They are "Women," hear them bore

The most interesting thing about Clare Boothe Luce's 1936 play "The Women" is that there are no men in it. That's also true of the 1939 film version, and the new, years-in-the-making rehash from writer-director Diane English and co-producer Mick Jagger.

Not that men are ignored. Indeed, they're discussed, dissected and verbally demolished. They're the subject of most conversations. But because they're never around, they become almost abstract creatures, seen only as women see them, and that allows our imaginations to take over.

An earlier remake, "The Opposite Sex" (1956), made the mistake of introducing actors to play the men. Deprived of the sense of mystery Luce gave them, they tended to expose the rest of the play as a sappy and rather threadbare contraption.

English's version makes a different kind of mistake, soft-pedaling the cattiness and emphasizing the schmaltzier aspects, which sound like they've been lifted from a self-help book. There's an irritating self-consciousness about this update, in which one character claims that relationships need more work in the 21st century while another exclaims, "What is this, some kind of 1930s movie?"

By the time it's over, you may wish it were. The slyly manipulative femme fatale of the earlier versions, Crystal Allen — played so ferociously by Joan Crawford in 1939 and by Joan Collins in 1956 — has been reduced to a pathetic homewrecker.

It isn't Eva Mendes' fault that the character now lacks the necessary oomph. Mendes' Crystal isn't allowed to come off as much of a threat to the 13-year-old marriage of straying Stephen Haines and his seemingly perfect wife, Mary (Meg Ryan).

Mary gets the bad news from a gabby manicurist (Debi Mazar), who turns apologetic when she realizes whose nails she's been polishing. Just as shocked (and somewhat delighted) are Mary's best friend, Sylvie Fowler (Annette Bening); the frequently pregnant Edie Cohen (Debra Messing); and a gay pal, Alex Fisher (Jada Pinkett Smith).

A veteran of "Murphy Brown," English tries to remove the sexism that's built into Luce's play, but she also reduces its entertainment value. She tries to make up for the loss by turning Mary and Sylvie's relationship into "a love story between two straight women" (her words) and by throwing in topical references to Botox, cellulite, junk food, bulimia and health insurance.

While the actors do what they can, too many characters come off as concepts, not people. Bette Midler, Candice Bergen and Cloris Leachman are reduced to shtick, while Pinkett Smith's lesbian might as well be wearing a sign saying "token."

The movie has some compensations, including a goofy fashion show and a hilarious gym sequence in which Sylvie, a desperate magazine editor, plays power games with a gossip columnist (the marvelously deadpan Carrie Fisher) who's way ahead of her. And it was a good idea to turn Mary's simpering 10-year-old daughter into a precocious 13-year-old.

At least English recognizes that "The Women" isn't "The Women" unless the men are absent. Only at the end is there a surprise cameo for a very young male.

John Hartl: johnhartl@yahoo.com