Nashville was created by Thelma and Louise scribe Callie Khouri, and like her iconic, cliffing-jumping movie, the show revolves around the relationship of two women. But rather than depicting depths of a friendship, it details the tensions of a rivalry. Or that was the premise, but the show quickly expanded. The men are no longer sideshows or sidekicks. They take up ample screen-time, ostensibly as part of the show's attempt to earn comparisons to the varied ensemble cast in the Robert Altman opus of the same name. This expansion should engagingly complicate the plot; instead, Nashville is bloating with wimpy males.

What's strange about this is that Nashville is, overall, impeccably written. The plot lines may rarely surprise, but the characters' southern drawls all reliably deliver eloquent conversation. The problem is that only the females are outspoken in addition to being well-spoken.

Here's the proof—a list of Nashville's main men, ordered by generally increasing levels of pitifulness:

Deacon : Resident Mr. Heartbroken. Despite claims by others that he is an incredible guitar player and lyricist, all his songs are about Rayna splitting up with him 15 years beforehand.

Gunner : Is that a soul patch? Unsightly facial hair aside, he's so in love with Scarlet (Deacon's niece and another musician) that he can barely write his own material anymore.

Teddy : Rayna's husband, a sometimes philanderer, the new mayor of Nashville, an embezzler of funds and a perpetrator of the housing bubble crisis.

Avery: Scarlet's boyfriend, whose defining characteristic outside of making noise country is his all-consuming jealousy of his girlfriend's success.

It's not that the women's success comes at the expense of these guys. The central females aren't using, exploiting, copying, or stomping over these gentlemen in their scurry to the top. But the central males are holding themselves back, breath bated, awaiting their respective songstresses to decide whether they want to go on tour with them, date them, or ditch them.

Take, for example, Avery's fantastic rock-star ego trip in last week's episode. He's listening to one of his songs on the radio while driving his sexy 1960s sports car—but then, while passing his ex-girlfriend's house, gloomily cuts the sound, hangs his head, and listens to her practice with his old band that he ditched for a solo career. Sure, this gives Avery a bit of depth. It shows that he's acknowledged his sacrifices in pursuit of musical success. But it also doesn't allow him to enjoy his moment.

The list of slights goes on. The audience barely got to see any of Gunner's song-writing chops before it was confirmed that he'd lost his ability to write because of his unrequited love of the dollish Scarlet. Rayna refuses to sing Deacon's songs, literally denying him a voice.