Oh boy.  Sex in the suburbs.  2.1 million Americans watched the pilot episode of ABC’s “Desperate Housewives”.  Why?  Is it a unique, cleverly scripted, smart drama?  A witty comedy?  Something fresh in the dullards’ repertoire of copy-cat, depraved programs?  Heck no.  American viewers are raving about an overrated, juvenile, cliché-peppered, shallow, idiotic, despicable mess that is another broken rung on the ladder of female dignity.  Add this dung-fest to the countless other shows, films, and organizations that have battered women under the buzzwordy name of righteous “feminism”.  If only those buffoons Thelma and Louise hadn’t so fittingly driven over a cliff, they might have held a gun up to a real estate agent just to desperately become neighbors with the miserable cast.

This show is not as overtly obscene and depraved as "Sex In The City".  That show was a consistent depiction of modern, "liberated" women being rocked and rolled and you-know-what in the Big Apple, full of foolish promiscuity and unscrupulous, loveless antics.  Despite its inferior sleaze, 
"Desperate Housewives" delivers a crummy message to teens and women in general.  I'll bet the goofy, confused magpies from feminarcissist show, "The View", would clap their hands raw for this new bunch of bimbos.

The series centers on the bored, disgruntled women of Wisteria Lane, where almost all males are neglectful, foolish, inconsiderate jerks (even little boys) and all the women are emotionally wounded, confused, catty, victims of male abuse.  And, as usual in modern shows and films, some women revolt against the grim order by misbehaving like spoiled brats.  This ties in with the wave of “feminist” characters and scenarios that actually do more damage to female respectability than the old “barefoot and pregnant” stigma.  Also, the show is said to expose a “seemingly perfect American suburb”, exploiting the stupid bigotry against suburbia in America (as if inner-city neighborhoods are all virtuous and more genuine).

The show’s narrator is named Mary Alice Young, but she doesn’t interact with the other women on her street.  Why?  Because she’s dead.  (This is about as overdone and silly as Kevin Spacey’s voiceover in the bird-of-a-feather film, American Beauty: where irresponsible sex is justified by oppression and all gun-lovin’ right-wingers are secretly gay.)  Why is Mary Alice dead?  Because she killed herself.  (Are you listening, Thelma and Louise?)  Why did she kill herself?  Well, that’s the question that drives the show.  Mary Alice leaves clues for the housewives to mull over; and her suicide is obviously linked to her shifty husband and son.  Of course, this mirrors the crummy marriages of all the wives, extending from the show’s basic misandry.  (Since “misogyny”, “hatred of women”, is so easily and commonly used, many readers probably haven’t heard of or used “misandry”, which means “hatred of men”.)  It seems that women's choices are slim these days: They can either resort to absorption into domestic life, become spineless tramps (like Meg Ryan's crummy role in Campion's In The Cut), or commit suicide (like the "heroine" in Kate Chopin's very overrated book, The Awakening).

Since Mary Alice is a curious, lingering spirit, she can peek into each woman’s private life, revealing and commenting on their respective plights, wishes, and schemes.  Not enough information about her suicide – and just what the odd, plastic-covered box her husband dumped into a river has to do with it – has been divulged for any worthy guesses.  But I’m not tolerant enough to finish the season to find out.  Apparently Mary Alice (judging by numerous, yet-undiscovered clues left here and there) aims to direct the housewives into solving the mystery and…who knows…following suit?  Or maybe punishing their jerk husbands for the collective sins of patriarch kind?

Who are these struggling heroines?  Lynette gave up her precious career to be a mother to her bratty, male children – and her businessman hubby is usually away on trips to earn money for their house and SUV.  She’s overwhelmed, spastic, and seemingly on the verge of breakdown.  When a cop pulls her over for driving erratically (because of her disobedient children) and comments on her duty as mother to control kids, she aggressively exits the car, storms toward him, and confidently scolds him (instead of her children).  Susan is a divorcee with a teenage daughter – and the daughter’s waaay more mature than her own mother.  Loathing the local slut, Edie, Susan resorts to arson.  She’s also hot to trot for the only decent man on the block: recently widowed, all-sensitive and handsome, Mike.  Edie, too, is  fawning over and pursuing Mike, making the cat-fight all the more juicy.  Bree Van DeCamp is married to another neglectful jerk.  But she has a defense mechanism: obsessive housewifing: cleaning, sewing, Donna Reed grins.

The most nauseating character is Gabrielle.  She’s married to the filthy rich Carlos, who showers her with material gifts to keep her from whining about sharing quality time.  Gabrielle has found some great, healthy therapy to deal with her boredom: having sleazy sex with high-school boy John – even in his bedroom while his mommy is picking up sis from soccer.  (Did I say Edie was the local slut?  Well, there are two…wait…well, we’ll see how many more as the show progresses).  Welcome to the accepted, titillating double standard for the modern woman!  Men are pigs if they cheat; women are liberated victims if they do.

Such rationalized degradation fits into the current trend of so-called “feminism”.  Consider the reprehensible Vagina Monologues, which is a destructive program disguised as a cause against violence (note: male violence – a feminist talking head once claimed that “all sex is rape” when it came to heterosexual relations).  Thankfully, the pro-molestation, statutory rape depicted in one of the infamous scenes is not violent.  The 24-year-old woman who has sex with a 13-year-young girl seduces with alcohol rather than physical force.  It’s a “good rape”; it’s an enlightening experience for the little girl.  (Why not so with a 24-year-old man, I wonder?)  This is what results from the base, fundamentally woman-corroding, man-bashing trends.  So-called V-Day has finally made females (13-year-young girls included) accept what they've always claimed men see them as: walking vaginas.

Folks may find this review and its opinionated offshoot as overreaction.  Perhaps the show may be amusing, fun.  Granted.  But very serious, philosophical, social matters are at stake here, cutely packaged as another farcical TV show.  Sadly, many don’t see it as farce.  Girls are being raised to mistake debasement and decadence as liberation, while the same old scenario repeats.  Girls still pick jerks; they still squabble over jerks; and they still fall for the Almighty Buck – but they also don’t command respect, dignity, and true equality from men.  Marching around on V-Day, speaking from your sex organ, and condoning lesbian seduction of a minor (when other seduction is considered horrible) does not foster these commands any more than boinking the gardener who needs to finish up in time to do his math homework.

And guess what?  Bitching about how women were treated in the damned 1800s is no longer valid, folks.  GET OVER IT, as the vulgar say.  No excuse for now (or N.O.W.).  Today women can pick their mates.  Women have the power to select from countless prospects.  No arranged marriages or rigid socio-economic dictations force them to marry jerks.  Choose wisely.  (This goes for you, too, fellas!) Use your power, your brains.  Demand R.E.S.P.E.C.T., not V-Day.  And please, please, please, don’t admire the women of Wisteria Lane.  They’re the type who eventually drive over a cliff – with you in the back seat.

- review by David Herrle 10/2004