Hollywood has always been an insular place, its peculiar rhythms largely indifferent to those of the outside world. Nowhere is this more achingly evident than in Sex and the City 2, a movie so staggeringly tone-deaf it appears as if constructed in some decadent biosphere, its filmmakers unaware that they were constructing not only one of the worst studio films in recent memory, but arguably one the most misogynist as well.
Whereas the close of 2008’s Sex and the City found heroines Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker), Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), Charlotte (Kristen Davis), and Samantha (Kim Cattrall) more or less getting everything they’ve ever wanted, the sequel finds them faced with the inconveniences that come along with having everything they’ve ever wanted.
Patrician Charlotte, despite the aid of both of a full-time nanny and a housekeeper, is overwhelmed by the demands of being a stay-at-home mom to two children, while high-powered executive Miranda is too ensconced in boardroom politics to attend her genius second-grader’s science faire (though, to be honest, the child is probably better off without her around).
Superstar publicist Samantha, now 52, her familiar bawdiness nearing its awkward, creepy-uncle stage, is in the throes of peri-menopause, swallowing pills by the handful to boost her sex drive and forestall her inevitable descent into cat-hoarding spinsterdom.
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