directed by Michael Patrick King
I remember the time when I could honestly and abashedly say “You know what? Sex and the City is a good show.” Those were the days. Too bad Michael Patrick King has dragged the last few untarnished rhinestones of a once innovative series through the mud of fake feminism, gay jokes, and not in any way veiled racism for an entire culture. The film starts with a simple premise: Someone must have bet King to string together as many gay jokes as humanly possible, and the outcome is the inexplicable wedding of Stanford Blatch and Anthony Marantino, replete with swans, an all male choir who collectively swoon in the presence of Liza (the one and only) and a non-convincing romance between two polar opposites. Next up is a spectacularly ridiculous monsoon of puns, sex, menopause jokes and completely useless plot twists that generate zero tension in the film. Actually, what’s less than zero? All of this takes place against a backdrop of a Middle East that is, apparently for King, ripe for mockery, ridicule and judgement. It’s one thing to ask your audience to think about different points of view and to provide a respectful and sober counterargument, but it’s another thing to arrogantly insult an entire culture. Like we need more shit to make the Middle East hate our guts. Thanks for nothing, King.
P.S. John Corbett, I thought you knew better. You were Chris effing Stevens, man! Come on, have a little dignity. I heard a rumor that you initially wanted to pass on the film, but finally gave in. The people of Cicely, Alaska would not approve.