The Stepford Wives review

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Every year, it seems, one movie is selected for special attention by the rumour mill. This season, that dubious honour falls to The Stepford Wives, a project so allegedly plagued by on-set friction, dismal test screenings, multiple reshoots and desperate 11th-hour salvage ops that it couldn't hope to be anything other than a Hindenberg-sized disaster. Added to that, of course, is the fact that it's a remake - a guaranteed lightning rod for sceptical harumphing and doom-laden punditry.

As it turns out, these prognostications are wide of the mark. For starters, it's not unusual for a movie, especially a comedy, to be saved in the cutting room (think Annie Hall). And what's wrong with remakes? As long as you're not tampering with a leave-well-alone classic, which Bryan Forbes' 1975 version of Ira Levin's spry novel isn't.

A stylish take on the '70s novel, substituting witty dialogue for the original's social commentary. Shame about the climax, though.

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