It opens with a hoot of a gay wedding. Totally over the top it’s like a Graham Norton/Andrew Lloyd Webber version of Fiddler On The Roof ratcheted up to 11 on the camp-ometer. The sight of Liza Minnelli doing her own side-splitting rendition of Beyonce’s Single Ladies is inspired. By the look in Minnelli’s eyes it seems she can’t quite believe it herself. But really, that level of meshugge can’t be beat. And therein lies one of many problems. From then on, the gags just can’t match. The laugh is, in Samantha Jones terminology, too hard too soon.
More to the point, it may not be a surprise that ole wacky Liza is game for a giggle and some self-mockery. After all, she is starting to look just a tad short of a full shilling; let’s hope she wasn’t actually a consolation prize for the real Beyonce. But it is a colossal shock that the powerhouse core four are so willing to become slapstick versions of the sophisticated, multi-dimensional and downright inspirational personas that formerly ruled the small screen.
Take Miranda Hobbes: in order to become markedly more attractive and “fun” she must first give up the day job as a lawyer. Career women are boring and ugly? Now there’s something none of us ever want to face up to. Carrie Bradshaw: the eternal slave to fashion and “single girl” has by her own admission swapped clothes shopping for furniture investing since becoming Mrs John Preston. Snore? Charlotte York-Goldenblatt: gave up her career to make the perfect family and can’t even manage that without hiring a temptress for a nanny whom she’s convinced Harry may run off with. Risking infidelities for convenience? And Samantha Jones: she got old and spends every waking minute popping pills and swapping moisturizer for pureed yams to maintain her sex appeal. Nobody wants to screw a woman who looks… 50? Even Stanford and Anthony want to be together forever – obviously because all gay men just settle for the one gay man they know?
Are these not the mythical stereotypes Sex And The City so successfully busted and put to bed? Has Sex And The City come full circle? Sex Without The City perhaps. We thought those shoes had been filled by suburbia’s lackluster Desperate Housewives.
And speaking of suburbia, where is New York in all of this? The Big Apple always felt (alongside Manolo Blahnik) like the fifth lady. Similar to the four girls, however, the City has also been diminished to a substance-less pulp. And that’s when it’s even in sight. Most of this movie takes place in Abu Dhabi. Don’t be misled in thinking that a smart move to pay homage to the luxe brands that are starting to make a comeback now the worst of the recession has passed (SATC’s release may play a part in the timely opening of the new and excessive W1 palais du Louis Vuitton).
Regrettably as the girls appear over a desert sand dune, it’s like a TV appeal by Primark, not a mirage of majestic style. That Sex And The City-mimicking Debenhams advert that’s currently doing the rounds actually gives stylist Patricia Field more credit than she’s due in this case. Gone is the City and gone is the Fashion. And if you’re looking for the drinks, well this is Abu Dhabi. Apparently “the new Middle East” doesn’t do cosmopolitan (or the cocktail for that matter).
Michael Patrick King et al worked so hard to master the moments of the show. Now, you can’t help but feel the lack of care to maintain some of its dignity. Aidan Shaw – once great love of Carrie Bradshaw, now another mistake (albeit not a “Big” one). Once bidded one last fond farewell by Carrie outside a store with a baby in harness attached to his belly, he has become nothing more than a temptation for Carrie in a ridiculous Eastern fantasy set-up that’s less Casablanca, more Aladdin: Arabian Blue Nights, or, to quote Samantha, Lawrence Of My Labia. Yep, that was the best they could do.
If you ever wondered what happened to George W Bush-isms since Obama’s inauguration we now have the answer. I’m not one for the Politically Correct police but much of the situational comedy here was cut from the same cloth as G Dubs’ Administration. It’s uncomfortable to say the least when sex mad Samantha winds up encircled by traditional Arab men watching her scrounge around on the souk floor collecting the spilled condoms from her broken Birkin, while she tells them, in a voice once heroic and defiant, “fuck you”. Jests at women in burkhas eating french fries are an uneasy reminder of America’s often monochrome view of world affairs.
The moral of the story is don’t meddle with the programme we loved. Because we loved it, with every bone in our body. And as the girls took one last stroll down a Manhattan sidewalk in Season 6 it hurt. Some cried, some mourned, but the programme gave us memories to hold on to forever. Sadly these have now been spoiled by new plot twists and some over-egging of the pretzel. I’d like to say this sequel is a must for any fan but the spinning of the Sex And The City yarn is failing to convince. To call on an old classic piece of fashion advice: sometimes less is more.
Jaz xxx
Posts
