The Stepford Wives

By James C. Hess

A number of years ago, having a premonition with regards to the evolution of the news media, I decided I would no longer do interviews. It was a decision I did not make quickly, it is a choice I do not take lightly: Despite this action on my part, there remains a number of journalists and would-be journalists who do not get the message, who refuse to leave me alone, with regards to this matter. Those who persist, those who attempt to get me to submit to an interview, are met with a firm, but polite rejection.

Several months ago, despite being told 'no' more than a dozen times, a young female journalist with apparent aspirations of becoming the next Barbara Walters or Jane Pauley or whomever, took it upon herself to get me to do an interview. I admit her determination is to be applauded and respected, but the methodology by which she attempted to force me into doing this only served to negate her respectability and credibility: When she finally came to the certain fact and truth I would not do an interview with her she decided on a new tact: Instead of interviewing me she would interview people who knew me, and from their interviews she would compile a non-interview with me. It is a practice that is undeniably questionable, especially when it comes to professional morals and ethics.

Because it was and is so I decided something should be done to preserve the integrity of the interview process: When I learned of her intentions by way of a friend who had been contacted by her and been told of her intentions, I asked if he had plans to be interviewed by her. He told me he had no such plans unless, of course, I was receptive to such a thing.

I told him I was. But with a condition or two: He had to get at least six other people to agree to do this and I had was to be allowed to be in attendance.

You see, this would-be interviewer was not the only one who had done a certain measure of research on a given topic or matter: In researching her I found out she had never met me, and had no idea whatsoever what I looked like.

Consequently she would not be aware or conscious of who was in the room with her unless introductions were made.

They were not: Eight people waited for her when she arrived. None of them were actually introduced to her beyond a superifical explantion of 'moral support' for the one person who was actually going to be interviewed.

About me. Of course.

It took her almost a dozen questions before she broached the subject of yours truly, and when she did the intent of the questions was undeniable: She wanted to do a hatchet job on me.

The fellow being interviewed glanced at me--I was seated to the interviewer's left, just out of her line of vision--and I nodded. He looked at the interviewer and said, 'Oh. You want the dirt on him. Right. Well, let me tell you about some of the things he does.' He then proceeded to tell the journalist of how it was I have this nasty habit of drinking milk. . . from a glass, how it is I put the toilet seat. . . down when I am done, how it is I am almost obsessed with making my bed every day, how it is I make sure the garbage gets taken out to the containers before it can start smelling up the house. And so on.

It didn't take the professional journalist too long to figure out she wasn't going to get what she wanted. And it didn't take her long to figure out that the reason she wasn't going to get what she wanted was because it didn't exist.

So she turned the conversation, the interview to other things: She looked around, accepted a glass of wine offered, took a large sip from it, and said, 'This reminds me of The Stepford Wives.'

I was working on a wine of glass of my own, and almost choked in response: I had seen the film of the same name, and was understandably surprised by this particular assessment. Not because she apparently meant that the situation was obviously premeditated, but because I know what that film is actually about.

As she prattled on, becoming more and more relaxed by way of the effects of the wine, I thought about "The Stepford Wives" and realized, once more, that no two people see things the same way: She saw the interview she wanted to do with me as a means for her gaining validation and credibility as a journalist; I saw it as a certain threat to my privacy. She saw "The Stepford Wives" as an ideal all should, apparently, aspire to. I saw it as a horror no one should desire.

That was then, this is now: Now involves, more often than not, an agenda, regardless of the task at hand. Now is about making people think they are experiencing one thing when they are, in fact, experiencing something else.

Take as example of this assertion the remake of "The Stepford Wives": If you know about the original film then you know, or should know, it is a horror no one should desire. Here's the thing: The remake is by no stretch of the imagination a horror flick. It is, simply, a comedic romp. Nothing more.

Except for one thing: It is dependent on a plot secret that you may already know, if you have paid attention since the first film was theatrically released in the late 1970s. If you don't know what this plot device is, then stay away from the theatrical trailer until you have opportunity to see the film.

But back to the comedy that is "The Stepford Wives": Yes, it is about feministic satire, with certain biting humor throughout. But the satire, the humor are tempered properly with realistic elements, that go to produce memorable one-liners. When, for example, one of the community planners admits he used to work for AOL the response, from a woman, is, 'Is that why the women are so slow?' (I know: You had to be there to appreciate the humor of this zinger, which is more reason to go see this flick.)

In order for the satire, the humor to work comedic acting talent is must. Director Frank Oz found it in Nicole Kidman, who stars as Joanna Eberhart, a high-powered television executive, who is fired after the victim of one of her reality shows goes on a shooting rampage as response to losing. She has a husband, Walter (Matthew Broderick, who always does a good turn as a whipped, suburban spouse). In order to show her support he resigns his position from the same network; what choice did he actually have? He worked for her. They then move with their two children to the gated community of Stepford, Conn.

To suggest there is something wrong with Stepford is an understatement: It gives new meaning to the term 'weird': All the women seem to be sexy and sexed-up clones of Betty Crocker, and they are led by Glenn Close, who plays Claire Wellington, a real-estate agent, greeter, and community cheerleader. Claire unnerves Joanna, who sums her up: She's too friendly. Flight attendant friendly.

Add to this the fact no one in Stepford works. But why should they? They are all so rich, and they don't need to, so they don't. Instead the men gather at the Men's Association while the women attend exercise classes, led by Claire.

In Stepford the men are men, the women are women.

Or are they? Look just below the surface, look just around the corner, and see things are not what they seem: Bobbie Markowitz (Bette Midler), for example, author of a best-selling memoir about her mother--"I Love You, But Please Die"--is the proud owner of a house that cannot be describe as anything but a pigpen, a toxic waste dump posing as suburbia that would make the late Erma Bombeck proud.

Walter loves life in Stepford. Joanna, not surprisingly, hates its. Which may go to explain why she connects and bonds with Bobbie. Then again it may go to explain her relationship with her husband, her children, herself.

And it certainly goes to explain the reality of Stepford: Despite the absence of domestic help all other homes are spotless and perfectly clean. Of course they are: The wives cheerfully do the drudge work themselves. They also improve themselves not for themselves but their husbands: Claire runs a book club, in which such tomes as a biography of Lyndon Johnson is read and discussed. (The humor therein is absolutely wicked but divine: If you know about LBJ, if you know what a monster he was toward his wife and women in general, then you see the black comedy to the adulations the women of Stepford pour onto him through the aforementioned book.)

Claire, by the way, has a husband: Christopher Walken, who seems to not only run her life but the life of Stepford. Albeit in a demented and comically deranged way: He stars in a Stepford promotional film that features his explanation of life in Stepford. This may not sound interesting or even remotely humorous, but with Walken leading the way--well, it is.

Despite this interpretation "The Stepford Wives" remains rather true to its source material: Director Frank Oz, known for his comedic efforts, stays with comedy instead of horror, as in the original, and produces a work that is original, if not unique, in its own right.

About the Author:

James C. Hess graduated from the University of Colorado at Boulder, where he earned a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature, with an emphasis on Editorial Journalism and Film Studies.

Hess currently makes his home along the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies.

Article courtesy of http://www.suite101.com.