Sex and the City 2 is such a shocking misfire that it is almost literally impossible to watch it without scrunching up your face and backing up a few inches from your television. By the end you'll be behind the couch weeping, cursing God and gnawing skin off the back of your hand.
It's not very good.
Spot the camel.
Oh, all the main characters are back. There's that whore-y one, that other whore-y one, the one who's supposed to be cute but isn't and the one whose face looks like a dromedary camel who used a moisturizer with methylparaben, causing all its hair to fall out save for the thick black ones on its wart (dromedary camels are, as you well know, allergic to methylparaben). There's also Mr. Big, of course, who, improbably, is not a circus strongman, but rather the oily, repulsive husband of one of them (do you really care which one?).
When the pressures of modern life, which as far as I can tell consist wholly of swilling liquor and buying crap, start to wear on them, does our cast seek relief as any normal person would, e.g., eating a four-person portion of smoked pork shoulder straight from the aluminum tray it came in from the store? No, they hustle off to that hotbed of drunken trampdom, Abu Dhabi. Really, they do. The stars of Sex and the City spend the bulk of their time in the city of Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates.
Above: The gang is rescued by Sarah Jessica Parker's parents.
Though as a film it is 99 percent twisted wreckage, in one scene it does ably cater to an underserved audience: That is, those few but highly passionate people who long to see a woman hurl fistfuls of condoms at a crowd of devout Muslims and then flip them double birds while shrieking vile profanities that would cause the demon Pazuzu to say, "Hey, whoa, back it down there, lady. We're not animals." If you are one of those people, seek help.
For all others, I believe you'll enjoy surgery on that bone spur in your foot more than this film.
At least the surgery comes with painkillers.