Once upon a time, there was a hit television show called Sex and the City. On the surface, it seemed like nothing new -- four women decked out in expensive fashions who lived it up in expensive Manhattan with little concern for money. But the series made waves by offering a new outlook on life. These women, all over 30, weren't married with kids, living in the burbs. They were single, professionally successful women charting their own course, while talking frankly about their experiences with sex, love, and city life.
Two years ago, we were treated to the first movie, a follow-up that disregarded much of the show's charm and played out like a self-indulgent squeal fest rather than a worthy cinematic endeavor. And this past weekend, we got the sequel, which takes the superficiality of the first to new, and infinitely blander, levels. Sex and the City 2 doesn't seem like it was made by the man who worked as executive producer, writer, and director on the hit HBO series. It feels like it was made by someone who never watched the show, who was never interested in it, and could only provide the superficial aspects known through reputation.