Federico Fellini covers his bets in this hallucinatory survey of the women’s movement—it isn’t reactionary enough to offend or progressive enough to matter. Marcello Mastroianni is the horny everyman who stumbles into a secret feminist enclave. The eroticism is of the peculiar chastely vulgar Italian variety, the humor smacks of Woody Allen, the politics are resolutely centrist, and the artistic insight is nil. At this point (1980), Fellini had not attempted a genuine narrative with plot, characters, structure, and a point of view for 15 years, and his cinema had become almost entirely a matter of grace notes, thin conceits, and incidental touches.