From 1975, the original film adaptation of The Stepford Wives was a feminist horror film, with an intriguing story, palatable suspense and a jolt of an ending. The 2004 remake by Frank Oz (Little Shop of Horrors), however, is allegedly a comedy — a broad, Broadway-camp goof shot with the same color palette as a bag of Skittles, just as disposable and with about as much nutritional value.

Katherine Ross’ sympathetic photographer Joanna has morphed into Nicole Kidman’s bitchy and cutthroat TV network executive, whose five-year reign at the top comes to an immediate end when an embittered participant from one of her reality shows tries to kill her. Fearing bad press, the net lets her go. One nervous breakdown later, Joanna and husband (Matthew Broderick, about as convincing as Kidman’s significant other as Tom Cruise was) uproot their two rarely seen kids and move to the gated town of Stepford, Conn.

The suburb is quiet, the homes are magnificent and the wives are robotic, subservient hotties in floral dresses from the ‘50s. A snooping Joanna — along with her nosy pal Bette Midler and, because In & Out‘s Paul Rudnick wrote the script, a gay man (Roger Bart, Hostel: Part II) — discovers that the Stepford Men’s Club, headed by Christopher Walken, is behind the transformation of the city’s women into large-breasted, no-questions-asked automatons.

The movie itself is about as brainless. There are a few good one-liners, but the tone is all wrong, the editing awkward and the whole production looks cheap and rushed. I felt not like I was watching a Stepford remake, but rather a MADtv parody. And, MADtv being what it is, not a particularly good one. Script problems aside, much of the blame has to fall on Kidman. She’s no comedienne. Hell, she’s hardly even a “she,” looking like death in a dress. She’s not supposed to be pretty early in the film, but even following her Stepford makeover, the woman looks unhealthy, emaciated and decidedly un-Stepford-sexy.

All in all, this glorified sitcom is a miscast failure. It’s not quite a train wreck, although it is an insult to Ira Levin’s still-great 1972 novel. Stepford Wives, I want a divorce — no, wait: an annulment. —Rod Lott

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Yes, Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed may be better than its predecessor, but that’s like saying leukemia is better than cancer. It’s still wretched, painful viewing.

The whole Mystery Inc. gang is back — Fred (Freddie Prinze Jr.) Daphne (Sarah Michelle Gellar), Velma (Linda Cardellini), Shaggy (Matthew Lillard) and Scooby (millions of dollars worth of CGI). At the film’s open, they’re attending a grand opening of a Coolsville Museum exhibit of monster costumes of villains they’ve unmasked in the past. Then a bad guy steals the costumes and makes real monsters out of them. Then the real monsters attack the city. Then the Mystery Inc. gang stops them. And then tubby American Idol winner Ruben Studdard shows up to sing an Earth, Wind & Fire song while the cast does an embarrassingly choreographed, career-killing dance number.

Oh, you can add Seth Green as a museum curator, Alicia Silverstone as a nosy reporter and Peter Boyle as a senile old man, but you’re not fooling me: This is the same movie. Granted, there are two big fart gags rather than just one this time around, but still, it’s the same crap all over again: zero story, zero laughs and all special effects. Lord, why did I have kids?

The only thing that makes this marginally cooler — and you should read “marginally” as if it were bold, underlined and in red — is that the monsters are the same from the Hanna-Barbera cartoon series, so there’s a slight kick of nostalgia. It wears off pretty quickly, however, making way for that migraine. —Rod Lott

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Leave it to William Castle to turn a triple homicide into the basis for a comedy. The result is The Spirit Is Willing, a dispiriting effort from the usually reliable director. In fact, of all his films since Castle became a name brand with 1958’s Macabre, this is the only one I’ve seen that wasn’t at least mildly fun to watch. Even taking his minor works into account, from Zots! to Shanks, I didn’t think such an un-feat were possible.

At the same time, I wish it no ill will, because it’s entirely harmless and full of the good-naturedness that made Castle a matinee hero. Its focus is on a lovely, coastal, 19th-century home haunted by the ghosts of Ebenezer, Felicity and Jenny — a love triangle between a greedy man, his ugly wife and their attractive maid, all of whom kill one another in the jaunty, played-for-laughs prologue.

The trio of mute spirits has scared away residents for ages — depicted in a crudely drawn credit sequence — and the latest arrival is the Powell family, on an extended vacation: worrisome magazine editor Ben (Sid Caesar); his subservient wife, Kate (Vera Miles, Psycho); and their temperamental teenage son, Steve (Barry Gordon, The Girl Can’t Help It). As soon as the Powells move in, the ghosts get to work wreaking havoc, and Steve angrily shoulders the blame for all the damaged antiques and even sinking his uncle’s yacht.

With guest turns from John Astin, Harvey Lembeck and Doodles Weaver, Spirit offers nothing that merits more than the rare, occasional smile. In fact, from today’s perspective, Steve’s outbursts are so violent, they provoked stress and discomfort in this viewer. For ghosts swirling around the heads of befuddled characters, Castle offered 13 of ’em in a far superior spookshow. This one’s just a rare misfire for the man. —Rod Lott

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Looking like Reese Witherspoon with actual breasts, Lindsay Bloom (TV’s The New Mike Hammer) fronts the sexy, saucy and supremely silly hick pic Sixpack Annie. The young filly drives a beat-up Ford pickup truck whose seat she often shares with pull-tab cans of Miller nestled snugly in a dirty Styrofoam cooler. And she’s so hot, I’ll forgive the title’s error of not self-hyphenating.

The AIP cornpone comedy focuses on Annie’s attempts to save her aunt’s diner, where Annie waitresses in short shorts, from bank foreclosure. Her solution is simple: Just find a “sugar daddy.” In the small town of — ahem — Titwillow where she lives, works, drinks, trespasses, skinny-dips and speeds, the pickings are as slim as her waist, although everyone wants to bed her. That includes the guy they call Long John, whose license plate reads “9 INCHES.”

So Annie and her BFF Mary Lou (Jana Bellan, American Graffiti) head to Miami Beach to land a rich man, and take tips from Annie’s sister (Louisa Moritz, Death Race 2000), who works there as a flatulent, busty hooker. The jokes wrung out of every situation are goofy, sometimes stooping to the level of literally banana-peel humor. But damned if Bloom doesn’t go at it whole-hog, injecting the white-trash shenanigans with as much bubbly effervescence as the periodic bottle of Dr Pepper. The soda giant must’ve paid for the product placement, because it’s practically a supporting character.

Plus, Sixpack Annie boasts the best ending in motion-picture history, when the Titwillow sheriff (Joe Higgins, Flipper) puts on his hat and doesn’t realize Mary Lou has filled it with milk! And then he walks into a midget (Billy Barty) carrying a tray of cream pies, causing the desserts to smash in the little guy’s face! And then the angry dwarf gets revenge by smashing a pie into the sheriff’s face! And the sheriff is so mad that steam practically shoots out his ears! (Should I have added “spoiler alert” before all that?)

Also, there’s a song called “Them Red Hot Nuts.” —Rod Lott

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Directed by dancin’ man Gene Kelly of all people, this must be the only movie in history built on the conundrum of where, when, why and how Walter Matthau should use his penis for evil.

As investment counselor Paul Manning, Matthau is happily, lovingly married to the beautiful blonde Ruth (Inger Stevens, Hang ‘Em High), but his best pal, smarmy lawyer Ed (Robert Morse, TV’s Mad Men), boasts about having his cake and eating it, too. Why, due to Ed’s continuous but well-concealed affairs, he claims he hasn’t been irritated by his wife in about six years! Ed promises to show Paul the ropes of the effective cheating process, and does, which makes up nearly all of A Guide for the Married Man.

Ed’s quite the font of knowledge when it comes to infidelity dos and don’ts. He has dozens of stories to share, which Kelly depicts via all-star vignettes. These feature such luminaries — or “technical advisors,” as they’re credited — as Jayne Mansfield, Sid Caesar, Lucille Ball, Carl Reiner, Linda Harrison, Jack Benny, Polly Bergen, Art Carney, Joey Bishop, Terry-Thomas and more. Whether within or outside of these It’s a Horny, Horny, Horny, Horny World mini-movies, almost every bedroom features separate beds, which seems awfully prudish for the time, yet plenty of bosomy babes in their undies (most notably Whatever Happened to Aunt Alice?‘s Claire Kelly and Diary of a Madman‘s Elaine Devry), which seems awfully raunchy for the time.

Only 1967 could get away with such an icky premise, by rendering it completely charming, yet still be funny and sexy. Then again, this being ’67, and Matthau being Matthau, you also know before The Turtles even finish singing the catchy theme song that he’s not about to make an odd coupling with anyone else but his loyal (if too subservient) Suzy Homemaker. To that end, Stevens is perfect casting as a doting dream wife: smart, sociable and absolute dynamite in a bikini. You know Guide is fiction because the film opens with her wanting it bad, but the only thing Matthau opts to bury is his big ol’ nose … in a book. —Rod Lott

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