The occasional burst of witty dialogue in THE STEPFORD WIVES does nothing to justify this misogynistic screed that will in all probability set the Womens Movement back by about 150 years. It doesnt do much to bolster the image of men, either. Or kids, pets, supermarkets, suburbs or the art and science of housekeeping. Not even the pandering, insincere 180 degree turn that attempts to put in all in a politically correct footing and fails so spectacularly can help. In fact, the only one to get out of this with some dignity is Bette Midler, and shes fighting for every inch of ground she manages to take. This insulting retake on the original pro-feminist horror tale has been re-imagined as a comedy. In theory, anyway. The original was campy but effective enough to have become a cult classic. This one will be a classic, too, but of another kind.
This time out we have unhappy couple Walter Kresby (Matthew Broderick) and Joanna Eberhart (Nicole Kidman). Right away you know theres trouble because shes kept her own name. Then theres the geometric power haircut and the austere black wardrobe. Joanna grew up wanting, as she puts it, to be a man-hating castrating bitch and she has succeeded. As the programmer for the fictitious EBS network, shes created a series of man-bashing hits that her female audience, who probably harbored similar girlish dreams, just cant get enough of. Alas for Joanne, her latest effort, a reality show that uses prostitutes of both sexes to break up happy couples, has resulted in a shooting spree and several of the participants on life-support. With her network career at an end, and the electroshock therapy for the total nervous breakdown she suffered as a result beginning to kick in, Walter loyally quits his subordinate job at EBS and arranges for them to move to the bucolic suburb of Stepford, CT. Its a place where, as their real estate agent, Claire (a frighteningly perky Glenn Close) tells them, that theres no crime, no poverty, and no pushing.
And no fun, either. Though it looks like Martha Stewarts idea of paradise, this community is a throwback to those happy times in the 1950s when men were men and women knew their place. Rather, places, as in the kitchen and the bedroom. But theres something odd about those smiling, pleasant Stepford women who sport perfect foofy hair, frilly clothes, high-heels and a peculiarly graceful synchronized gait. Is it too much Prozac or something more sinister? Sinister, of course. Think something between a life-sized action figure and a blow-up companion for the guys and youre onto it.
Fortunately for Joanna, there are two other people in town who dont fit the Stepford wife standard. Roberta is (Midler), the slovenly writer of such books as I Love You Now Die Already, who relocated because of a court order. In bid to be topical, there’s Roger (Roger Bart), the flamboyant half of a gay couple, the other one of whom has turned Republican. Naturally, Joanna wants out after a brief fling at baking enough cupcakes to carpet her mansion, an unsatisfying bout with a polishing cloth, and especially after her two new pals change overnight, but not for the better.
Who exactly are we supposed to be rooting for here, the Peter Pan men with their schlubby adolescent fantasies? Or is it the two cranky women whose nicknames, Jo and Bobbi, are suspiciously masculine? Kidmans performance is too flinty to win us over, even if she could overcome the agonizingly pinched face that the haircut and severe make-up produce. When she tries to tell Mike she loves him, she might as well be dictating a memo. A boring memo that she resents having to deal with. Broderick does little better, bringing the same conviction to his tender declarations, but with a friendlier haircut, and none of the sense of irony, forget timing, that the part could have used. As for Midler, shes got irony and moxie, but shes also got a character that dresses like a thrift-store explosion and has a house that looks like a toxic pig sty. Shes also, at one point, sporting reindeer antlers because when all else fails, put antlers on someone. In this universe, there are two kinds of women, castrating bitches and the plastic made-to-order facsimiles that have had an attitude adjustment. There is, however, only one kind of man, sniveling, puerile, and hormonally overwrought. Theres no middle ground here, no real emotion to work with, only stereotypes that would give even Playboy pause. As for Christopher Walken, usually the saving grace of any film, he fades into the scenery as Claires husband, Mike, the should-be-but-isnt-creepy guy behind the Stepford effect.
If only the sloppy plotting were the worst thing about THE STEPFORD WIVES. This is not just a bad film, it is a patently offensive one that will do much towards turning the battle of the sexes from a Cold War into something much warmer but not in a good way. The only thing scary or funny in this film is that someone thought that it would be either scary or funny, shudder, both.
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