Sex and the City 2

My review of the supremely disappointing Sex and the City 2 is in this week's WE (WestEnder).

The stars of the iconic HBO TV series return for a desert adventure in Sex and the City 2.

Credit: Supplied

SEX AND THE CITY 2

Starring Sarah Jessica Parker, Kristin Davis, Cynthia Nixon, Kim Cattrall
Directed by Michael Patrick King
In retrospect, the magic of the first Sex and the City movie was that it provided a welcome reprieve from a Sex-less life. Fans of the HBO TV series bid adieu to the glamour and glitz of Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker), Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), Charlotte (Kristin Davis), and Samantha (Kim Cattrall) in 2006, and had to rely on syndicated reruns and the DVD box set to get a dose of the four women who made such an indelible impact on our culture. As mixed as reviews of the first SATC movie were, fans couldn’t deny that it felt good to be back in the company of the fictional foursome.

Sadly, this sequel feels less like a reunion with old friends, more like an exercise in the art of the quick cash grab, with writer-director Michael Patrick King sacrificing a strong narrative for what feels like a scattershot collection of writing-room whims. Liza Minelli? The Middle East? Menopause? Sure, why not?

The core four are severely shortchanged here, seemingly just so King could transplant the Big Apple girls (read: free) to Abu Dhabi (read: repressed), under the guise of a work trip for Samantha. It’s an interesting premise, but one King doesn’t care to explore in any meaningful way, instead using it as a 90-minute tent pole that sags under the weight of a 150-minute movie.

Meanwhile, Carrie and Charlotte are affected by the “terrible twos”: Carrie’s negotiating the tricky art of settling down into married life, while Charlotte’s toddler, Rose, cries all the time, calmed only by Mommy and the nanny, a bra-less Irish blonde. Samantha battles menopause, and Miranda faces work issues, but their stories are sacrificed for sheik-related shenanigans. They ride camels. They offend by flaunting their sexuality. And, of course, they end up wearing burqas, with all the finesse and maturity of the Scooby Gang.

The clothes, mostly hideous here but always as much a character as New York City itself, ultimately serve as the sartorial barometer for the film’s success — for every genuinely good outfit, there’s a moment that hits that unique SATC mark, the familiar combination of heart, humour, and honesty. But I couldn’t help but wonder: Is a bad visit with old friends better than no visit at all? —Andrea Warner

I'm Not There Review

This review is scheduled to appear in Discorder's February issue, out in a couple weeks.

I’m Not There Review
By Andrea Warner

I’m Not There is a brilliant head-trip of a circus and the ringleader in the spotlight of this chaotic and sumptuous visual extravaganza is the man behind the many myths: Bob Dylan.

It takes a lot of parts to make up the whole of any human being, but few figures have so blatantly confounded, entranced and ultimately served to exemplify an entire generation so completely as that of Bob Dylan. Six wonderful actors dig in to the bones of his enigmatic persona, the flesh made real by a superb supporting cast, but still at the film’s end we’re wondering what it all means?

This is the beauty of a director like Todd Haynes tackling the mystery of Dylan: they share a desire to stimulate the imagination and challenge preconceived notions, creating startlingly relatable characters out of the most indulgent and unappealing human traits.

Cate Blanchett as Jude Quinn is a standout amongst some truly wonderful performers, inhabiting Dylan’s most destructive and arrogant side. She finds a brilliant sparring partner in Bruce Greenwood, the BBC arts reporter eager to demystify Quinn as a self-invented narcissist from New Jersey. Each scene between them is a tense and satisfying game of cat and mouse. In Blanchett’s capable hands, every Quinn’s every sentiment is a fragile riddle that dissolves under too much scrutiny.

Marcus Carl Franklin as the 11-year-old, train-hopping child who calls himself Woody Guthrie, is an actor with great instincts and a remarkably mature voice. Heath Ledger and Charlotte Gainsbourg also shine as a couple unraveling under ego and success.

Throughout the film we’re always clawing at a never-ending glass surface that refracts images surreal and beautiful, raw and ugly, but all hauntingly honest. We’re forced to leave the theatre thinking about who we are in the grand scheme of things. Haynes, like Dylan, is a master at manipulating his audience, but we are all the richer for it.