It was long before the Terminator that androids first graced our screens. Graced... that's the word. For they were graceful, with white lacy aprons, fantastic make-up and, undoubtedly, the ability to go like a rabbit. In the bizarrely patriarchal town of Stepford, every man's dream could come true. This was, of course, in 1975, when most men seemed to dream of the aforementioned grace, starched white pinnies and fantastic make-up. Oh, and the ability to go like a rabbit - some things don't change.

Which perfectly describes Stepford in a nutshell. A young couple move into the town, the man taking surprisingly little time to realise a wife who does exactly what she's told is probably easier to keep track of than one who has a mind of her own, and thus spends the rest of the movie indulging in Rosemary's Baby-esque shenanigans so that he can spend more time on the golf course while she spends more time being dreadfully efficient in the kitchen, holding tupperware parties and making elaborate baked goods.

A dangerous premise, of course. Not because it's controversial, at least not nowadays. No, the danger is that such a film could quickly disappear up its own political agenda, never to be seen again. The temptation to dismiss it with a cry of (depending on your viewpoint) 'Bloody women's lib!', 'Sexist pigs!' or 'What does shenanigans mean?' is overwhelming to some. Suffice to say: avoiding this film would be a grave mistake. Creepy beyond words and coping masterfully with the overt social agenda, The Stepford Wives is a masterpiece of seventies cinema that has more than stood the test of time. It's not that it isn't dated; of course it is - it's from 1975, an age when the circumference of one's trouser bottoms was only eclipsed by the wingspan of one's collar. Besides which, who, when building a robot, would dream of having the subject intone an entire dictionary into an ancient tape recorder? Who would bother inviting a sinister artist round to dinner so he can sketch the poor woman from ankle to elbows. (Presumably they guessed at the bits inbetween...)

But such things really don't matter; The Stepford Wives is a seventies horror tale with an in-your-face moral; it really wouldn't work in any other era. It's seventies through and through, working like a whetstone on the sharp edge of a society that was already into symbolically dumping bras into trashcans. In this sense, the movie is a triumph: it explicitly addresses the change in attitude of housewives of that era; the struggle, not so much for independence as for equality, and postulates the most extreme reaction possible - organised, effective action by men to, in essence, quell the revolution. Of course, one has to wonder about the men of Stepford. Their choice: A forward-thinking seventies kind of girl with a liking for tennis and conversation, or a 1950s-tainted tart, ruffed up and starchy-bloused - rather obsessed with starch, if the truth be known. And what do they choose, these ruthless, intelligent men with enough power to take over an entire small town? I guess I have yet to realise the true attractions of a nicely starched collar...

The film itself was directed by Bryan Forbes and written by veteran shock-meister, Ira Levin, with the assistance of William Goldman, himself famous for The Princess Bride. Oh, and did we mention Rosemary's Baby earlier? That's Levin's, too. Sliver? That's another one of his. They all have a certain something in common - hapless females and disturbing men - but they've all managed to become suitably entertaining films. Katharine Ross, Paula Prentiss and Nanette Newman (Who had to do something before the washing up adverts, after all!) manage to steal the show from the male actors (Peter Masterton and William Prince are notable inclusions) as it slowly dawns on them that something weird is going on.

The film spawned a number of sequels, and encouraged a 2004 remake, directed by the venerable Frank Oz. Watching this is, unfortunately, a mistake. Although it features a glittering range of modern actors and actresses, even Glenn Close and Nicole Kidman can't claw it far back out of its hole. Choosing comedy over horror, it comes nowhere near the original, despite bringing it all bang-up-to-date. Perhaps that's the problem: the very point of The Stepford Wives was women's lib, a social commentary. Nowadays, it's virtually un-necessary, and thus resituating Stepford as a 2004 small town really doesn't work, and the film even resorts to clawing at the gay agenda to parallel the original's feminist subtext. Ultimately, the sequel in no way matches the original for its unsettling air of menace, its rather sinister social implications and one of the best endings in cinematic history, or at least the best one involving a supermarket. How, you're going to wonder, can shopping be made scary? Watch the Stepford Wives, and you'll find that watching Katharine Ross popping cereal in her basket isn't so much scary, as soul-destroyingly disturbing.

A word too, about the book. If you've read Rosemary's Baby (or even William Blatty's novel of The Exorcist) you'll already be aware that in many cases the novel more than outdoes the film. It's a moot point here with The Stepford Wives. There's something about the scene where Bobbi's friend opens and closes the cupboards with such a blank expression that means you simply have to watch the film. But the book, too, is notable for its excellence, even if the word hausfrau does begin to grate after the seventy-eighth time. One to add to the reading list...