Way back in the 1930s, The Women, a stage play by Clare Boothe Luce about a group of Manhattan socialites grappling with career, love and friendship, was groundbreaking, even scandalous. The entire production focused strictly on women, hence the title, with nary a male in sight. Even the dogs were (gasp) bitches. Seventy years later, Murphy Brown creator Diane English presents her interpretation of the group of sophisticated yet flawed urbanites. The subtle (and occasionally not so subtle) rivalries that all women face have the potential for masterful social commentary, but English misses the mark.
Tossing together a gaggle of Hollywood beauties and expecting cinematic magic is risky business, and the chemistry necessary to eclipse the lacklustre dialogue is non-existent. Annette Bening, Meg Ryan, Eva Mendez, Jada Pinkett Smith, Candace Bergen, Deborah Messing and even Bette Midler are all fine performers when given a decent script and healthy direction. The possibilities with this kind of cast are enormous, but English hasn't sufficiently reined them in to create any moments of clarity or relevant insights.
Following the discovery of her husband's affair, Mary (Ryan) flits around, tossing his clothes out the window of their cushy Connecticut home and trashing his golf clubs. There’s so much stereotypical arm flailing and eye-rolling, it’s tedious. Her best friend Sylvia (Bening) minces around Sak's Fifth Avenue, lusting after high-end accessories and snapping at cowering clerks. Her bravado is a thin veneer, masking her all-consuming insecurity over her job as managing editor of a glossy women's magazine. Again, there's nothing surprising or sympathetic about this character and even Bening, with her considerable talent, can't breathe any life into the role.
On the other hand, Crystal (Mendez), the vampy spritzer girl, is delicious. As the seducer of Mary's husband, she embodies the gold-digging shop girl with heated fervour. The confrontation between the determined temptress and the indignant wife fails to create any plausible tension, though, seeming only to serve as a comparison of their bodies in lingerie. Midler is also scrumptious, tossing out blunt advice with a joint dangling from her perfectly manicured fingers.
Prancing around Manhattan in Pradas isn't a fail-proof formula for entertaining viewing — enough with the Sex and the City madness, already. Despite the pedigree of its cast, this adaptation of The Women is desperately shallow and intellectually insulting.
