The Stepford Wives
In 1975, director Bryan Forbes gave the horror genre a feminist twist by turning a best-selling thriller by Ira Levin into a cult hit, and, in the process, gave the world a new term for servile domesticity.

Almost 30 years later, director Frank Oz revisits Levin's suburban-gothic novel, polishing the book's and the earlier film's darker surfaces with a buffing of black comedy in the unevenly entertaining social satire "The Stepford Wives" (Paramount).

Following the basic outline of its antecedent -- but with a contemporizing face-lift for a more updated feel -- the story centers on Joanna Eberhart (Nicole Kidman), a hyper-driven TV network president whose picture-perfect world comes crashing down when a disgruntled reality-show cast member goes postal at an affiliates' convention. She is axed from her high-powered job, triggering a nervous breakdown.

Seeking a fresh start, Joanna and her emotionally castrated milksop of a husband, Walter (Matthew Broderick), pack up the family and relocate to the idyllic suburban Shangri-La of Stepford, Conn. -- an affluent oasis where there is "no crime, no poverty and no pushing."

But Joanna quickly senses something fishy about the paradisiacal perfume wafting in the air of the upscale utopia. For one thing, all the wives -- a grating gaggle of gingham and high heels -- are just like Claire Wellington (Glenn Close), the town's perfectly manicured welcome wagon. In addition to being beautiful and homogenously happy, the cookie-cutter June Cleavers are completely subservient to their husbands' every whim and desire. But what really stumps Joanna is how the gals' nerdy husbands could have landed such stunning brides -- each the perfect combination of Martha Stewart and Heidi Fleiss, equally at ease in a baking apron or lacy lingerie.

Of course, for Walter, Stepford is like walking into heaven. He is willingly co-opted into the town's fraternal lodge -- a leather-lined den of chauvinism and stunted maturity -- where he befriends fellow recent transplant Dave (Jon Lovitz) and falls under the spell of Mike Wellington (Christopher Walken), Stepford's charismatic but creepy impresario.

Meanwhile, Joanna finds allies in Dave's cosmopolitan Jewish wife, Bobbie (Bette Midler), and Roger Bannister (Roger Bart), a flamboyant gay architect who recently moved to Stepford to salvage his rocky relationship with his conservative partner (David Marshall Grant).

Together they uncover Stepford's dark secret. The female residents -- who all turn out to have been corporate wonder women before moving to the blissful burb -- have fallen prey to a sinister conspiracy masterminded by their technocratic husbands. Under the leadership of Wellington, the men have transformed their formerly successful, independent-minded wives into a sorority of remote-controlled doltish drones -- essentially making them male-fantasy wind-up toys.

Though providing a handful of laughs, Oz's retelling has thrown a few plot surprises into the mix, but still touches on the same issues of sexual politics, conformity and society's obsession with superficial perfection. It also benefits from 30 years of advances in special effects, including a scene sure to have male viewers fumbling for their ATM cards. Vacillating between suspense and comedy, the film suffers from glaring narrative inconsistencies, due in large part to months of re-editing. For example, it is never clearly established if the women were replaced with robotic replicas (as in the original film) or if their personalities were merely altered by computer chips implanted into their brains.

Obviously, the biggest thing working against the film is not its narrative flaws but the march of time. The social landscape has changed dramatically in the three decades since Levin's book was first published. Many of the gender issues raised are now politically passe. One assumes Oz is aware that Paramount, one of the studios that produced his film, is run by a woman.

However, much like Stepford itself, the film's attractive veneer masks trouble lurking below. In addition to garden-variety gibes at housewifery and traditional values, the movie seems to use a narrow gauge for measuring "normalcy" -- that of the liberated urban sophisticate. Though its tone never sinks to mean-spiritedness, the movie still reeks of a brand of feminism which views women who choose to be homemakers as lobotomized cyborgs, as if giving up a career requires a woman to give up her brain.

Due to some crude language and sexual humor, several instances of profanity, homosexual references and fleeting violence, the USCCB Office for Film & Broadcasting classification is A-III -- adults. The Motion Picture Association of America rating is PG-13 -- parents are strongly cautioned. Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13.

Garfield
Cartoonist Jim Davis' popular comic strip about a pudgy puss with a bottomless stomach is cat-apulted onto the big screen in the flat feline farce, "Garfield" (20th Century Fox).

Recently dubbed the most widely syndicated comic strip in the world by the Guinness Book of World Records, "Garfield" today is read in 2,570 newspapers by 263 million devoted fans around the globe. But, despite some funny moments, director Peter Hewitt coughs up a hairball in trying to stretch Davis' three-panel strip into a live-action, feature-length film, whose tomcat-foolery quickly grows staler than three-day-old Purina Cat Chow.

Bill Murray lends his lethargic larynx to the computer-animated tangerine tabby, who freaks out when his lovesick owner, John (Breckin Meyer), agrees to adopt a stray pup named Odie, as a way of endearing himself to a pretty veterinarian (Jennifer Love Hewitt).

The wisecracking, lasagna-loving cat soon finds himself vying with the peppy pooch -- who, as in the strip, does not talk -- for John's affection. But when the hapless hound goes missing, it is up to the finicky feline to spring out of inaction and save the day. With uncharacteristic energy, Garfield pulls himself away from his lazy life of leisure and ventures into the big city to rescue Odie from the cruel clutches of Happy Chapman (Stephen Tobolowsky), a local TV celebrity who will doggedly do whatever it takes to make it big.

Of course, it's hardly letting the cat out of the bag to reveal that by the end of the film catastrophe is avoided, as Garfield, in a rare meow-culpa, comes to realize that there is room enough on the comfy couch for two -- well, sort of.

Fans of Davis' comic strip may have mixed reactions to the movie. Murray's voice provides the pitch-purrfect blend of sarcasm and slovenliness to the curmudgeonly cat, who, thanks to the magic of computer animation, closely resembles the cartoon. On the other hand, director Hewitt's decision to use a real dog for Odie -- while adorable -- may give some fans pause.

While the film wonderfully maintains the comic strip's droll sense of sardonic wit, buried under the kitty litter is a family-friendly message about friendship and selflessness.

Due to some brief mildly crude humor, the USCCB Office for Film & Broadcasting classification is A-II -- adults and adolescents. The Motion Picture Association of America rating is PG -- parental guidance suggested.

David DiCerto is on the staff of the Office for Film & Broadcasting of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops.