Sex and the City 2

The Sex and the City franchise may have outlived its moment, but if middle-aged decline didn't stop the Rolling Stones, why should Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) and her Manhattan gal pals have to fade away? The second big-screen spin-off from the saucy cable TV series is a monument to excess bound to fascinate cultural historians for decades to come – arguably the nearest 2010 equivalent to Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970).

At the outset, there's a promising sense that writer-director Michael Patrick King has taken the success of the first film as a license for delirium. An opening set-piece whisks us off to Connecticut for the gayest of gay weddings, a white-on-white affair involving an artificial moat with real live swans, an all-male choir carolling show tunes, and Carrie in a tuxedo as “best man”. As celebrant Liza Minnelli launches into a post-nuptial version of “Single Ladies,” euphoria is only stemmed by the fear that King may have peaked too soon.

So it proves, when after this initial rush of excitement he's content to spend twenty minutes shuttling between TV-level subplots, only slightly enlivened by further celebrity guest stars. Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) has troubles at work, Charlotte (Kristin Davis) is feeling the pressures of motherhood, and a series of awkward scenes between Carrie and her husband Mr Big (Chris Noth) fail to solve the mystery of what this power couple find to talk about during their evenings alone on the couch.

Can't get no satisfaction, indeed – and while economic realism is never high on the Sex and the City agenda, Big's allusions to a stockmarket crash add to the malaise. Salvation arrives when a former toyboy (Jason Lewis) offers man-eater Samantha (Kim Cattrall) and friends an all-expenses-paid luxury vacation in the United Arab Emirates. If America's fortunes look shaky, it's time to “go somewhere rich”. Good morning, Abu Dhabi!

In fact much of the film was shot in Marrakesh, but there's no point quibbling about geography as we marvel at the gleaming white limos, beyond opulent furnishings, and submissive male attendants. Carrie and company also seize their chance to shop for bargain-price shoes at the local market, ogle the Australian rugby team poolside, and trek out to the desert in Dior. (The Absolutely Fabulous episode set in Morocco is practically a parody avant la lettre.) If there's a drawback to this decadent paradise, it's the insistence on feminine modesty – not that anything is going to stop our heroines from belting out “I Am Woman” at a karaoke bar.

While the possibilities for fish-out-of-water comedy seem limitless, King remains too enthralled by Arabian Nights fantasy to pay more than lip service to cultural specifics. In the most startling scene, Carrie stands transfixed in the marketplace as loudspeakers call the faithful to prayer. For a second, it seems she may have found something to worship besides her Manolo Blahniks – but no, she's just caught sight of her old flame Aidan (John Corbett), an all-American smoothie with a sideline in imported rugs. After an intimate dinner, will she succumb to temptation?

My lips are sealed. Still, it's not giving away too much to say that explicit sex is off the menu – save for a couple of glimpses of the game-for-anything Cattrall, played strictly for laughs. That leaves plenty of time to recycle routines from the first film: once again Charlotte is put through the slapstick mill, Carrie extends her sympathy to a brown-skinned underling, and King displays his anxiety of influence when it comes to vintage Hollywood. While Big's over-enthusiasm for black-and-white cinema is nearly his downfall, the single cleverest moment is a homage to a Frank Capra classic – implying that America's past may be the future of the Middle East.

A treatise on post-colonial feminism it ain't, but the blend of affirmative sass and unironic bigotry is generally more inane than offensive (though one yearns to read the Arabic-language reviews). Far from aspiring to finesse, King lets the actors relentlessly overwork their familiar mannerisms, the worst offenders being the hyperactive Davis and the irritably grimacing Noth. Nixon remains the most conscientious performer but if anyone survives the descent into caricature it's Cattrall as Samantha – an ever more fabulous monster now in the full throes of menopause, fretting about her oestrogen levels and gobbling yams. No-one else has the aplomb to bring off the lewd puns that pass for wit in a series that has long abandoned any pretence of sophistication; Austin Powers would applaud when she refers to her latest beau (Max Ryan) as, variously, “Dick Spurt” and “Lawrence of my labia.”

Unfeasibly protracted at two-and-a-half hours, the film struggles to regain its early momentum even during the climax (where the leads face the threat of not flying home first-class). That's until Samantha gets in a tussle with a shady vendor that ends with her sprawled in the street, prophylactics spilling from her designer handbag. The others dive to her rescue – and in an instant find themselves encircled by Islamic men, glaring down at these foxy representatives of godless foreign ways. In a twist that rewrites the “clash of civilisations” thesis, the day is saved by a local chapter of the sisterhood, as East and West bond over a love of haute couture.

As broad as Bollywood and finally as traditional in its values, Sex and the City 2 makes a suitably lavish send-off for the series – it's hard to see how King could go further over the top, short of loading Carrie and the girls onto a space shuttle and sending them into orbit. Then again, given Samantha's newfound interest in sports, perhaps they could be induced to take a trip Down Under? The Tourism Minister should get on the phone now.