Stock boy Andrew McCarthy is inspired by the department-store mannequin of his dreams to become a world-class window dresser. It's possible to argue a psychiatric reading (hysterical daughter of dominating Egyptian mother retreats from sexual identity through disembodied fantasies of flight, but “mannequin” defensiveness eventually succumbs to energetic male member) or a mythic one (Pygmalion stock boy/sculptor designs mannequin Galatea, who becomes his fleshly muse when he falls in love with her) or even a gender-regressive analogy with Pinocchio (puppetlike manufacture turns into real girl as result of heroic deed performed by—herself? Nah, by her boyfriend), but what I want to know is who's responsible for those windows? They're so god-awful ugly they'd be the shame of supermarkets in Des Moines. First-time director Michael Gottlieb proves a graceless sitcom talent, and McCarthy's reduction to chipmunkery hardly qualifies as a significant career stretch. With Kim Cattrall, Estelle Getty, and Meshach Taylor as a gay artiste from the Milton Berle school of shameless flaming.