[Sex and the City 2] is an almost avant-garde adventure in aimlessness. … The production as a whole, which was perpetrated, as before, by Michael Patrick King, turns on a strategy of avoidance. Real feelings lurk just below the surface—Samantha’s terror of growing old, Carrie’s fear of eventual tedium in a childless marriage. Yet the surface is where the movie stays, like an old submarine with dead batteries.
The characters’ engagement with Muslim culture is lazily conceived and often painful to watch, as when Parker gawps at a woman eating french fries under her veil, or Cattrall fellates a hookah pipe. The movie justifies these moments with a pro-female message that goes no further than acknowledging that all women, regardless of culture, love fashion and enjoy karaoke sing-alongs of “I Am Woman.” Similarly, the movie’s attempts to downplay its unbridled opulence with throwaway lines addressing the poor housing market and “this bullshit economy” are insulting rather than ingratiating. Even the crackerjack quippery that was once a Sex And The City hallmark has become so lazy that observations as hoary as “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” and “Erin go braless” make the cut.
Even in the context of that lumpy, overpriced Birkin bag of stuff we call Hollywood product, Sex and the City 2 hits a new low of idiocy and crassness. … As I suffered through the nearly two-and-a-half-hour runtime, I kept asking myself: What might I have done wrong, in a past life or in this one, that I deserve to have my eyeballs seared by Sarah Jessica Parker’s loony desert-princess getups? To suffer the agony of watching four actresses who have previously given me so much pleasure become undone by crap dialogue and, in one case, an overinflated ego? To gaze upon a couple of amazingly well-groomed camels and realize that they have better hairdos than the human movie stars astride them?
As tasteless as an Arabian cathouse, as worn-out as your 1998 flip-flops and as hideous as the mom jeans Carrie wears with a belly-baring gingham top, “Sex and the City 2” is two of the worst movies of the year.
The transformation of the girls from winsome wisecrackers into whiny bling-obsessed chuckleheads is complete.
Thanks to writer-director Michael Patrick King, I now have a fair idea how it might feel to be stoned to death with scented candles.