Women, schmimmen. That's my capsule review of "The Women," a veritable estrogen tsunami that will have most men rushing to the next screening of "Death Race" for testosterone relief.

OK, so it's not really that bad. In fact it's fairly innocuous — more akin to sitting under an estrogen-misting machine while listening to piano-and-vibes jazz. Written and directed by "Murphy Brown" veteran Diane English, "The Women" feels like an extended TV sitcom: Characters speak in knowing truisms, comic relief trumps drama and pivotal showdowns play like cat-fights between declawed cats. This is "Sex in the City" Lite, if such a thing is possible, with one of the reduced ingredients being "Sex."

The remaining "City" is still Manhattan, but call it Womanhattan since all of the movie's actors, background extras, children and, yes, dogs are X-chromosomal. Even aerial shots of famous statues tend toward the green, torch-bearing variety. The film's male characters only exist as the silent half of telephone conversations — sort of like the parents in "Peanuts" TV specials, sans muted-trumpet noises.

The credit for this clever gimmick goes to a 1936 play by Clare Boothe Luce, adapted into a classic 1939 Joan Crawford weepie by director George Cukor. But female archetypes that made sense in the 1930s can seem patronizing today. There's the fashion designer (Meg Ryan) who has given up career for family; the women's-magazine editor (Annette Bening) who has done the reverse; the blithe breeder (Debra Messing) now pregnant for the fifth time ("I want to keep going till I get a son!"); and the talent-agent lesbian (Jada Pinkett Smith) who's nauseated by childbirth. Which just goes to show: Never let the realities of artificial insemination get in the way of a joke.

When these four friends aren't chatting at sidewalk cafes, fashion shows, Saks counters and pediatric wards, they're teleporting (apparently — we rarely see them travel) to Connecticut beach houses to discuss such conundrums as: Should Bening tell Ryan about her husband's affair with a remorseless "perfume bitch" (the underused Eva Mendes), or should she give the story to a gossip columnist (Carrie Fisher)? Should Ryan feel more betrayed by her husband or by the growing bond between Bening and Ryan's preteen, tampon-burning daughter (India Ennenga)?

Better question: Should audiences find it insulting that the film's heroes are upper-middle-class while its empty-hearted villains (Mendes and gossipy manicurist Debi Mazar) work in the service industry?

Rounding out the cast are Candice Bergen, who gives Ryan helpful mother-daughter advice like "When you don't know what to do, do nothing," and housekeeper Cloris Leachman, who gets one of the film's better lines: "Your Pradas are wrecking my perennials."

Ultimately, "The Women" remains a Meg Ryan vehicle, but, boy, are those career wheels spinning: Ryan's previous film was "In the Land of Women," and this one might well be titled "When Harry Met Sally and ... Wait a Minute, Where Is Harry?" English's direction reduces Ryan to her standard cuteness, allowing a delivery just shy of baby talk.

Midway through "The Women," I reflected, "It could be worse. It could feature Bette 'Beaches' Midler." Then Midler showed up, preaching the glories of selfishness with the kind of elemental sass that drag queens can only aspire to. Midler's brief, cherubic star underlines what's missing from the roles of Messing, Ryan and others — the opportunity to shine. There's an unfortunate disconnect to a movie that merrily cracks jokes about Botox while leaving its cast's talents paralyzed.

"The Women." Rated: PG-13. Running time: 1 hour, 54 minutes. 2 stars.

To find out more about Zachary Woodruff and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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