Movie review: 'Sex and the City 2' is just too much

There's a character in "Sex and the City 2" named Erin. She's Irish. She prefers not to wear a brassiere. Several scenes exhibit her brogue and her breasts, eventually leading to a one-liner where she's dubbed "Erin Go Braless."This so-called joke is the movie in microcosm: naughty, desperate, indulgent, groan-worthy, working too hard and too long for a crummy joke. Once an exciting and bubbly HBO series known for its spicy dialogue and progressive depiction of modern urban women, "Sex" now resorts to setting up and executing flaccid puns more worthy of Bazooka Joe than a major summer cineplex tentpole.

You'd think all the lousy double-entendres would comprise most of "Sex and the City 2's" obscenity, but no. Writer/director Michael Patrick King drenches the production in vile opulence, from the absurdly lush, exotic locations to the kajillion costume changes -- the fashionista franchise's signature -- to Liza Minnelli's ironic cameo, during which she sings Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)." Too. Much.

Is there a plot beyond the frocks? Sort of. The first third of the movie finds Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) resisting settling into a rut with Mr. Big (a charisma-free Chris Noth) on the eve of their second wedding anniversary. Charlotte (Kristin Davis) is exasperated with raising her two daughters and fretting if her braless nanny Erin (Alice Eve) might tempt hubby Harry (Evan Handler). Stressed-out lawyer Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) impulsively quits her job. And Samantha (Kim Cattrall) is invited to stay in a luxurious Abu Dhabi hotel, which may employ her public-relations firm.But Samantha won't venture to the Middle East without her girls. So off they go, for a series of wacky adventures in the desert (the movie was shot in Morocco), including a camel ride over sun-drenched dunes, for which they change their outfits thrice.

There are, of course, complications: The confiscation of Samantha's vitamins and supplements, which stave off her menopausal hot flashes. Charlotte falls off her camel. And Carrie bumps into her former beau Aidan (John Corbett) in the Abu Dhabi street market. Uh huh.

The narrative takes a vacation from the New York City plots, which are mostly dropped as the women wallow in the hotel's swank indulgences, including their own cars and personal butlers. But what happens when these fashionably urbane, liberated Manhattanites encounter a sexually conservative culture? This is where King's laziness as a writer is prevalent; he eschews the opportunity for social commentary for the kind of silly culture-clash hijinks more appropriate for "National Lampoon's Middle Eastern Vacation."

Two moments stand out: When Charlotte and Miranda bond over their frustrations with motherhood, and when Carrie struggles to comprehend how her butler Guarau (Raza Jaffrey) can only see his wife every three months. But sincere moments are rare. Characters once sympathetic are now rendered annoying and unlikeable, and the screenplay strains too hard to be clever.

King intends to create a feather-light tone, but sucks the fun out the movie by making it a big, mastodonic trudge laden with lame turns-of-phrase, superficial triteness and gobs of visual vulgarity. Like the old box of Wheat Thins in the back of your pantry, "Sex and the City" was once light, crispy and toothsome, but is now old, stale and nearly indigestible.