I don't know what it is about Levin's writing, but this and Rosemary's Baby are like rice cakes: you keep chewing because you're hungry, but they taste like styrofoam. It's a pity, because the stories are actually interesting.

In Stepford, a lot of the horror comes from the eerie perfection that the wives are striving to uphold. Nobody's that perfect, right? Must be exhausting to constantly keep up a smile and the demeanor of a pretty but vacuous doll. No dreams, no ambition, no genuine connection to their husbands and no mutual respect.

What makes this even more chilling is the fact that there are still men who'd rather take the easy route, to choose a mother substitute instead of a multi-faceted, interesting, living and breathing being who complements their husband instead of catering to their every need. Nothing wrong with choosing to live according to traditional values, but submission is a no no in my book. Tradwives might disagree.

Lack of individuality is a horrifying thing. Moreover, it's damn boring. Much like Levin's writing.