Last night I gave in to my most self-destructive instincts and went to see Sex and the City 2, knowing full well that I would come out feeling poor, fat and completely lacking in style. It’s a bit like drinking – you know you’ll feel bad about yourself the next day, but it’s fun at the time.
I’ve read some pretty shocking reviews, and it has been criticised heavily for the product placement bonanza, so as I pulled up at the cinema in my TVR Tuscan I was feeling a little anxious, hoping that I wasn’t wasting my one child free night out per fortnight. I stepped out of the car, smoothed down my Chanel shift dress and checked the time on my Rolex, gazing admiringly as the last of the day’s sun sparkled across its jewel encrusted face. I was just on time.
The theme of the film is acceptance – accepting who you are, where you are in your life, and how things change. We are shown not to try to recapture the past (i.e. not kiss ex-boyfriends), not to feel we’re on the scrap heap after 50 (i.e. shag men on the bonnet of your car on a beach) and ultimately the value of female friendship (i.e. it doesn’t matter how bitchy you are to each other, how many hurtful things you say, so long as you can laugh over your cocktails at the end of the day).
Now I’m a big fan of Sex and the City normally, so despite all the poor reviews I read on my MacBook Pro I thought I would enjoy the second film. When the lights went on though, revealing my gorgeous peep toe Manolo Blahniks, I was left feeling rather bemused. I wasn’t really quite sure what had just happened to me. It wasn’t bad, it just didn’t feel like watching a film. It was all rather odd.
There were enjoyable parts – particularly a touching moment where Charlotte and Miranda confess tearfully just how hard they find parenting, an attempt no doubt to reconnect with the millions of once single twenty something fans who are now watching the film on a much-needed night out away from the families. But it’s hard to feel empathy with two mothers who have full-time help to look after their children, especially when one of them doesn’t even seem to work. Touching yes, but it didn’t have me reaching into my Fendi for the tissues.
I left the cinema, switching back on my iPhone to check for messages, feeling a little bit like I’d just been abused without realising it. Part of me felt uncomfortable, like I wanted to go home for a wash, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. I had been expecting superficial, unbelievable, glitzy nonsense – I’d have been happy with that – but what I got was a weird two-hour long infomercial courtesy of HP and the Abu Dhabi tourist office. Not unpleasant, just a bit wrong.
Please note: this is not a sponsored post. If any companies mentioned would like to consider retrospective sponsorship, please contact me.