The funniest running joke in The Stepford Wives, a horror/satire about a village teeming with glamorous homemakers with pristine kitchens and serene grins, is that the men are all wildly overmatched. They’re like the nerds who got the prom queens, except even nerds have an expected level of intelligence and personality, however socially awkward they might appear. These drips are better understood as nondescript: a few of them are balding and another has a speech impediment, but they are united mostly in feeling entitled to the docile beauty their junior executive salaries should afford them. When two women new to town overhear a Stepford wife in the throes of passion – “You’re the king, Frank!” – they know something’s up.
Adapted from novelist Ira Levin’s follow-up to Rosemary’s Baby, The Stepford Wives has enjoyed a robust cultural shelf-life in the 50 years since the original 1975 version, but it’s always been more potent as an idea than a work of art in any form. (The less said about the 2004 adaptation, a noxious camp comedy starring Nicole Kidman, the better.) It was a direct influence on the brilliant Jordan Peele horror-comedy Get Out and the not-so-brilliant Olivia Wilde thriller Don’t Worry Darling, which each take place in “idyllic” communities founded on sinister social engineering. Referring to someone as a “Stepford wife” has become a convenient shorthand for compliant women who puts the needs of men above their own desires and ambitions. (Amy Dunne in Gone Girl referred to such regressive types in her “Cool Girl” speech.)
