While all of this is going on at the pace of an inchworm climbing a tomato plant, the three bridesmaids orchestrate their own levels of crisis control. Carrie has a nervous breakdown and her comrades must perform triage, so the movie shifts to a four-star resort in Mexico where mariachis and margaritas do wonders to ease broken hearts, but there’s really only one reason for the scenery—to poke fun at uptight, anally retentive Charlotte, who gets Montezuma’s revenge and poops in her beachwear. Back at home, after denying him sex for six months, Miranda dumps Steve for staging a meaningless (but understandable) one-night stand with somebody else, and lets her bikini line turn into Yosemite National Park. Out in California, the narcissistic, selfish (and really rather stupid) Samantha plans a Valentine’s Day surprise by stripping naked and covering her privates with sushi, but when Smith is detained on the set with retakes, she turns ballistic, goes on an eating binge, grows a spare tire around her waistline and walks out. This is supposed to be the film’s big shocker, but all I could think of was (a) how foolish to dump the only guy in the movie who actually goes to work every day like a normal person, and (b) any director titillated by the sight and smell of a woman smearing raw fish on her vagina needs psychological evaluation.
Bottom line: a provocative, groundbreaking TV series that worked in 30-minute segments has been bloated and padded into nearly two and a half hours of tedium and gratuitous product placement for everything from Vuitton to a new Mercedes-Benz GLK. The end credits list more than 85 thank-yous, including bottled
