Sex and the City 2

Following up his filmmaking duties on the first, fairly tepid Sex and the City, surely writer/director Michael Patrick King has improved over time. Or, fears Kimberly Gadette, does the "2" in Sex and the City 2 suggest that it's twice as bad?

The tagline for the new movie about Carrie Bradshaw & Co. 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.

Yes, it's that bad.

There is little to recommend in this painful trudge replete with puns instead of dialogue, clown costumes instead of clothes, poor acting and a story gone missing. Apparently far more comfortable in the 22-minute episodic format than in features, writer/director Michael Patrick King has taken those four witty gal-pals who once looked for love on the island of Manhattan, and replaced them with a spoiled quartet of women so unpleasant that we fight the urge to flee for the exits, as if they're emitting noxious fumes. There’s Carrie's harping wife, hanging with Charlotte's inexplicably overtaxed mom, who's imbibing with the brittle Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) – who’s relegated to playing a fumbling tour guide. Bringing up the rear (which she's probably done with the help of a plastic surgeon) is simpering sex-a-holic Samantha (Kim Cattrall), who singlehandedly subverts sexuality into tastelessness of the highest, or rather, lowest order. What a tortured plunge from the beloved HBO series.

The plot, if you want to call it that, revolves around the women's assorted challenges: Charlotte is having troubles dealing with her crying children, even with fulltime help; Miranda is so unhappy toiling under a woman-hating boss that, at her husband's urging, she quits (no worries, they'll be fine on a single income); Samantha continues to fear aging; and though Carrie's finally snagged Chris Noth's Mr. Big, their two-year marriage is losing its "sparkle" because he's not taking her out to dinner enough and has the nerve to put his feet up on the couch. Wow. What these ladies need is a vacation. Thanks to a bit of Arabian magic, Samantha finagles an all-expense-paid trip to Abu Dhabi.

Every new luxury that meets the ladies' eyes is an excuse to gasp and coo, as if they're all of three-years-old, discovering presents under the tree on a Christmas morning. Along with visual treats comes the swelling of bloated orchestration. The bronze dome of their hotel! (Orchestra.) The swimming pool! (Orchestra). A camel! (Orchestra.) OK, the last one's an exaggeration ... Two camels! (Orchestra.)

But this film, like a bad-mannered tourist in a foreign land, slaps hard at the culture of the United Arab Emirates. Samantha refuses to bow to the custom of the country and instead, wears low-cut tops and short-shorts, insisting on her right to maul her latest "Lawrence of My Labia" on a public beach. When she's criticized, she madly gyrates her pelvis, proudly screaming that she has "SEX!" while throwing condoms into a crowd. Rather than a celebration of empowered womanhood, it's an unintended reflection of a particularly ugly American.

And what to do when nothing's working? Call in Liza Minnelli to give a snappy stage rendition of a Beyonce song. Though we weren't prepared for a musical, be warned that the four tuneless ladies will soon follow suit, yowling a not so karaoke-dokey version of "I Am Woman" in an Abu Dhabi nightclub. Ouch.

It seems the hot desert sun may have shriveled the brain cells of long-time costume designer Patricia Field. Samantha sports silver epaulets on a bright red dress that look like spiked medieval weaponry. Her earrings, the size of small dogs, should be treated as characters onto themselves. Carrie wears 4" heels as she clicks around her home during the day. Her purple poofy skirt topped with a shirt emblazoned "Dior" may be way too bizarre for a bazaar, but nothing compares to the thing engulfing her head that she wears on the plane: to say it's reminiscent of a fully engorged Jiffy Pop bag is, frankly, an understatement. One assumes it needed its own clearance for flight. And, oh, did I mention? Liza's not wearing any pants.

The Ringling Bros.' clowns should sue for identity theft.

As is often the case, actors who portray the same role over a long period of time can become mired in aping themselves, their original characters gone flat in the attempt to be better, bigger and, especially in comedy, funnier. We frequently see it in long-running sit-coms, the solid first year eventually giving way to a stuttering final bow. Such is the case here. But to be fair, the leads are hindered by a shoddy script that is woefully light on credible human exchanges. Additionally, Parker has fallen into a trap, her recent roles veering between sweet and severely sour (Smart People, The Family Stone), with little subtlety in between. Here's hoping that she can once again re-connect, rediscover the very thing that she accuses her film husband of lacking, that special ingredient that she calls "sparkle."

For those diehard fans of the HBO series, the smarter choice might be found in renting the old DVDs. As Samantha might say, at least you'd get some bang for your buck.

Rating on a scale of 5 Bedouin-and-Boreds: 0.5

Release date: US: 27 May 2010; UK: 18 June 2010
Directed by: Michael Patrick King
Written by: Michael Patrick King
Based on the TV series created by: Darren Star
Based on characters from the book by: Candace Bushnell
Cast: Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Cattrall, Kristin Davis, Cynthia Nixon, John Corbett, Chris Noth, David Eigenberg, Evan Handler, Willie Garson, Mario Cantone, Liza Minnelli, Alice Eve
Rating: US = R; UK = 15
Running time (mins): 146