Carrie on, carrie on...because it doesn't REALLY matter, Ann Hornaday.

Dedicated critics of the Sex and the City series kind of counter-intuitively throw around the term “old slut” when trying to prove their point. Their point, in my opinion, is more often than not backed by the kind of idiotic rhetoric typically employed by Bible-thumping parents who want Mark Twain books eradicated from local libraries. “The show is supposed to be about female empowerment, but they’re just total whores,” I’ve heard acquaintances screech. Diehard fans know to counteract this approach with one of two attacks. One -- by definition, female empowerment is a movement designed to be about EMPOWERING FEMALE CHOICES, whatever form they might take. The only part of the SATC series in direct counterpoint to this idea is only embodied in those critics who use derogatory female slang to describe women at all. Two -- if you were a diehard fan (having given the series its’ due) you would know that the whole premise of the show is about navigating relationships -- commitment, marriage, love, the humiliations involved in pursuing any of these. It’s not about sex per se, it’s about life; perhaps more accurately, a specific lifestyle. The really raunchy bits in the show are usually just character fodder for Samantha, or (more cynically) just victorious assertions of power from the Big Guys at HBO flaunting their lack of censorship. I only like to accept criticisms about “Sex and the City” from people willing to concede the above paragraph’s two points, or people who have actually spent a lot of time digesting sample episodes from various seasons of the show. More than any other program I’ve willingly enslaved myself to over the past ten years, it seems to be this one that elicits unparalleled, ferocious controversy.

So women have a right to sex. As much as they can get, as old as they are. These women are often jaded and live in New York. They like fashion. The jig is up: I watch “Sex and the City” because I am the woman who moved to New York (in one sense at least) for Labels and Love, who likes fashion and da boyz. I am the kind of fan who was always going to follow and defend even the most despicable version of the spin-off movies imaginable, because practically each episode over the six year run has prompted a question (a voice over, rhetorical, pun-filled Carrie Bradshaw question) that I’ve likely asked myself in some form or other throughout my city life. Do we need drama to make relationships work? Is honesty really the best policy? Are we sluts? I like brunch. I like Smith Jerrod and Steve and Harry Goldenblatt. Thus take your PILLAR of salt.

Bearing my existing love in mind, I figured that “Sex and the City 2” would be the kind of oddly likable disaster that its advertising seemed to swear. Objectively, there were a lot of cards stacked against this film. Sequel to a romantic comedy? Yikes. See “Bridget Jones 2: The Edge of Reason” (or rather, DON’T see it). Same clothes plus six years? Erkgsh, okay. Light-hearted vacation romp sub-plot…in the Middle East? Touche. I’m almost surprised there wasn’t more trepidation from the most manic within the fan club about the potential this recipe might have held for “abomination”. There was always the light threaded fear that characters would become caricatures and Carrie would take Big back, but it was easy to trust the ever-present hands of Michael Patrick King, and SJP, and Patricia Field. Besides, everyone knows those light-threaded-fear ships sailed somewhere before the end of season six. (I still don’t know what people are complaining about whenever they suggest the Girls have become fops. They were always fops. They were always only slightly complicated archetypes with a lot of opinions. You can call that a caricature if you like, but if that’s an onerous definition I question why people like you go to the movies at all.)
Perhaps because I did go in with such low expectations, I liked “SATC2” because it was nowhere near as awful as it may have been. Like a lithe ballerina in a dodge ball match, the film was able to artfully dance around what could have been its horrific, condemning obstacles. The foray into the Middle East always tiptoed just a little to the left of politically incorrect and culturally insensitive: each almost-blunder (How does the girl in the birka eat a French fry?!) was tempered with some fun cultural tidbit (The beautiful souk, the beautiful desert…). More disturbing than the general portrayal of the Middle East (Marrakech as Abu Dhabi) was just the jarring-ness of seeing the Girls there. But it wasn’t the jarring-ness of Blackface poorly handled, it was the jarring-ness of your Southern aunt attempting to order food in Spanish from a legitimate Tex-Mex restaurant. Slightly uncomfortable, but -- if you dig deep within your soul -- not necessarily offensive.

I was kind of fussed by the Big Gay Wedding in the opening scene of the movie. Stanford Blatch and Anthony Marentino have felt like a sour couple since SATC1, where the rest of the gay world seemed to vanish from New York’s background and leave these two enemies alone to duke it out…and then get married…because they’re the two gay characters. But even amidst the opulent wash of Liza Minelli singing a version of “All the Single Ladies”, that same comfortable, goofy feeling of your Aunt stumbling through Spanish verb tense kicks in -- Anthony, at the altar, breaks down and confesses that he really does love Stanford. I want to give the gang kudos at this point for putting one of the first mainstream gay weddings put on the Silver Screen into such a fabulous, glittery context -- even if it is that term (hushhushhush) un-politically correct. Moreover, it’s splashy, fun, it’s a romp, and it’s still truthful to the context. It’s harmless.

Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte are who they always were. This is the most comforting. If you are a true fan (the kind who likes brunch, the kind who likes these women for what they represent, the kind who respects this lifestyle even if they can’t fully condone every particle of it) this will guide you through the brackish water of opulent, outrageous dress-up clothes, tepid puns and half-baked subplots that leaves you questioning your own moral codes and standards of “political correctness”. I probably sound like someone defending a pretty bad movie with a pretty uppity set of personal values, but I’m certain this film can be appreciated even by those who can’t tell you where Carrie’s ficticious apartment address is. As always, the greatest thing about the series is that everything from the dialogue to the situations is lifted straight from the comfort of a Girls’ Night sleepover, where we tend to handle the issues of our lives with humor, tongue-in-cheek self deprecation, shopping and cocktails. And what should a movie about women being empowered have but these qualities, and fuck all the conventional rest? It never was conventional or proper to be a single city girl in the first place. It’s almost odd now that conventions -- be they civic, social or cinematic -- were ever expected of a piece like this in the first place.
And if I were a political person meant to comment on Abu Dhabi, and the gay wedding, and the vague thread of international sisterhood that follows everyone around, I might say to the world…lighten up. We did not always look to Hollywood to guide our moral compass. Political correctness is irrelevant and dull.
I like the old sluts.