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Then there is the matter of the characters themselves. I can not put my finger on the issue as eloquently as I would like, but the quartet of ladies we see in this opening sequence do not at all seem to be the same ones we left gathered in celebration 2 years ago. They seemed lobotomized, drained of their unique personalities and defining traits and reduced to ciphers. Now, their problems seem petty or are slanted as such - Carrie worries of becoming a stay at home couple with Mr. Big; Charlotte frets that her braless Irish nanny will seduce away her husband; Miranda is repeatedly shushed by her boss at work; Samantha, well, Samantha is fighting her age every step of the way, ingesting pills and potions to allow to fuck with the vigor of a woman half her age.
I don’t mean to suggest that there aren’t emotional truths in there but whatever steps King takes to set these stories in motion all but grind to a halt when, for the weakest of plot devices, the ladies end up indulging in a week’s vacation in the United Arab Emirates (actually filmed in Africa) where most of the rest of the film takes place. In an equivalent to one action scene attempting to out-explosion another, the result is a travelogue that is really a catalog of extravagance and wealth: A private jet with individual sleeping berths in first class; $28,000 a night hotel suites; designer outfits and shoes worn atop camels for desert treks and lunches inside tents.

I don’t begrudge the ladies a chance to get out of town; after all there was the would-be honeymoon spa package they joined Carrie for after the wedding went bust-o. And yet, even that sequence seemed merely to be a set-up for the aforementioned soiling of Charlotte’s pants, which got Carrie to laugh and acknowledge there might still be humor left in the world. In SATC2, as they find themselves over six thousand miles from home, and with very little understanding of or respect for, local customs, I could only cringe as they come to very shallow truths about the lives of others. Even the most honest and emotional scene in the movie, Charlotte and Miranda tossing back drinks while allowing themselves to acknowledge how damned hard being a mother is, winds up undercut with a whiff of condescension, as they wonder about and then raise a toast to all the women “who do it without nannies.” The movie traffics in similar questionable “adult women power” - hauling out a fairly excruciating “I Am Woman” karaoke and the revelation that the designs from the latest NYC Fashion Week may be serving as stealth revolution for the silenced women of the Middle East.

It is also difficult for me to take Samantha in more than small doses. If she were a supporting character, it would be one thing. But in this sequel, even more than the other three women, she is reduced to near caricature: fearing hot flashes, lobbing awful puns (“Lawrence of my labia” wins the prize) and drooling at every tightly packaged cock in sight. I don’t object to her lust for sex, simply that the film makes it a one-dimensional trait. She has nothing interesting left to say or offer and her effect on me is like nails on chalkboard (or that of Karen on Will & Grace).

What did surprise me about the first film and here (although to lesser effect) is how well rounded the characters of the men are. This isn’t Steel Magnolias land where the men are daffy sideshows to the main attraction. Mr. Big, as embodied by the distinctly grown-up Chris Noth is a multi-faceted and complex mate, not simply jerkish one minute and suave the next. Evan Handler and David Eigenberg, as Charlotte and Miranda’s respective husbands, figure prominently in the first go-round and not so much here, but generate good cheer nonetheless and seem like they belong with the women they have married.

In the final analysis, I think I can clarify precisely where Sex and the City 2 lets me down. The first film entertained me, moved me unexpectedly, and finally allowed me to see what the big deal is about a custom-designed walk-in shoe closet. The sequel asks me to live in that shoe closet, surrounded by hundreds of pieces of designer foot apparel, and then wonders why I get antsy.

(I have finished with four minutes to spare.)

Next time: My oldest Chapter Two to date, from 1933, a portrait of a criminal mastermind in the German underworld. Enjoy the rest of your year and have a great kick-off to 2011!

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