Ira Levin's cautionary novel, "The Stepford Wives", was a fascinating fable of the ultimate male backlash to feminism; in 1975, director Bryan Forbes turned the novel into a chilling variation of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers", as innocent wives are substituted by zombie-like robots, their husbands bonding in a smugly evil male cult. Unsettling and ambiguous, the fate of the actual women is left to the viewer's imagination, making it far more frightening than a pat resolution would have been.
This concept was apparently lost on Paramount, DreamWorks, and Frank Oz, who wavered between camp and black comedy heavy-handedness, in this 2004 remake. Scripted by Paul Rudnick, the women are no longer normal, sympathetic wives, but high-powered execs, with apparent agendas against men, and husbands little more than doorstops. Their fate, to become blond-haired sex-slave bimbos locked in 'June Cleever' mode, while their idiot spouses adjust their breast sizes by remote control, and swap the wives for favors, demeans both men and women, and even offers an out-of-place jab at homosexuals, as a funny gay spouse is turned into a right-wing religious zealot politician (how an openly gay couple would ever be even allowed in this community is ignored).
While spoofing the earlier film isn't, in itself, a bad idea, no one involved in this project apparently had a clear vision of what they were aiming at, so continuity and logic are sadly missing. As other critics have rightly noted, the status of the wives waivers between being robots and being micro-chipped and brainwashed humans, making the Nicole Kidman 'template' body, and finale 'revelation' of community leader Christopher Walken's actual status as ridiculous as an ATM-spewing wife, and remote controls to adjust emotional responses and breast sizes, labeled, conveniently, with each wife's name. All the pretty, golden-hued settings, and Matthew Broderick's emergence as a 'good guy with a heart' who saves the day can't compensate for the quagmire of a plot.
The real shame of it all is that the potential for a good film hovers over the proceedings, just out of reach, and some really fine performances are all for naught. Glenn Close gives a strangely sympathetic twist to the film's villain, Walken is the most engaging (and youthful) he's been in years, Bette Midler and Roger Bart are both hilarious, Jon Lovitz is at his silly best, and Nicole Kidman again proves herself more than adept at comedy, and portraying American women. Matthew Broderick seems to be making a career of playing milquetoast males (Ferris Bueller, where are you?), and for 'eye and ear candy', nothing can quite match Country music sex symbol Faith Hill's orgasmic moans, and cup-size changes. All this, lost in a truly misguided film.
What a waste!
This concept was apparently lost on Paramount, DreamWorks, and Frank Oz, who wavered between camp and black comedy heavy-handedness, in this 2004 remake. Scripted by Paul Rudnick, the women are no longer normal, sympathetic wives, but high-powered execs, with apparent agendas against men, and husbands little more than doorstops. Their fate, to become blond-haired sex-slave bimbos locked in 'June Cleever' mode, while their idiot spouses adjust their breast sizes by remote control, and swap the wives for favors, demeans both men and women, and even offers an out-of-place jab at homosexuals, as a funny gay spouse is turned into a right-wing religious zealot politician (how an openly gay couple would ever be even allowed in this community is ignored).
While spoofing the earlier film isn't, in itself, a bad idea, no one involved in this project apparently had a clear vision of what they were aiming at, so continuity and logic are sadly missing. As other critics have rightly noted, the status of the wives waivers between being robots and being micro-chipped and brainwashed humans, making the Nicole Kidman 'template' body, and finale 'revelation' of community leader Christopher Walken's actual status as ridiculous as an ATM-spewing wife, and remote controls to adjust emotional responses and breast sizes, labeled, conveniently, with each wife's name. All the pretty, golden-hued settings, and Matthew Broderick's emergence as a 'good guy with a heart' who saves the day can't compensate for the quagmire of a plot.
The real shame of it all is that the potential for a good film hovers over the proceedings, just out of reach, and some really fine performances are all for naught. Glenn Close gives a strangely sympathetic twist to the film's villain, Walken is the most engaging (and youthful) he's been in years, Bette Midler and Roger Bart are both hilarious, Jon Lovitz is at his silly best, and Nicole Kidman again proves herself more than adept at comedy, and portraying American women. Matthew Broderick seems to be making a career of playing milquetoast males (Ferris Bueller, where are you?), and for 'eye and ear candy', nothing can quite match Country music sex symbol Faith Hill's orgasmic moans, and cup-size changes. All this, lost in a truly misguided film.
What a waste!