“Women, they have minds and souls as well as just hearts. And
they’ve got ambition, they’ve got talent as well as just beauty.”
This line may not appear in Louisa May Alcott’s 1868 classic Little Women, but I haven’t a doubt in
my mind she’d have written it if she thought of it. Because clearly Alcott deeply
believed it, as does her in-novel alias Jo March. In many ways Little Women, it could be argued, was
something of a reaction to the female-centric novels of her literary
contemporaries. Where the Brontës, Elizabeth Gaskell, and George Eliot saw fit
for their independent, forthright women protagonists to marry the wealthy
charming men in their lives and considered the luxury of such as an adequate and
deserved resolution for their stories, Alcott instead chose art over love as
the determining factor of her characters’ fate and deliberately rejects the
notion of a romance for Jo with her most obvious suitor. It was pretty radical
and is no doubt one of the reasons Little
Women remains such a powerful work of early feminist art.
Greta Gerwig recognized the distinctly modern nature of those
spurned conventions, but that’s not the only reason she wrote and directed her
own adaptation for 2019. Gerwig’s love of the story of the humble March sisters
of Concord, Massachusetts and of Jo March in particular is apparent in this
movies’ every beat and distinct choice, and it’s a big reason her Little Women is one of the most
endearing films of year, one of the very best, and the greatest translation
this story has had to the cinematic medium.
It begins curiously enough by Gerwig opening the story in
media res: aspiring writer Jo (Saoirse Ronan) living in New York, the ambitious
but emotionally unfulfilled Amy (Florence Pugh) abroad in Paris, the comparatively
domestic Meg (Emma Watson) married in Concord with two children, near at home
to the sombre and sick Beth (Eliza Scanlen). And it tells the story that led up
to these circumstances not in flashback but through connective thoughts and
feelings and mirror images that unite two time periods and contrast the warm
and happy childhood of this family with their difficulties as young adult women
trying to make their way in the era they were born into. It’s a structure that
consciously and palpably evokes themes of nostalgia and longing and
introspection and consideration of how one has grown and must adjust to the
world –unsurprising ideas on the mind of the woman who made Lady Bird. These things are at the
forefront of Little Women, the
driving forces behind the anxieties, resignations, emotions, and choices of
each character, much as they are to many of the millennials watching the movie
now, though especially young women who face similar limitations, social
obligations, and discomforting realities. And it may feel like a modernization,
but really, it’s just a more skillfully illustrated reading of what’s always
been part of the text, a significant undercurrent that Gerwig identified in the
novel not immediately apparent to the casual reader in the late 19th century.
Little Women is about women, their lives and
struggles and the conflict between their desires and their status. Each of the
“little” women is artistic: Jo is a writer, Meg an actor, Amy a painter, and
Beth a musician, and they’re allowed to be those things within the idyllic
comforts of their poor but not incommodious upbringing, shot vibrantly here
with rich colours and a warm atmosphere. It’s the life that Jo in particular is
attached to, having no interest in marriage and the common fate that must
befall women of her time and place; and it’s why she finds herself lost in the
dark and desaturated present. Gerwig asks us to understand Jo’s feelings of
great loss, her frustration with the expectations thrust upon her as a woman,
while at the same time allowing her such freedom and independence in some of
her major actions that have more in common with her real-world source than her
fictional legacy. More viscerally than any other version of the story, Jo is equated
with Alcott herself, her meetings with her publisher (Tracy Letts) direct
references to Alcott’s process of publishing Little Women. Gerwig intends the story to honour Alcott and pay
tribute, in particular with regards to her clever handling of the novels’
contentious ending.
But while Jo is the focus, each of the other March sisters
are met with similar pressures and conflicts that Gerwig is tremendously fair
with. In spite of living a life that’s a direct protest to Jo, and by extent,
the storys’ values, i.e. marrying young, giving up artistic pursuits, and
becoming a housewife and mother, Meg is never maligned for these choices, never
discredited by the film for happily adapting to societal norms. Choice is the
key factor here, and it’s especially apparent in Amy’s storyline, often one of
the most criticized aspects of the book, but one that Gerwig reinterprets beautifully
by honing in on her self-awareness, her deep-seated troubled relationship with
Jo, and her intellectually-informed attitude on marriage and gender; ultimately
emphasizing the direction of her story as consciously dictated on her own terms.
Even Beth, traditionally the least active March sister, is conveyed with
fitting poignancy and the relatable sadness of being left alone by a family
that leaves home.
In all this, Gerwig weaves together the narrative with such expert
precision it might have always been told this way, with parallel moments across
the years informing character growth. She also draws out of her actors
astounding performances. Ronan, her muse, is a captivating and passionate Jo
-articulate, poetic, explicitly relatable, and thoughtful, but also silly in a
way that only this actor and director could realize. Pugh, capping off her
stupendous year of breakout success, is sensational as Amy in every way,
constantly bringing new dimension to the character. Scanlen is a delightful
find, sharp and sweet and making the most of her not substantial prominence.
And Watson, though subtle, is really quite good in a remarkable return to form
after her disappointing run of 2017. Most importantly though, the four of them
have excellent chemistry and are written with an alarming authenticity in spite
of the period-faithful diction. Through the way they bounce off each other,
argue and reconcile, and Gerwig’s use of Altman-style overlapping dialogue, you
instantly, vividly feel the relationships, the closeness of the sisters and
their simple contentedness. Veterans Laura Dern, Chris Cooper, and Meryl Streep
light up the supporting roles; but in addition to Ronan and Pugh, Timothée
Chalamet is the most impressive as the twenty-first century Laurie, himself
someone on a major personal journey in his affections for first Jo then Amy, once
again delivering a seasoned maturity to his part in conjunction with the
characters’ naivety, idealism, and charming humour.
Gerwig reconciles the style of Alcott’s writing with a modern
naturalism and sincere, universal emotionality better than any adaptation of
its kind since Ang Lee’s and Emma Thompson’s Sense and Sensibility. Indeed, her voice and Alcott’s shine through
in equal measure and complement each other gracefully. The immense dedication
of her cast, the editing, cinematography, lighting and costuming choices, every
one with a clear purpose is all in service of a totally breathtaking
reinvention of a classic story that feels told here for the very first time.
Its’ storytelling is so great, its performances and screenplay so moving
(enough so to bring me to the point of outright sobbing at least once), its
technical craft on a level far beyond a directors’ second feature, and its love
of the source material and the meaning behind it transcendently pure. This is cinematic
adaptation at its finest, watch it immediately!
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