Peyton Flanders, the widow of an obstetrician who kills himself after a media scandal in which he’s accused and criminal charged with molesting his patients, is supposed to be despicable, but I like her. She’s an attractive woman physically, but that also makes her manipulating and malicious personality attractive in a psychological, almost masochistic, sense. It’s as if she can do no wrong because her sexual and romantic allure makes it right.
If I were the husband of the woman she blames for the death of hers; the woman whose marriage she infiltrates and plans to takeover as wife and mother; I might be easy prey. After murdering his wife’s best friend and emptying her asthma inhalers, Peyton tries to seduce him into sex. She dries his rain-soaked body with a towel and gazes into his eyes. He rejects her, which I guess, as far as morality and self-control goes, makes him a better man than me.
These are cut-out characters limited to strict moral roles, however, so the straight-forward plot wouldn’t let him even consider doing such a thing for more than a few suspense-building seconds. That’s only a minor part of what makes what happens in The Hand That Rocks The Cradle so far-fetched and unrealistic. Most of it has to do with the amount of unlikely coincidences that allow Peyton to succeed with her plan as far as she does in the first place.
my rating : 3 of 5
1992