Friday, May 28, 2010
Review: Sex and the City 2
Yesterday I rolled out of bed, showered, and did what 2 years ago would have been emotionally impossible: I got in my car with cranky sibling in tow and drove to the theater to pay, reluctantly, to view the early showing of Sex and the City 2. I had to talk myself into this. It was a process. Every trailer, every online article and magazine cover was followed by a conversation that would go something like this:
Myself: You can't go to it, you know. It's going to be terrible. It will enrage you. Don't you remember the first one? Don't you remember what it was like?
Myself: Oh, I remember. I've derided it like a fanboy trashes Episode I. This will certainly be the most heinous example of faux-feminism and self-destruction of a series since the last round. And yet...
Myself: No. No 'and yet'. Pull yourself together. This pain you inflict upon yourself is the opposite of healthy...
Myself: ...but, I get to Squalor it.
Myself: Is that worth your sanity?
Myself: ...but... I get to Squalor it.
Myself: It's the glitter, isn't it? You're a junkie and your addiction is totally masochistic. Injecting that shit into your veins and imprinting it on your sockets will cut off the flow of blood to your brain. They'll only disappoint you.
Myself: ...no, I need to do this for the blog. I can't just go to movies I think I'll like...I must go forth. I refused to see Shrek, I have to make this sacrifice.
Myself: I'm breaking up with you.
I'm very conflicted. But I went, dear Reader. If the dialogue above didn't clue you in, let me spell it out: I hate. the. first. movie. My hatred knows no bounds. Seriously. Ain't no mountain high enough. It was a no-hearts, slogging, painful exercise in misdirection and vapidity that was neither funny nor particularly poignant. The film made its characters insufferable caricatures of what non-viewers had always assumed the show was about. It was the leering antichrist of summer cinema and a gigantic anticlimax. After six seasons of building somewhat problematic, but genuinely complicated female roles, the film squandered everything. It destroyed its characters and left shadowy pod people wandering Manhattan like aging clothes hangers with stitched on zombie hands. Thinking about it still makes me frustrated. When yesterday arrived, I prepared to enter into battle with the screen. I was 100% eye rolls and troubled sighs. I made snarky remarks as I bought my ticket from the kid at the box office and slouched in with such low expectations and such a massive feeling of dread that, when the film actually started, I was surprised that I somehow managed to feel some brand of strange relief.
Needless to say, since watching all 2+ hours of Sex and the City 2 yesterday, I've become even more conflicted....