Can you remember
Remember my name
As I flow through your life
A thousand oceans I have flown
And cold spirits of ice
All my life
I am the echo of your past
...
And if you hear me talking on the wind
You've got to understand
We must remain
Perfect Strangers
--Deep Purple

The Stepford Wives is The Stepford Wives in spirit only, with a few nods to its thriller past and gleefully clubbing viewers over the skull with its satire. Obviously, most everyone knows the story by now, and we're apparently so jaded and jaundiced that everything bores us, so director Frank Oz and crack pensman Paul Rudnick (he of Libby Gelman Waxner fame, one of the best things about Premiere magazine) have jettisoned the original film's slow, foreboding crawl, punctuated with comic elements endemic to its time, and push Stepford's dark secret out of the way early to make way for a faster pace and catty dialogue. In lesser hands, this is a recipe for disaster; here, the souffle doesn't collapse until the final reels, when writer, director, and studio are dumping in extra helpings of climax in search of the Thump.

Briefly, let's compare the two films (SW1 [not to be confused with SWV or the S1W] and SW2):

SW1: Joanna Eberhard (Katharine Rowwrrrrrr--I mean, Ross), a young housewife and aspiring photographer, and her husband Walter (Peter Masterston), a '70s husband but with rapidly developing old-fashioned sensibilities, move with their two daughters (one played by Peter's real-life daughter, Mary Stuart) from a primo Manhattan apartment to the Stepford enclave, where everything is impossibly perfect. The husbands are successful and content, their wives immaculately coiffed, eager to please socially and sexually, and strangely, inhumanly nice. For a former Women's Lib activist like Joanna, this is a mite too eerie. She feels out of place until being discovered by the equally desperate Bobbie Markoe (Paula Prentiss), a fellow free spirit. The duo converge upon the neighborhood's third free thinker, Charmaine Wimperis (a post-Gilligan's Island Tina Louise), and conspire to transform the Stepford women from mousy servants into trusted friends (and possible co-conspirators). Their plans are thwarted first by the Stepford wives themselves, who won't discuss their feelings beyond household chores, then by Charmaine, who turns from Betty Friedan into Betty Crocker literally overnight, ordering the removal of her backyard tennis court at her husband's behest. She also answers the door in a long dress and apron, spitting sunny platitudes all day long. At the center of the movie, of course, is the Men's Association, run by Dale Coba (Patrick O'Neal). It's an organization adherent to bullishly outdated thinking that Walter finds himself more and more in agreement with, ultimately with tragic results.

SW2: This is just balls-out, over-the-top social satire. Joanna Eberhard (Nicole Kidman) is an Ice Bitch TV executive, and her latest reality show (which I'm surprised hasn't been pitched to FOX yet: I Can Do Better!, where a happily married couple is separated, then sequestered for a week and bombarded with sex) is so much of a murderous fiasco that she gets canned. Her husband, Walter Kresby (Matthew Broderick), is more the John Gray-type: a network vice-president, he quits his job in support, then suggests they find a change of pace from the cutthroat world of television. Off they go to Stepford. That there's something wrong with the wives this time is painfully obvious, especially after the old-fashioned barn dance. Joanna still doesn't fit in, but she gives it the old college try. She befriends Bobbie Markowitz (Bette Midler), the successful author of I Love You, But Please Die and waaaay beyond Paula Prentiss in the free-spirit department. Tina Louise's Charmaine has been replaced by flamboyant architect Roger Bannister (Roger Bart); we know his ass is manicured Stepford grass because his life partner is a Republican. We experience the same basic event chain, albeit with modern twists and an eye for the droll. The villain this time--and we know he's the villain, because it's Christopher Goddamn Walken; as his popularity has increased thanks to Saturday Night Live, he's taken a more tongue-in-cheek approach to his roles, virtually doing a less and less nuanced impersonation of himself--is Mike Wellington, married to the Stepford ideal, Claire (Glenn Close). Mike runs the Men's Association and welcomes Walter into the fold. Unlike the original Stepford, this time the viewer's allowed inside the thick walls, where strange things are indeed afoot, yet none of the men seem to mind that on command a negligee'd woman can materialize from nowhere and pump out singles like an ATM. Also, unlike the original Stepford, the tone is so different that it can't have the same ending. In fact, this Stepford has about three or four; you can practically hear typing fingers pull muscles hunting for a new twist on the ancient one (Sadly, the new twist renders a couple of earlier scenes incomprehensible). After a couple belly laughs, it finally bows out with that studio chestnut, the Where Are They Now? coda, where the main characters sit in a television studio yukking it up and recounting their stories and current whereabouts (we learn Bobbie has written a new book of poetry dedicated to her husband, Wait Till He Falls Asleep, Then Cut It Off)--here to Larry King, so we know everything's OK. I won't spoil anything else for you if you haven't seen this Stepford Wives, but keep this in mind: The husband is played by Matthew Broderick. Matthew. Broderick. Got it?

If you loved the first Stepford, there's enough here to keep things interesting until that implosion at the end, where all plothole hell breaks loose. The script is smart, though sometimes overreaching (Rudnick had big shoes to fill: the buttery prose of William Goldman, who wrote then disowned the 1975 film because of the casting and look of the women, which was vastly different from the imagery in Ira Levin's novel). However, if you're looking for a faithful remake, slide the original into your DVD player and close your eyes. "Stepford" is such a part of the vernacular--after a torrid dalliance with "trophy wife"--that it's impossible to successfully and effectively get away with the same movie twice. In order to be enjoyed on their own levels, the two films must remain perfect strangers in the filmgoer's mind: one, the echo of a long-distant past; the other, a modern reverberation.

Deep Purple & The Rock Snobster
Keen Stepford orbs will note Bette Midler's brash display of a 1984-vintage Deep Purple Perfect Strangers T-shirt. I don't know whether this was a costumer's choice or from Bette's own stash, but I will propose marriage to either costumer or stash. Deep Purple are one of my all-time loves, one of the few bands I discovered in my adolescence that: a) still records today, or b) that I still follow religiously. Most people regard them as tired relics of the cock-rock school, but I think that, although they're not quite as vivacious as they once were (they'll never top Machine Head, even if they continue to record in innumerable permutations 'til they all drop dead), today, as a recording act (TODAY, let me stress again), they matter way more than contemporaries The Rolling Stones, and they can still be coerced into some nasty rock 'n' roll--more refined, of course, now that they're older. The hard reality is that vocalist Ian Gillan is pushing 60 and more resembles a genial family dentist than the long-tressed monster who once beltorgasmed legendary, piercing "awwwwwwwwwwww"s into the stratosphere like he was calling God out to kick His ass. But to his credit, he's aging more gracefully than he was during the woebegone Ritchie Blackmore Reunion II days of The Battle Rages On (1992), when he ignored the passage of time by stubbornly dyeing his long hair black and squeezing his rock-weathered frame into leather pants, a Dionysian prune. Today he looks almost dignified in short hair and khakis.

Despite his long association with the Purp, Gillan is not an original founding member. The only one of those left in the lineup today is drummer Ian Paice; Jon Lord bowed out gracefully after Abandon (1998), yet his Hammond (the vital nucleus of the DP sound) remains a ghostly presence on Bananas, a chore ably handled by Don Airey. Gillan's joined by bassist Roger Glover, with whom he joined the band back in Jurassic (pre-me) times; and guitarist Steve Morse, who signed on about ten years ago, after the umpteenth departure of Ritchie Blackmore. While his riffs and solos lack Blackmore's charming Baby Huey flair (Steve is more the precision/franticfingers Joe Satriani/Steve Vai kind of guy; he's old buddies with Eddie Van Halen), I can't knock the man for helping revive the Purp.

But to be fair, none of them have really remained "faithful," all having split and returned, split and returned, split and returned. Both Gillan and Glover left back in the '70s in a post-Who Do We Think We Are (their 1973 follow-up to the obscenely huge Machine Head) huff, and were replaced by future Whitesnake mastermind leader David Coverdale and Glenn Hughes, respectively. Original guitarist Blackmore lasted another two records before taking off; in his stead came the late Tommy Bolin for the unctuous Come Taste The Band (1975), and...

Well, let's cut the rockumentary short. The Lord/Paice/Glover/Blackmore/Gillan roster eventually reunited for the album pictured way up there, the one depicted on Midler's shirt: Perfect Strangers (1984). It's notable in retrospect for its attempts to reconcile quaint, old-school heavy metal with a musical landscape quickly being consumed by synthesizers. Jon Lord's Hammond is relegated to a supporting role while he dabbles with noises. This is evident on the first ("Knocking At Your Back Door") and title tracks, with their digital "string" stabs commanding center stage with Blackmore's too-sleek guitar. Meanwhile, the wheezing Hammond lurks in the background as a rhythm blanket, except on "Perfect Strangers" where it's allowed to intro before stepping aside. Otherwise, Gillan's voice fitted the period like a leather glove--after all, he provided inspiration for many of the decade's metal superstars, and the album overall was a competent comeback (today it's been augmented by the extended Blackmore solo "Son Of Alerik"). A welcome introduction for a boy like me, who bonded with his Baby Boomer pops over Machine Head, Fireball, In Rock, and Gillan's Messianic turn in Jesus Christ Superstar, thus initiated into the DP universe.

The reunion didn't last. Gillan survived the lifeless House Of Blue Light (1987), an album with no redeeming qualities other than "Mitzi Dupree," an ode to "the queen of the ping-pong," laureled not for her expertise with a paddle, then left, seemingly for good. Blackmore bailed after 1990's Slaves & Masters. But everybody made up kissy-kissy two years later for The Battle Rages On, then Blackmore bailed again. Purp forged on with new guitarist Steve Morse, releasing Purpendicular (1996), the mighty Abandon (1998), and Bananas (2003). The Reverend Speats and I had the opportunity to see this lineup earlier this year, but our plans fell apart at the last minute. We'll get 'em next time!

I wasn't planning on breathless hagiography, but I think I've reached my point. There was a time I would've been embarrased to admit my undying admiration for Deep Purple. Why? Obviously, because outside of Machine Head they ain't considered cool--and even THAT is borderline cool/suckage, because most of those tracks became staples of the Classic Rock format ("Highway Star," "Smoke On The Water," "Space Truckin'") and, consequently, oversaturated. Couple that with the fact they're still a working band, still producing new albums long after their spotlight in popular/critical favor has faded, still practicing a rock formula some consider outdated, and they're very easy to ignore.

But I can't help myself. I love Deep Purple. I think they're fucking great. They were great in '72, they can still produce the goods in '04.

Guilty As Charged...And I'd Do It Again



I recently came to the realization that I don't believe in the "guilty pleasure" anymore. Think about it: What you're saying, in essence, is that you should KNOW BETTER than to like this, that usually you have BETTER TASTE. Like a lot of people, I'd qualify it with "Yeah, there's something lovable about Air Supply, but I also like [insert Hip album here, like Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music or MC5's High Time, or anything by Fantomas]," but now I think, Why apologize for enjoying something? Why do I have to justify some of my records I own with, "Oh, I got that when I was 15" or "Yeah, um, my mom bought me that for my birthday"? Why do I consider Supertramp's Breakfast In America a guilty pleasure, when I don't feel guilty listening to it? Hell, I crank it up! If you wanna locate anyone who isn't moved to smile when they hear "Breakfast In America," "The Logical Song," "Take The Long Way Home," or "Goodbye Stranger," I suggest your local cemetery. Breakfast In America is beyond awesome. It's a perfect pop record. So's Styx's The Grand Illusion. Air Supply's Lost In Love? Like sucking down a cold glass of lemonade on the hottest summer day. Bat Out Of Hell's pretty sweet too, as is Aerosmith's "You See Me Cryin'," the ballad tossed on the back end of the smashing Toys In The Attic. And I don't mean in an ironic way. These are brilliant, timeless works of art.

As far as I'm concerned, from now on, the "guilty pleasure" is the province of the Music Snob. More on him tomorrow.