By way of a warm-up

[gominokouhai]

Lalalala mimimimimimi.

Popular televisual sensation Sex and the City finally crashes onto the big screen, four years later than originally planned, to deliver... what? Nothing good, alas. Executive producer Michael Patrick King returns to write and direct the feature-film version of his show, and demonstrates, more than anything else, a lack of understanding of how movies work.

On the remarkably optimistic assumption that you, the viewer, aren't already in the target demographic and thus haven't watched the show, the film begins with a tortuously hamfisted ten-minute exposition dump to introduce you to the characters. I hope you're taking notes, because this material will be in the test at the end of the semester. Sadly it's all for naught: while our four protagonists may have been interesting and distinctive in the TV series, for the next two and a half hours they'll be nothing but hateful two-dimensional caricatures of people who once might have been human beings.

Two and a half hours? That's right. In the series, one or possibly two of the characters would undergo some dilemma for thirty minutes, learn a valuable life lesson at the end, and then conveniently forget it by the following week, so that the process could begin anew. This is just like that, except that they all do it at once, it takes five times as long, and nobody learns anything or develops in any way.

It's no secret that the film is when Carrie, our allegedly wise but vulnerable protagonist, finally marries Mr Big, her off-again on-again beau from the series. Also crammed in there are subplots featuring The Blonde One Who Has Sex A Lot, who dallies briefly with the concept of having sex less often but eventually decides not to; The Redhead Workaholic whose husband has a minor indiscretion which is treated like it was genocide; and The Brunette One who, having struggled with infertility throughout six years of the series, finally gets pregnant in a massive betrayal of what character she ever had. As far as the main plot goes, when the big wedding happens fifty minutes into this epic-length extravaganza, you'd be forgiven for your lack of surprise when something goes horribly wrong. And you'd be forgiven for expecting the big wedding to finally happen at the end, but you've got another hour and a half to sit through before we get there. Along the way, among other things, we've got to endure a self-indulgent five-minute sequence (that feels much longer) of women trying on twenty-year-old dresses, some humourless relationship counselling, and jokes about grown women shitting themselves.

Basically, it's a story—if story is the right word—about four rich, overprivileged, selfish, white women who spend their entire time constantly whinging about the fact that their lives are only 99% perfect. Aware of this, our noble screenwriter has introduced Counterbalance: she has a name, but it's not important. Counterbalance is the token black, poor, interesting character, and she's by far the best thing about the film. For once there's an actress who can pretend to be a human being in this piece, and Oscar-winner Jennifer Hudson gives it all she's got, despite some wooden dialogue.

Rich overprivileged white woman: You've taught me to come to terms with who I am as a person and have helped me appreciate my place in life. I'd thank you, but there's no point, because I'll have forgotten everything as soon as the scene changes.
Counterbalance: And you bought me a handbag.

One scene in particular sticks out as an exemplar of the attitude this film has. Halfway through, for no plot-relevant reason other than, presumably, to remind us of which franchise we're watching, our four protagonists go to a fashion show. We're treated to five minutes of scowling women walking the runway with dead birds attached to their heads. After nothing happens whatsoever, the four women leave the fashion show and walk out onto the street, where anti-fur activists throw paint over The Blonde One Who Has Sex A Lot. She makes a witty retort and the scene changes to something completely unrelated.

First, it's a completely pointless scene which does nothing for the plot or the movie. Second, the only possible reason it was shot in the first place was to give Kim Cattrall a character moment, and it falls completely flat because her acerbic comeback is something totally unmemorable along the lines of why don't you people just go away. (I've just replayed the video to check. It was, God I miss New York, and it doesn't work.) Third, in an incredibly mean-spirited move, the anti-fur activists are played by the two ugliest, buck-teethed old women that Central Casting could provide. One of them is wearing a comedy hat. Even Russell T Davies provides better social commentary than this.

Ultimately, the big wedding happens in a low-key manner at City Hall, and Carrie is wearing a vintage dress with no designer label. That's the message: the moral that we're supposed to take away from this interminable slog is that, sometimes, dresses don't need to have a label. It would have worked better if this concept had been acknowledged by any of the characters for any longer that the thirty seconds it took Carrie to read her lines to us in voiceover. And it would have worked a lot better if the vintage, labelless dress wasn't played by a brand-new Christian Dior two-piece costing six thousand dollars.

And then, wrapping up one of the subplots, we're treated to the following Swiftian gem: The Redhead Workaholic got back together with her husband, and never looked back. EXCEPT WHEN SHE WAS BEING SHAGGED FROM BEHIND HUR HUR HUR.. If that's the kind of joke that appeals to you, then go and watch this movie with four or five of your least intelligent adolescent girlfriends and a couple of bottles of Asti Spumante. If, on the other hand, you bear any resemblance to a proper human being with a brain and a soul, then avoid.

One star. It does a couple of things, but it does none of them remotely well.

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

It sounds incredibly bad. I am evilly awaiting your headsplodey reaction to the sequel, because I'm told it's even more terrible.

Anna