The Women

Review

Can I write a review of The Women without mentioning Sex and the City? Oops, too late. Four more gal pals buck one another up while conspicuously consuming, this time in a vehicle based on the 1939 George Cukor film (from Clare Boothe Luce’s play). The original (in which, as here, no men appear) was novel for its day in playing up behind-the-scenes female bitchery. These days, the trend is toward vulnerability, and it’s fascinating trying to separate the thirties material from the mostly maladroit additions. Will you identify with Meg Ryan’s adorably tousled and unbelievably privileged Mary, whose husband is cheating with a hot-tamale perfume spritzer (Eva Mendes)? I doubt it, but Annette Bening has her moments as the women’s-mag editor, brittle but with hurting eyes. There’s a creepy subtext that might be partly intentional: As the women talk of aging and weight and plastic surgery and unfair standards of beauty, we scan the actresses’ faces for signs of work. — David Edelstein