Film

Diane English’s abysmal remake of George Cukor’s 1939 femme classic will have fans of the original growing claws. This summer’s success of Sex and the City proved that, yes, those with ovaries like to go to the movies, and sped up the release date of English’s film, which had languished for years. For all of SATC’s failings, it at least had dialogue that could conceivably be heard on Fifth Avenue. Unsteadily directing for the first time, English (a creator of Murphy Brown) also wrote the screenplay, sucking all the venom and verve out of Anita Loos and Jane Murfin’s adaptation of Clare Boothe Luce’s play and trading it for Oprah-lite homilies, group hugs and, astonishingly, testimonials by the cast after the end credits roll.

Updating the basic premise of the original—a selfless moneyed mother and wife (Ryan) finds out that her husband is having an affair; some friends help and some sabotage—English favors lines like “How could I share myself with you if I didn’t know who I was?” over the witty, rapid-fire banter between Cukor’s actresses. Though they bore the masks of several layers of Max Factor, the visages of Cukor’s cast still moved; not so Ryan’s ghastly trout pout. Jokes about plastic surgery abound in the remake, which seem all the more cruel or clueless considering the great difficulty Ryan has in making basic facial expressions. This is not to suggest that gay men, like Cukor and SATC’s Michael Patrick King, make better women’s films—only that those blessed with XX chromosomes aren’t necessarily the best equipped to make comedies marketed to them.