For two weeks I’ve been under a dark cloud. A cloud of annoyance and distraction, spitting rage and aggravation. See, the thing is that I work on a far west side block where an enormous billboard has stared into my office with the four, flame-smiled stars of Sex and the City 2. Photo-shopped onto sandy dunes, all a-swirl in couture, they’ve been mocking me, daring me not to love them and the fantasy they represent. Who wouldn’t wish to carpet-ride off into hookah smoke and 22 thousand dollar a night suites?
Escapist comedy, the creator says, is just what we need in these dire, sad-face times. The over-leveraged western world must be fled from. Those designer togs with tags still attached crowding my football field-sized closet don’t warm my coal black heart any longer. Girl’s gotta get back to the salt, nay, sand, of the earf, no? The problem with running from responsibility — running from the City that’s half the fucking name of this joint — is that it strips the characters of context. Who cares what the ladies say about Abu Dhabi?
"God, it’s hot here."
"There’s so much sand!"
"Doesn’t this souq carry the cutest sandals?"
I mean, zzzzzzzzz, right? Michael Patrick King thought it would be hilarious, capital H, to thrust sex addict Samantha into an environment where her proclivities are a capital offense. You know, just to show those raghead so-and-sos what it means to live in a sexually liberated civilization. As though he gives a flying fuck about female empowerment.
Sex and the City is hardly stocked with the right satirical tools to confront fundamentalism front-on. And what really shoves the sand in my pants is that Samantha isn’t a liberated woman. She’s a caricature, a gay man in disguise, a woman without the broody synapse. Aside from her PR career, she only cares for fucking. And maybe some new clothes due to all the semen stains on her Lacroix. Now, there is nothing wrong with loving to fuck. NOTHING. But try substituting another “vice” for her love of sex — booze, cigarettes, coke — she would appear a sad, vacant-eyed addict hungry for her next fix. We would all be clamoring for her to be shut up in Betty Ford, not cheerleading her on to her next conquest. Just because sex is inextricably tied up with love and intimacy doesn’t mean she is a fully-functional human being who can access those feelings. In her mind, the connective tissue between sex and love has been burnt away or just never existed in the first place. Tagging her a neurotic would be a kindness.
And yet women who love the show wish they could be just like her. Just like her, without all those pesky feelings and emotions. It would be easier to live like that, no ties, no ball and chain (aside from the ball-gag and chain-mail underpants, of course).
It was interesting to see her in action in New York when the series was on because one wonders what will happen to her. You see a woman in control of her life, her emotions, her job and you want her to find a man to match her stride. It wouldn’t change her to find a mate — it would make her a more (NOT less) interesting character. Finally! A man who can keep her interest and fuck her like a fighter — I’d watch that. Hey, I’d like to find a guy like that myself!
Ultimately, she finds no one and fills that hole with cock after cock and rides in rented Maybachs. As though these fleeting experiences will satisfy any sort of deep yearning. Obviously, life is ephemeral and one should cram as much wonder and pleasure in before you hit your expiration date. But why fill it with the empty calories of 400 thousand dollar cars and 50 thousand dollar dresses?
Those aren’t things that should exists at all, in any context. No one should have a 400 thousand dollar car. Not one person. No lear jets either or million dollar weddings. I don’t care who you are. Sex and the City 2 is the hideous, ancient portrait of unrestrained capitalism locked in the closet. We’ve just taken it out and shown the world the cadaver draped in moth-eaten couture.