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"While you were trying to become men, we figured out how to become Gods."

Frank Oz and Paul Rudnick's remake of The Stepford Wives is a complete transformation of Bryan Forbes and William Goldman's 1975 classic -- thematically, tonally, structurally, pretty much in every way imaginable. It almost works, too, dammit; but for a truly retarded ending, this would have been one of the better efforts of the summer. The misguided reshoots notwithstanding, this is a funny film, taking Ira Levin's brilliant dystopic conceit in some surprising and surprisingly lighthearted directions. Also, I hear that Joan Cusack was originally cast in the Glenn Close role; now that would have been something.

By far the most intriguing development here is the way Rudnick updates the original film's paranoia to keep up with the times. Goldman's screenplay was a mock anticipation of the male reaction to the burdgeoning feminist movement; its Joanna Eberhart was still a housewife, though with a desire to make decisions, to be remembered, to do something of significance. Her husband wouldn't stand for such tendencies, of course, so off they go to Stepford, where Joanna is to be replaced with an obedient, sculpted, perfect housewife robot.

In 2004, of course, any fear men may have harbored of women invading the workforce and challenging them on every level of their personal and professional lives has essentially come true. So it only makes sense, then, that the actions of a modern Stepford Men's Association would be grounded not in fear but in jealousy -- their women weren't just threatening to become stronger, smarter and better, they already were. "While you were trying to become men," intones Christopher Walken's creepy Mike Wellington with startling bitterness, "we figured out how to become Gods." I don't know how accurately that corresponds to today's latent male attitudes toward gender equality, but it sure is funny, and pointed, and smart.

I'm being rather blithe about giving away the "secret," but that's because nobody here is pretending that it's a secret. The phrase "Stepford Wife" has long been in the popular lexicon, and to fashion it a surprise would be disingenuous; indeed, Paramount tipped the film's hand in the trailer, revealing the money shot of a creepy, half-completed Nicole Kidman robot lying on a table. Oz and Rudnick simply assume that we know where the plot is heading.

Doing away with the story's thriller trappings allows the filmmakers to turn the film into a rather odd mixture of pop culture satire and self-parody. The opening sequence contains a rather hysterical jab at reality shows ("Who secretly wants to be married to a hot sexy lesbian?"); later, the robotic identity of the Stepford wives is revealed in a way I dare not describe. This Stepford Wives is far readier to indulge the plot's potential for brilliant sight gags, and the wives' work-out simply must be seen.

There's also a big fat AOL joke, and the line "Now I know why they call it Banana Republic"; Rudnick has never met a cheesy joke he didn't like. I enjoyed some of the subtler throwaway stuff, too, such as Christopher Walken yelling "Only one can survive!" into a useless microphone as the Men's Association participates in a makeshift version of robot wars, or an informational video about the Stepford-izing process that explains "First, we locate her brain."

Though the ending tries to revert back to the suspense genre, this is obviously no longer a paranoiac thriller; fine. I was quite enjoying the barrage of jokes, David Arnold's upbeat, atmospheric musical score, and the first-rate performances from Nicole Kidman, Matthew Broderick, Bette Midler, Glenn Close and Christopher Walken. Had The Stepford Wives ended at the same point as its predecessor -- remember that supermarket scene? -- I'd be singing a very different tune right now. Instead, it decides to just suddenly not make any sense, with a resolution so incoherent, so utterly contradictory, that I had to wonder how anyone, let alone someone as ostensibly intelligent and professional as Frank Oz, could think this was acceptable. I won't go into the details here, but it is an absolute paradox, not to mention a bit misogynistic.

I'm not disgruntled that Rudnick refused to approach this material with a straight face, though it would have been a remarkable feat if he had managed it. I am bitter, however, that at some point during the myriad reshoots, the people making The Stepford Wives seemingly lost track of their own plot threads. That's the only plausible explanation for this train wreck of an ending.