
London photo: the rolling hills…
…of Croydon.

…of Croydon.

Oh, there are lots of women onscreen. They are silent, and gyrate slowly at poolside or stripper-pole-side…

Not so much a movie as an advertisement for a soft drink or tampons or sneakers or a cell phone for fresh! active! fun! young! people.

Every color here comes under the banner of “green,” yet they’re all so very different. And beautiful.

The only girls and women present in this story are the daughters and wife of the male coprotagonist, who are defined solely via their relationship to him.

Enjoyably intense, if you can get past the cultural narcissism that Western corporate colonialism only matters when it impacts a nice white American family.

Sitting by itself on the sidewalk (or, as they say here, “the pavement”).

Like many horror films, this one features a woman as part of its ensemble. But it misses opportunities to bring in more women with significant roles.

Disjointed, incohesive, and psychologically ridiculous. And actually repulsive on multiple levels in ways that the first film was not.

The only scene in which women are not present to make men feel better about themselves is one in which they make a woman feel worse about herself.