive way, destroyed everything that came before it.

This second movie has reduced the characters to everything the series’ critics accused them of being. Vacuous, consumerist, ignorant, slightly racist, botox-riddled harpies. Michael Patrick King, how could you destroy the characters you created?

If I listed every reason I hated this film, not one of you would make it to the end. So let me give you my top five:

1-    Miranda quits her job. To be a mum. Because her boss is sexist. Since when has she been pushed around by men? The whole premise of her character is that she won’t bow to men at all. Not even enough to have a relationship. Please.
2-    Carrie wears a frigging ball skirt to a market. Don’t get me wrong, she’s never dressed for comfort, but her outfits have always worked for the character, in New York. It’s offensive that we would believe anyone would wear a ball skirt to a market. Fact. Oh, and the line ‘$20 for shoes?!’ As if she’s never heard of Target
3-    The toast ‘to the women that don’t have help’. In that patronising moment I lost the ability to empathise with any of the characters
4-    The burka-raising moment, where it’s revealed the women of Abu Dhabi all wear Dior. As they all clutch the same identical Suzanne Somers book. As if.
5-    The product placement. Oh, the first film was practically fly-posted with brands, but in a film about fashion, labels are unavoidable. In this film, in an American idol red cup moment, Carrie lifts a box of Pringles and exclaims ‘Oh look, Arabian Pringles’, and then continues to nibble said Pringles while pondering the meaning of life. It’s embarrassing for the viewers; Sarah Jessica Parker, I hope your big fat cheque made it less embarrassing for you.

Ok, rant almost over. Ultimately, the film is like watching more than two hours of a Saturday Night Live parody of Sex and the City. When I argued to friends last week that ‘there’s never been a bad episode of the series, so how bad can this film be’, I was naive. I was thinking like a real person, not a money-obsessed film executive. It’s the worst film I’ve ever seen. ‘Fin’.

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