Little Women

Fans of Louisa May Alcott’s iconic 19th century novel — you may release a sigh of relief and rejoice. This newest version of Little Women is not only the most beautiful film adaptation of Alcott’s book, it’s the most honest nod to the beloved writer’s original work.

Multitalented actor/writer/director Greta Gerwig has taken a dearly adored American classic and revised it with a refreshing sense of contemporary boldness. Informed by Alcott’s words and indomitable spirit, Gerwig’s Little Women follows the journey of the March sisters — Amy (Florence Pugh), Jo (Saoirse Ronan), Beth (Eliza Scanlen, HBO’s “Sharp Objects”) and Meg (Emma Watson) — as they navigate the tumultuous waters of adolescence and early adulthood in post-Civil War Massachusetts. With Jo as our navigator, we watch the not-so-tidy elements of their lives unfold, as they oscillate between honeyed childhood memories and real world letdowns, impatient to become who they’re destined to be.

Using an fascinating, nonlinear structure, Gerwig introduces us to the four sisters at key points in their lives — keeping their respective ages identifiable by differing behavioral traits, visual stylizations and hairstyles (yes, I am referring to bangs as the surest sign of youth). The approach also allows Gerwig to juxtapose important related moments that are separated in time, a decision that cleverly maximizes every emotional payoff.

Having already left her beloved family behind, we begin Jo’s story in a cutthroat New York City publishing house and watch as she haggles over the price of her work with a stern magazine editor (Tracy Letts, Lady Bird). She’s not yet an established writer, for she’s selling salacious stories and refusing to attach her name to them, but we immediately get the sense that she’s hellbent on achieving success and doing so on her own terms.

Even more interestingly, we begin with the acute knowledge that Jo has already rejected the marriage proposal of her next-door-neighbor-turned-best-friend Laurie (Timothée Chalamet) — which creates an entirely new narrative intrigue. If this story isn’t about Jo and Laurie getting together, what else is left to tell? Gerwig’s screenplay instead focuses largely on Jo’s ambition and her personal journey to success, one that isn’t defined by men or marriage or societal convention. It’s a brilliantly constructed framework that effectively solves the story’s greatest problem from the onset while maintaining a sense of mystery for audiences familiar and unfamiliar with the material alike.

By beginning with and focusing more thoughtfully on the March sisters’ adult lives, Gerwig makes it clear that these women’s artistic ambitions are to be taken seriously. These aren’t just the dreamy, childish whims of four preteens playing dress-up in an attic — these are four legitimate paths of four distinct women. As such, the screenplay fleshes out each character much more fully than any previous adaptation and lends a clear-eyed, full-hearted, true-to-the-book approach to each character’s story.

Even though Jo is steadfastly at the heartbeat of the film, each of the March sisters gets her singular chance to shine under Gerwig’s watchful directorial gaze. In this version, Beth (played with impressive strength by Australian newcomer Scanlen) isn’t simply the saintly wilting wallflower playing church hymns on the piano, patiently waiting for her tragic fate to consume her. Nor is Jo simply the free-spirited spinster sister scribbling away by candlelight. Likewise, Meg isn’t strictly defined by her desire to be married, and Amy manages to morph into the most steadfast sister in a way that we’ve never seen before.

It can be easy to dismiss this novel and its several on-screen adaptations as glorified young adult feel-good fodder (based on its title and cozy Christmas movie reputation), but to do so would be to commit a grave disservice. This version of Little Women is particularly adept at avoiding the trappings of overly saccharine coming-of-age tales by focusing on the lives of its heroines in their adulthood as they grapple with serious real-world issues, and dives back into their adolescence largely for context.

Alcott’s novel and Gerwig’s adaptation, by extension, are about ambition and the journeys we take to realize those dreams. The fact that Jo deigns to not only imagine a life outside marriage and family but boldly insists on it is still impressive in The Year of Our Baumbach, 2019. One particular narrative tweak I was extremely encouraged to see on screen is Jo’s contradictory feelings regarding her choices. Yes, she’s resolute in her decision to not marry Laurie (a choice I finally understand thanks to the brilliantly heartbreaking dialogue in Jo and Laurie’s hillside proposal scene), but she is also keenly aware of her gnawing sense of loneliness and fear of being unlovable. She is desperate to construct an identity outside her family but is also deeply afraid of who she’ll become without them. It’s a classic coming-of-age plight that’s rarely given a voice, let alone a female one.

More universally though, all the characters in the March universe are figuring out how to operate within their own set of circumstances, whether that’s by entertaining societal expectations, rebelling against them or finding a life somewhere between the two. The material doesn’t present a judgment or condemnation of any single choice but strongly encourages the freedom to choose. That’s what Jo’s journey is ultimately about — choices and the freedom we have to make those choices.

Most notably, Gerwig’s version presents female rage and unrest in a way that feels real and true, not performative or dramatic. Jo is particularly adept at expressing her anger, as is Amy, and they do so primarily through various sibling rivalry scuffles — including the raucous curling iron hair-burning moment and the iconic Amy-burns-Jo’s-novel-out-of-little-sister-spite scene. Jo, fuming at the thought of Amy’s betrayal, softly confides in her mother, affectionately known as Marmee (Laura Dern) as they sit on the floor: “What is wrong with me? When I get in a passion, I get so savage and I could hurt anyone and I’d enjoy it.”

Instead of condemning Jo’s “ugly” instincts, the matriarch of the March family agrees with her by admitting that she, too, is angry “nearly every day of her life” — a surprisingly prickly admission for those of us who are used to the deeply pious versions of Marmees past. In this way, Mrs. March embodies the invisible anger that was undoubtedly plaguing the women of her time. After all, she’s a 19th century woman with limited resources, plenty of mouths to feed, very few feasible career paths and a husband who’s all but entirely absent. She should be screaming into the fireplace right alongside Jo.

Ronan’s Jo is less manic and messy than Winona Ryder’s version from the 1994 Little Women, but she effortlessly exudes that perpetually frazzled, burning-the-midnight-oil restlessness that we’ve come to expect from our favorite literary heroine. Her infectious energy jumps off the screen and onto her fellow actors, as she ignites every scene she’s in. With her wildly tousled hair, deeply cool tomboyish ensembles and forever ink-stained fingers, Ronan’s Jo is the perfect blend of softness and strength. When she meets Laurie (played with perfect physicality by Chalamet) for the first time and cites that she can’t dance with him because her dress had previously caught fire, her vulnerability is on full display, as is their infectious, electric chemistry.

Chalamet mirrors Ronan’s exuberance with his flirty, fun, irreverent and unfailingly loyal portrayal. With his billowy sleeves, boyish charm and wickedly playful banter, there could never be another Laurie after this — full stop. Chalamet has stolen the role and the hearts of Laurie stans everywhere and, frankly, I hope he never gives it back.

The character who benefits the most from Gerwig’s remarkable reenvisioning, however, is Amy, the youngest (and notoriously brattiest) of the March sisters. In this rendition, Amy’s artistic ambitions are met with equal parts idealism (as an adolescent painter) and realism (as an adult art student in Paris) as she laments the disheartening fact that her painterly talents will never allow her to make her own way in the world. Declaring to Laurie that she “wants to be great or nothing,” she underscores marriage as the sole economic proposition for women of her time. Gerwig’s self-assured dialogue and Pugh’s relatable reimagining of Amy have her asking some of the toughest questions in the film, a storytelling choice that demands respect and reexamination by all of those who’ve railed against her character in the past (myself included).

Pugh remarkably avoids most of Amy’s most annoying traits while still maintaining the childlike pang of being a perpetually left-out baby sister. She’s sharp-tongued and unfiltered without being mean — a narrow tightrope that Pugh walks beautifully. With Gerwig’s thoughtful direction, Pugh allows Amy to grow in maturity without completely shedding her youthful honesty. She confronts Laurie head-on during a dance in Paris, takes him to task for not living up to the man he could be and makes no apologies for it. She’s a woman who knows what she wants and what she deserves and she’s going to achieve it, one way or another. Amy’s undeniable resolve balanced with her new sense of relatability makes Pugh a formidable colleague against even the most veteran of actors.

Speaking of which, the simple fact that Meryl Streep, who perfectly executes her best thorny Aunt March portrayal, is not in my top three performances of the film should tell you something. Every actor is giving their absolute best, including Streep, Dern and Chalamet, but none more wholeheartedly than Ronan and Pugh. As we watch their wonderfully chaotic and genuinely affectionate interactions unfold on screen, we get the inescapable sense that the women making this film love the characters and the material just as much as we do, and they’re just as protective and invested in the journeys of the March women as we are. It’s this kind of mutual audience-actor respect that envelops the film with a snuggly, sacred reverence and cements its importance in modern day culture.

The costumes, pacing, score, cinematography and right down to the simple visual choice to bookend the film with actual book jackets of Alcott’s novel — it’s all exquisitely executed.

It’s got all the formative Little Women moments to satisfy every Alcott fan, as we eagerly watch the sisters frolic at the beach, eat dessert for breakfast on Christmas, put on plays in the attic and dance — so much dancing! The familiar March family coziness is ever present without feeling overly sweet or precious. Most importantly, the film maintains its fascination with the rich inner lives of women in all stages of life.

Without spoiling the ending, it’s worth noting that the most delightful Gerwig edit comes at the very end of the film, when Jo makes a decision identical to Alcott herself. It acknowledges the struggle of ownership over one’s work, and ostensibly, one’s own life, and illuminates just how forward-thinking Alcott really was. The world might be “tough on ambitious women,” but Little Women confirms that ambitious women are tougher.