Alas poor Carrie, we knew her well and we knew her clothes even better. Liked quite a few of them too. But that was way back in the Noughties. Simpler times. An era when eclectic wasn’t some lazy adjective chucked at anyone who looks as though she got dressed in the dark. But now we’re on to Sex and The City: The Movie 2, God knows how it will pan out. Part 1 was a shameless milking of a cash cow that was running dangerously low on lactose. Unless they’ve recruited a whole new writing team, the sequel could end up making Jaws 4 look like Beckett.
There are some things to applaud about The Sex and the City franchise — $262 million (£170 million) for the first film and counting — even if its chief redeeming feature is that the four protagonists aren’t a CGI-generated, machine-gun-toting sub-species of teenage mutants, but four women approaching middle age.
But this plus is nullified by the almighty weight of expectation — or rather the bludgeoning tactics of the Hollywood hype machine that insists on behaving as if every member of the female gender is now in the grip of a frenzy of anticipation at the prospect of watching SJP & Co gyrate across the screen in their designer outfits.
It’s not even as if they’re nice designer outfits. With the exception of the inimitably chic Parker, who could — and has — made boob tubes look glamorous, the other three co-stars appear like a bunch of drag queens on a day trip to Bluewater. Patricia Field, we hereby accuse you of grave style crimes — and here we nominate ten films infinitely more worthy of fashion veneration.
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