There are no men to be seen in The Women. They are discussed, telephoned, and mused about but they remain off screen at all times. For a while it’s like a bad episode of The Twilight Zone, in which ladies have learned to breed amongst themselves and the chaps are now forgotten relics, whose only record of prior existence lies in moth-eaten books at the bottom of musty museum basements.
A film touching on the topic of female empowerment could be an interesting watch. The Women, however, is not that film. Instead, it’s a bland, cliched, pointless examination of modern gender concerns. This is a movie in which all men apparently drink straight from the milk carton and leave the toilet seat up. If there was ever a valid intent here, the filmmakers have created something so obtuse and simplified that any insight is stifled.
Accompanied by a shake ‘n’ bake soundtrack of tacky lounge jazz (ripping off Sex and the City), and climaxing with a screeching cacophony in a maternity ward, The Women is never the smart, sassy movie it aspires to be. It’s unimaginative, tepid, and populated with women so awful that sane men would be running for the hills. Ah, so that’s where they’ve all gone.
