History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes—and there are certainly things that both are very much products of specific points in history, yet speak to the now far more than they ideally should. Among these, in my opinion, is William Goldman’s The Stepford Wives, based on the novel by Ira Levin—whose title itself has come to refer to the insincere and regimented fake cheer of old-timey soul-crushing suburbia.
Our story is fairly straightforward—Joanna (played by even then veteran actress Katharine Ross) moves in with her husband Walter (Peter Masterson) to the seemingly idyllic white-bread town of Stepford, to escape the urban decay of New York as was a common thing at the time. Joanna is of course a product of the then new sexual revolution and woman’s lib, happily seeking her own vocations and interests…which comes in very sharply against most of the housewives of Stepford, most of whom seem quite happy to remain stuck in the fifties. Her husband then starts getting a bit too interest in the local Men’s Association, and from there Joanna finds herself disturbed by the strange superficiality of Stepford as she buds with the dwindling like-minded women there are, chiefly her friend Bobbie (Paula Pretniss).
Like many films of this era, Stepford Wives is a slow burn at first that gradually ramps things up—and it’s of the era in other ways too. This was that specific point in time where the old stigmas against divorce, family breakup, not appearing as a happy nuclear unit, were all clashing against the onset of what we consider more modern attitudes—hence why we get a conspiracy to keep Stepford rooted in the way things are as opposed to just finding new wives or something. Still, that slow burn also gives it a certain atmosphere—and most of the actresses playing the titular wives do nail that feeling of being more like fleshy mannequins, friendly at first yet so disturbingly off in ways that become more and more apparent.
Ross makes a strong enough lead that you cheer for her even as her allies dwindle, also becoming another fake-smiling human porcelain doll rambling about cleaning. And near the end, we get our very frank explanations that still ring true—that ultimately, there are those with power who would rather just shape things to their own vapid and superficial little liking simply because they can. This sort of thing hasn’t changed in half a century, and rings all the truer.
That’s why the film can be simultaneously somewhat hokey at times, yet creepy too, once our lead is left all alone—something that feels all the truer in this world as the brainrot of malignancy can pull people apart. And, well, when it comes to men of power moulding woman into their own little personal constructs over actual people, we have all too recent examples of cults and figures happy to do that—that’s before we get into the whole ‘trad’ thing and the players pushing that.
Stepford Wives was followed by a bunch of sequels nobody cares about and a 2004 remake that people care about even less, but the original, while it may take a bit to get really kicking, still packs its punch once it gets into its stride. It was part of that string of 70s movies involving dehumanization like Westworld or Body Snatchers, influencing later titles like World’s End—and in our modern malaise, that sort of thing echoes once again…
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