They have remade The Stepford Wives, that creepy 1970s movie about the men who turn their women into cupcake-making, flowery dress-wearing, starch spray-wielding, husband-pleasing robots.
Of course, the film didn't actually need a makeover, just as Psycho didn't and Willy Wonka certainly doesn't, but these days film execs don't seem to give an everlasting gobstopper about what we think, preferring to shout "action" and hope for the best.
Boyfriend had never seen the movie. Until I mentioned it to him recently, he had never heard of the expression Stepford Wife. I explained that in the lexicon of life it had come to mean a woman who was compliant, made a concerted effort to look nice when her husband came home, always had the dinner on the table and was up for anything the husband desired 24 hours a day.
"You are SO not a Stepford Girlfriend," he observed, and before I had a chance to pretend to be offended there was a whirring noise as something else sunk in. "Do you think I am a Stepford Boyfriend?" he asked. "Don't be silly," I said, polishing off the last bit of his divine spaghetti carbonara and admiring the view as he loaded the dishwasher.
In truth there is more than a hint of Stepford in my boyfriend. Until I had seen him in action I thought the Protestant work ethic was just a myth. But while I come home from work and flop directly onto the sofa he starts a manic round of chores that are exhausting even to write about.
Filling the washing machine. Turning it on. Emptying it. Hanging out the clothes. Taking them in. Ironing them. Sweeping the floor. Wiping the worktops. Cleaning the cooker. Cooking the dinner. Opening wine. Lighting candles. Calling me from my supine position in the sitting room to join him for pork chops and pesto à la Jamie set out carefully in the dining room.
After dinner, it all starts again. "Relax, can't you?" I entreat, barely moving my eyes from the live Big Brother stream. "Look, Michelle is trying to get Stu to snog her again." "Can't stop, no time, bathroom needs cleaning," he replies in a worryingly mechanical manner.
Those female readers who in addition to going out to work all day are chained to the cooker/ washing machine/Hoover when they come home might imagine it's great fun and even quite relaxing to live with Stepford Partner. But in case they are thinking of trading theirs in for a more productive model, they should be warned about the perils of Stepford Guilt. The problem with this seemingly flawless set-up is that these Stepfordish men are not actually robots; they have actual feelings and can only take so much before they start complaining and demanding parity of esteem, when it comes to housework.
My argument that I am just not good at it, that it's not part of my personality, that he does it so much better than I do, only works up to that point where I fear he might short-circuit if I don't at least take out the bins. When I suggest that perhaps he should experiment by just refusing to do any chores, he looks at me appalled. "But then we would live in a tip," he says. It's even more appalling for him to discover that living in a tip doesn't scare me half as much as it does him.
Incidentally, Stepford Males appear to be multiplying faster than you can say, "have a nice day at work, dear". One friend with a Stepford Husband says the secret is to accept their strange ways and try to make it look like you also come from the vicinity of Stepford, within commuting distance at least. The ironing is her only chore and they have in the past couple of years employed a cleaner. Her guy does virtually all the other household duties, including arranging flowers and following her around with a J-cloth, while also managing sparkling, witty conversation during authentic Italian suppers he rustles up for unexpected unStepford friends of his wife.
Stepford Guilt sets in for her when what they call the "corridor of filth" at her side of the bed gets so filled with tea cups and make-up wipes, he is tempted to disobey the cleaning moratorium that exists around the area. She usually gives in and makes a pretence at clearance that keeps him off her back for another couple of weeks.
I know it might sound like these men are getting a raw deal, but there must be some reason they stick around. I quizzed Stepford Boyfriend about this the other day as he wiped down the cupboards. He paused for what I considered to be an offensively long time before saying that he supposed my carefree approach to cleaning was at times a positive antidote to his more disciplined methods. At that point, I gleefully told him about the sticky end The Stepford Wives come to in the movie. I could have sworn I saw a puff of steam coming out of his ears.