Questions for Michael Patrick King, Sex and the City Writer and Director


1. Who are the four pathetic bimbos in funny outfits inhabiting this movie, and what have you done with our girls?

2. If Big—maybe not a genius, but formerly someone in the normal range of intelligence—could find Carrie in Paris, why is he unable to locate her in New York, even though she is living in her same apartment?

3. Why is Miranda so incurious that she never even asks Steve who he cheated with before walking out and reverting to the single worst fate that can befall a woman—eating Chinese food by herself?

4. And speaking of Chinese food, why is this movie so racist? Why have you taken a page from the Woody Allen playbook, which instructs that all non-white people are born to serve, and neighborhoods are only acceptable when disgusting Caucasians with babies—like the guy Miranda follows to find her new home in Chinatown—move in? Why is it that when Jennifer Hudson’s character, Louise, comes to New York to find “love,” she isn’t employed as a nightclub singer, or even a vocal coach, but instead as a servant in the house of Carrie—tidying up for her, organizing her files, and being pathetically grateful when Carrie gifts her with an LV handbag?

5. Why is it that Samantha, even when she is sick of aging stud-muffin Smith Jerrod, denies herself the pleasure of sex with her hot neighbor, a plot turn so out of character that one is convinced one is in the wrong theater? Why does the movie insist that Samantha is now fat, even though she looks exactly the same as she always did?

6. Why does Charlotte suffer from the shits? Is there something wrong with her? When she has this ailment in the TV show, at least the writers allow her to make it to the toilet. Here, she soils her pants—a smelly plot device that goes nowhere, just like the rest of the movie.

7. And lastly, Michael, you ogre, you creep, you despoiler of women’s hopes and dreams for a worthy sequel: Why has every shred of wit and sophistication been wrung out of this beloved fairy tale, leaving us with four empty hulks in beaded cocktail dresses wandering around the meatpacking district, desperately in search of an author?