His Story: Sex And The City 2 -- Or -- Chuck Norris, Jean Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal & Arnold Schwarzenegger

The girls are at it again. The Faboo Four crank up the money machine to trip the light fantastic in a slick confection of haute couture, gasp-eliciting footwear, timely cosmo-infused relationship rescue advice and hit-me-with-a-brick channeling of Helen Reddy, in case we hadn’t noticed that, in fact, despite 15 years and untold millions of marketing dollars, they are woman. Did I mention gay bffs and Liza Minelli?



The as-you-would-expect predominately female audience took the bait with unabashed and unbridled vocal enthusiasm. I’ve seen less engaged crowds under the Big Top during death defying trapeze acrobatics. From the first lovingly lingering close-up of Christian Louboutin’s lavender shaded handiwork 20 seconds into the film (or Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik or somebody way hipper than I can hope to know), I found myself wishing I had a dollar for each audible affirmation being shouted back at the screen. “mmmm-HMMMMM!”. Ka-ching. “That’s right, girlfriend!” Jackpot. “You tell him!” Double down, anyone? I’m sure I could have bought the entire audience a drink, left a great tip and still had cabfare home. To Michigan.



The participation, the reverence, the immediate (dare I say) sisterhood in the audience was worth the price of admission to witness. I was shocked that there was so little high-fiveing during the closing credits. 

The story was deftly spun and spiked with big globs of unmistakable fun, the characters satisfyingly consistent, the conflict skillfully resolved in Act III and no doors slammed to preclude another sequel. Hollywonks will barely notice Darren Starr’s absence. And, best of all, the Arab bad guys got theirs.



Which brings me to the point. Maybe tonight I learned how my high school dates felt in the 80’s during movies I chose. Conspicuous as an unintended and untargeted, unmarketed to member of the audience, present only to provide ballast to the symmetry of my date’s enjoyment. Pleasantly reacting to the obvious but clearly dislocated outside the insider’s mien even to the most casual observer. Shrinking in the glare of the patently formulaic. Not really understanding why any of it matters, but understanding that it does matter to someone. Lots of someones. At least the evil sheiks got it in the end. Also, I’m fairly sure I heard Sarah Jessica Parker say “I’ll be back” with an Austrian accent.