Sex and the City 2 stands a good chance of being The Proposal of 2010 — a megabucks rom-com blockbuster with the worst reviews of the year. Currently clocking in with a 33 on Metacritic, 80% of the reviews give SATC2 a score of 50 or lower — and that’s not counting the scathing appraisal from Andrew O’Hehir whose subtitle I’ve borrowed for the headline above. Guaranteed to be a rating of 10 or possibly even ‘0’ when it’s factored in, Salon’s review isn’t going to do that Metacritic average any favors.
Sometimes a movie is so disastrously appalling the only entertainment value it can spawn is the withering flair of a critic’s unleashed wrath, and O’Hehir’s review is a deliciously bitter read. He doesn’t simply dissect the corpse; he explains the cause of death with forensic precision. And he describes with sincere regret the vandalism and violation Michael Patrick King has inflicted on four unique creations who were once worth watching.
It would have been more merciful for writer-director Michael Patrick King to have rented Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda out to the “Saw” franchise, or to Rob Zombie, so we could watch them get shot in the head or skinned alive by Arkansas rednecks. Instead of that, we get something that’s truly sadistic: the SATC girls as haggard specters, haunted by their freewheeling ’90s past and stupefied by the demands of work, marriage and/or motherhood. This bloated, incoherent movie mimics an SATC episode in structure — vague social relevance at the beginning and the end, conspicuous consumption in the middle — with virtually none of the wit or panache, and seems devoted to destroying our affection for these characters…
Wajahat Ali was correct to complain in Salon that King’s portrayal of the Muslim world is dumb and offensive: The “SATC2” coven has no problem with the “new Middle East” when it’s all about private manservants, endlessly flowing fruity-tooty cocktails and a comped luxury suite that looks like Al Pacino’s house from “Scarface,” only less tasteful and metastasized to infinite proportions. The foursome develops a sudden concern with the oppression of Arab and Muslim women only after the pipeline of pornographic bling-juice is cut off…
Indeed, this movie’s offensive on many levels, but Arabs and Muslims don’t get to feel special. It relies on stupid stereotypes because it’s a stupid movie that’s offensive to virtually everyone. It’s offensive to the demographic it claims to adore — straight women and gay men — who are depicted, more than ever, as hopelessly obsessed with the surface of things, to the point where they forget there’s anything below that. The only reason it isn’t offensive to straight men is that there aren’t any; Big is something else, a shambling, half-dead ghoul enslaved to a demonic harridan.
It’s offensive to an entire audience who came of age with these women and who remain breathtakingly loyal, and out of nostalgic affection may not have the heart to turn away from them. It’s offensive to King’s own creations, toward whom he now seems to feel nothing but contempt. It’s offensive because it keeps cattle-driving a franchise once based on sparkle and economy toward new heights of painful, frantic emptiness.
I don’t like to focus on the negative here. Prefer to pretend bad movies don’t exist. But when a writer/director squanders the enormous good will of his ardent fan base with such slack-jawed clumsy rubbish then he deserves the public pillory.
The saddest thing? Millions of eager female moviegoers are going to get together for girls’ night out this weekend and flock to see this dreck. It’ll be a hit, and the producers will think they’re giving women what they want.