I keep surprising myself by quite enjoying Sex and the City films. It’s surprising because I never watched the TV show, so I have no real emotional attachment to these people, and it’s also a surprise because the sensibility of Carrie and Co. isn’t really my sensibility (my fashion sense is very close to zero) – and it’s also a surprise because the characters don’t seem to make much sense, even for viewers more in sync with them. Why is a glitzy PR queen like Samantha hanging out with an uptight lawyer (Miranda) and whatever the hell Charlotte is? How come Carrie’s a famous writer yet talks entirely in platitudes? And when are the other three going to gang up on Charlotte and shout: “Girl, wake up! Your husband looks like Dr. Evil!”?
Yet the first Sex and the City film was poignant, even touching, and this sequel – though terribly mixed-up and overlong – also has effective bits among the stuff that’s camp, cringe-inducing or just very dubious. The basic problem is that Sex and the City 2 is unnecessary. The show was like a joke with a brilliant punchline, four party girls dealing with the ultimate party-pooper – namely, getting old. That’s what made the first film so affecting, Carrie and her friends having to deal with change (even the old NYC dialling codes had changed), the realisation that party time was over and settling-down time was upon them. Trouble is, that only works once. All the sequel can do by way of encore is show the girls struggling with husbands and babies, then up the ante halfway through by sending them all on a no-expense-spared trip to Abu Dhabi.
The husbands-and-babies stuff is interesting, though the film doesn’t seem to realise how spoiled and petulant the quartet come off. For their second anniversary, Mr. Big cooks his famous osso bucco for Carrie, who in turn gives him a vintage Rolex as a present – yet she’s still not happy, because he watches too much TV. “I think we need some glamour,” she opines, prompting stifled laughter from the millions of wives who buy their husbands neckties for their second anniversary, and get taken to the pub in return. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s in the kitchen making cupcakes with her two daughters, and breaks down in tears when Daughter No. 1 plants a pair of dirty handprints on her vintage Valentino skirt. Wait, she’s making cupcakes in a vintage Valentino skirt? I don’t know Valentino from a pair of Chinos, and even I know that’s insane.
Still, the question remains: can a woman graduate from designer brands to a designer marriage? That’s what Carrie and Big have in mind, changing the rules of marriage (e.g. taking two days off every week, so they can each have some space) to suit their needs; but is this do-able, or is Tradition something you can’t shake off as easily as a pair of Johnny Choos? Tradition is important in Sex and the City 2. The film starts with a non-traditional marriage – a gay marriage – then pits the girls against the weight of Muslim tradition when they get to Abu Dhabi.
Can the SATC ladies thrive in the land of the burqa? The film plays with fire in placing these unreal creatures in such a volatile setting, never really getting to grips with Islamic culture (you know a Sex and the City film is in trouble when its success depends on getting to grips with Islamic culture). Strangely enough, it seems in favour of the Arab way of doing things. The burqa “certainly cuts down on the Botox bill,” says Samantha wryly, and besides it’s not so different in the US – Western men are equally afraid of strong female voices, even if they don’t show it so explicitly (the film fancies itself as a feminist tract; at one point, the foursome line up in a karaoke version of ‘I Am Woman’). Samantha’s latest squeeze, a hot Danish architect, even reckons that forbidden lust makes things even hornier – “I feel like a boy again” – though he’s nowhere to be seen when she ends up being arrested for snogging on the beach. Even here, however, the film contrasts that kiss with the kiss Carrie shares with Aidan (her old flame, encountered in an Arab souk), a kiss which allegedly “means nothing”. These Arabs know the true value of a kiss – a value we in the West have forgotten – it seems to be saying.
It seems incredible that Sex and the City 2 should approve of sexual repression, even when the burqa-clad local ladies turn out to be wearing Louis Vuitton beneath their garments (as if to say the burqa’s just a silly thing they do to keep the men happy). In fact, I don’t think it does approve – it just has no idea what it’s saying, because … well, it’s Sex and the City 2, not Edward Said. The whole Abu Dhabi jaunt is a mistake. The girls look foolish when they ooh and aah over limos and private elevators. They come off like crass American tourists, and don’t even seem to be having all that much fun. Instead, Samantha bemoans the loss of her hormone pills – her daily map through the “menopause maze” – Carrie feels guilty over Aidan, and Charlotte and Miranda retire to the bar so they can whinge about motherhood: “Being a mother is hard!” they cry, drinking a toast to the mothers (there must be some) who do all this without a full-time nanny.
Yet that’s also where Sex and the City 2 scores hardest, in the sight of these party people knuckling down to everyday challenges. The gay wedding is too much, with a male chorus singing ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ and a Botoxed-up Liza Minnelli presiding. The marriage of Islam and SATC is even dodgier. But the film, like the show, has a real (if glossy) interest in the minefield of relationships, and the themes of Time and ageing remain potent. At one point, Mr. Big stops watching TV long enough to do something wildly impulsive and romantic – “And just like that,” marvels Carrie, in a moment that’ll make you choke up even if you don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, “it was 1998 again”. This is why I enjoy Sex and the City films.
