The concept of miniature people has long captivated the human imagination, echoing from the pages of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels to the silver screen in classics like Bride of Frankenstein and Fantastic Voyage, and more recently in family-friendly hits such as Ant-Man and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. While the new Peacock limited series, The Miniature Wife, sprinkles references to these and other films throughout its narrative, the protracted, 10-episode production ultimately offers little of substance to the science fiction genre of shrinking narratives.
Drawing only its title and foundational premise from Manuel Gonzales’s 2014 short story, The Miniature Wife centers on Lindy Littlejohn, portrayed by Elizabeth Banks. Once a celebrated author, Lindy now holds a university professorship and finds herself overshadowed by her scientist husband, Les, played by Matthew Macfadyen. Lindy perceives herself as metaphorically diminutive in both her personal and professional spheres. This feeling is set to become literal following an incident—or perhaps something more deliberate—involving Les’s potentially groundbreaking invention: a compound capable of reducing objects to approximately one-twelfth their original size.
Lindy’s immediate challenge lies in Les’s failure to develop a stable antidote for his formula. Early attempts to restore shrunken items to their former size have resulted in near-instantaneous explosions. However, in keeping with the characteristics of many modern prestige streaming series, Lindy faces a host of less compelling issues. These include a muddled plagiarism scandal, stemming from a student’s short story inadvertently published under her name in The New Yorker. Furthermore, she is engaged in an “emotional affair” with Les’s colleague, Richard (O-T Fagbenle), whose ardor for her far outstrips her interest in him.
Meanwhile, Les has entered into an agreement with a visibly malevolent oligarch (Ronny Chieng, reprising his familiar tech-bro persona). This deal imposes a strict 30-day deadline to produce the antidote, failing which he forfeits all rights to his creation. The Miniature Wife dedicates considerable airtime to the tedious office politics within Les’s company. Here, the demanding yet alluring scientist Vivienne (Zoe Lister-Jones) has been appointed as his new superior. The series also affords substantial subplot coverage to the Littlejohns’ university-student daughter, Lulu (Sofia Rosinsky), and Lindy’s editor and confidante, Terry (Sian Clifford). These diversions, however, largely serve as padding for a meandering and unfocused series.
The creators, Jennifer Ames and Steve Turner, would have been better served by reducing the scope of their show. Each episode spans approximately 45 minutes, awkwardly straddling the line between comedy and drama. Lindy experiences some predictable predicaments as a miniaturized person, from inhabiting a dollhouse to confronting household pests. These are interwoven with uninspired romantic drama between Lindy and Les, as their already strained marriage buckles under the weight of extraordinary circumstances.
“We all suck,” Lulu observes about the Littlejohn family in a later episode, a sentiment with which the narrative strongly agrees. Lindy and Les are individually insufferable, and they undoubtedly amplify each other’s worst traits. This dynamic might be bearable if The Miniature Wife embraced its potential as a dark comedy. There are moments around the season’s midpoint where the marital conflict approaches the vitriolic tone of films like The War of the Roses. Yet, Lindy’s initial assertion that “This is a love story” seems intended to be taken literally. Consequently, attempts to portray the Littlejohns as a couple worth cheering for become increasingly unconvincing as the series unfolds. Banks and Macfadyen exhibit a distinct lack of chemistry, failing to convince as either romantic partners or adversaries. Macfadyen, in particular, too frequently substitutes exaggerated facial expressions for genuine emotion.
As a science fiction offering, The Miniature Wife proves underwhelming. It is replete with complex-sounding but ultimately vacuous mathematical jargon and implausible logical leaps. The special effects often fall short, even when compared to the visuals in the 1981 Lily Tomlin comedy The Incredible Shrinking Woman, another clear inspiration for the series. “I’ve created a tiny monster,” Les laments, but he overestimates his own accomplishment. In reality, he has merely created a minor irritation.