Après moi, le deluge.
Every now and then a film comes along that is so vile, so repugnant to the fabric of human character and to the soul itself, that its cultural effect is magnificent to behold. It is a rare moment where legions of film critics, normally divided by taste and persuasion, are united by a most powerfully polarizing force. They walk out of the theater as though exiting a chamber of horrors, and when they finally sit down to write, to resolve into words an intensity of emotion that is almost pre-lingual, their reviews nearly resemble love letters.
I live for this shit. I’m openly revealing myself as a petty and mean-spirited hater, but while others were counting down to the theatrical release of “Sex and the City 2,” I was counting down to the release of the reviews. I couldn’t concentrate. I could barely sit still. I sat at my laptop refreshing Rotten Tomatoes over and over, rubbing my hands together and cackling with unsuppressed glee like one of the three witches in “Macbeth.”
Look – I didn’t want this movie to fail. Okay, yes I did. I started to hate the show, with a fanatacism that much more strident to mask my shame in once having liked it. I hated the main character Carrie (and I’m stealing this description) for being the embodiment of a particular type (caricature?) of woman I generally do not appreciate: “a drama queen attention vampire who fancies herself a low-maintenance flower child.” I hated its pernicious, misogynistic and patently false spawn-philosophies like “he’s just not that into you.” But now, all of its various transgressions against me are forgiven, and I am prouder of it than I can say.
In life, one must recognize in certain moments a call to action, but in other moments, to just stand in awe of the achievements of one’s superiors. This moment is one of the latter. Instead of watching and reviewing SATC2 myself, I emphatically recommend reading the reviews already written (all 150 of them). Your time could not be better spent. But for those of you whose priorities are not so admirably aligned as mine, let me present the highlights:
..reaches its nadir in a hideous scene wherein it’s revealed that the oppressed women of the Middle East are really hoping for a catwalk on which to strut their Paris fashions. Fuck you.
The tagline states that we should “Carrie on.” The publicity department almost got it right, but the spelling’s off. It needs to be “Carrion” because nothing says putrefying, rotten and vile quite like this sequel.
At one point the antagonists gather for a tortured karaoke performance of “I am Woman,” which threw me into shock and very nearly caused me to soil myself.
The famously oil-rich Arab Emirate is one of the few places on earth capable of providing the girls with a level of luxury beyond which they’ve already grown accustomed. Justice (and compelling storytelling) would find their plane hijacked and re-routed to Mogadishu, where they’d be forced into the employ of Somali pirates.
I can feel that Dark Side Force power flowing through my fingers as I type feverishly on my computer keyboard. I can’t generate the words fast enough… This is total whoring of the human soul.
…an accidental candid snapshot of the sick, dying heart of America.
…dimwitted American ghouls stomping around Abu Dhabi cracking jokes about burqas and openly mocking the extremes of Muslim law. It would be the ballsiest material of the year if it weren’t so ugly and needlessly raw, revealing a pus-filled mean streak to King that I don’t think anyone could’ve expected.
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.
Thank Jimmy Choo for feminism! Am I right, ladies? I mean, not the nasty hairy feminism that’s all about equal pay and publicly subsidized day care and all that nonsense… No, thank Jimmy Choo for the kind of feminism that has freed women to have as much awesome fun as possible! I’m talking about the fabulous kind of feminism, where wealthy white privilege is healing and a gal is liberated from having to be “interesting”… And then Big gives [Carrie] some more bling, which is so romantic I could die.
When Marie Antoinette did this, the people tore down the fucking Bastille.