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Don’t Go Back to Stepford
Updated version of a cult classic is simply dreadful
by Clint Casey
A stellar cast doesn’t necessarily guarantee a great movie. When Matthew Broderick, Christopher Walken, Glenn Close and Nicole Kidman signed on for an update of the cult classic The Stepford Wives, a competent revision seemed certain. Instead, the new and supposedly improved interpretation is six degrees from horrendous. The star power feels crowded and in competition for screen time on a lacking story, spewing dialogue that approaches drivel.
The Stepford Wives, re-imagined by Dreamworks, opens in Manhattan with powerful television executive Joanna Eberhard (Kidman) in the middle of pitching a pair of reality-based shows for the upcoming season to affiliate station representatives. During her address, a jilted contestant interrupts with gunfire, and Joanna loses her post at the television company. Ill-equipped to handle the rejection, she retreats with her husband Walter Kresby (Broderick) and two kids to the secluded community of Stepford, Conn., to regroup and, consequently, reenergize their failing marriage.
Upon their arrival, the family is welcomed by Claire Wellington (Close), an eerily gleeful real estate agent who outfits them in an extravagant home, befitting Joanna’s successful career. Claire embraces her and voluntarily offers to introduce her to the community. They attend an aerobics class with beautiful housewives fully clothed in vibrant, colorful spring dresses doing exercises that replicate the movements of household appliances. At an Independence Day picnic, Joanna and Walter watch as Stepford wife Sarah Sunderson (Faith Hill) dances at a frenetic pace, then suddenly collapses. After the incident, Claire’s husband Mike Wellington (Walken) mysteriously appears to care for her, before swiftly snatching her away for treatment.
Walter spends his days at a secretive men’s club, playing video and bar games, while Joanna makes cupcakes in an effort to embrace the unfamiliar Stepford lifestyle.
Later, Joanna befriends obnoxious writer Bobbie Markowitz (Bette Midler), who isn’t among the submissive wives, and a token flamboyantly gay neighbor Roger Bart (Roger Bannister). As they become acclimated to the community, together they slowly begin to recognize the obvious. The women of Stepford, predictably, have a secret. The disturbingly subservient wives cater to each husband’s every whim: cooking, cleaning, errands, mid-afternoon sex.
Joanna decides that the curious men’s club must be involved in the apparent brainwashing of the community’s women, and investigates with Bobbie and Roger. During her search, she discovers that each housewife was, like herself, at one time or another, successful in her respective field.
Mike and Claire Wellington seem to be at the center of the conspiracy, but Joanna and her cronies can’t seem to unravel the mystery, until her cohorts become subject to the Stepford curse.
Although Kidman seems ideal for the role of power-hungry television executive turned homemaker, watching her deliver intentionally exaggerated comedic dialogue is excruciating.
The generally fantastic Broderick also manages to be thoroughly irritating. Despite perfecting the likeable antagonist in Election and You Can Count on Me, he seems awkward and uncomfortable playing a similar part in Stepford Wives. Midler, however, is always annoying—in reality and on screen—and doesn’t disappoint here. Close’s shuddering portrayal of Claire Wellington belies her previous Oscar nominations, and even her credibility as an actress altogether.
Director Frank Oz should be condemned for his inability to pull a competent performance from any of the high-caliber cast.
The movie’s sole high point lies in its set design and dazzling scheme. During the day, Stepford leaps off the screen with embellished, vibrant color that smacks of television commercials and Sunday circular advertising. At night, darkness is overstated indoors and out, suggesting that there is more than meets the eye in the quaint Connecticut town. But, truthfully, Oz seems to have flawlessly replicated Tim Burton’s moody motif from Edward Scissorhands.
Overall, The Stepford Wives never gels. Each scene seems independent from the next, and the who’s who cast appears uncomfortable on screen. Perhaps the irony was more biting and story more inventive when the original film was released in 1975, but it now feels cliched and tired. (One of the only aspects of the film that’s contemporary is a juvenile jab at AOL and Disney slid in, no doubt, for the enjoyment of Dreamworks’ execs Jeffrey Katzenberg and David Geffen.)
Rumors circulated about ego clashes on set, and despite vehement denials, the gossip translates into an unbearable, muddled farce that’s best avoided at all costs.
June 24, 2004 • Vol. 14, No. 26
© 2004 Metro Pulse
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