For all its regressive gender politics, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—the first animated feature in cinema history—has for generations endured as an enchanting comedic and romantic fantasy.
Snow White, Disney’s live-action remake of its trailblazing 1937 classic, updates that film’s dated and backwards view of women for a modern audience, depicting its protagonist not as a cheery and simple domestic servant in need of saving but, rather, as a virtuous and stout rebel leader—all while slightly toning down the cartoonish clownishness of the pint-sized miners who Heigh-Ho their way to and from work.
From a strictly political standpoint, it provides a more enlightened portrait of female independence. Such a nominal improvement, however, proves inherently incompatible with its source material, and the resultant awkwardness defines this misfire, whose every duplication is underwhelming, and whose every alteration is less a move in the right direction than a step on a face-smacking rake. No Magic Mirror is needed to identify it as the lamest Mouse House re-do of them all.
The external reflects the internal in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—one of many paradigms that was replicated and expanded upon by its princess progeny. This is also true with regards to Snow White, albeit unintentionally. Marc Webb’s remake, which hits theaters Mar. 21, marries its clunky contemporary feminism to formulaic 21st-century musical numbers and garish CGI-ified visuals, creating a fiasco in which beauty is oft-discussed but unsightliness is the order of the day.
Nowhere is that more apparent than with the Dwarfs, who despite being erased from the film’s title are a prominent component of this affair, and whose big-nosed faces and diminutive bodies are realistic in the least desirable way possible. They’re akin to those lifelike viral sculptures of Beavis and Butthead from a decade ago—more realistic than their animated models, and all the creepier for it.
Before situating itself in the Dwarfs’ warm, ramshackle forest home, Snow White concocts an origin story for its heroine. Born in a snowstorm (hence her name) Snow White grows up with her loving and benevolent parents (Hadley Fraser and Lorena Andrea), only to have her mom die and her dad fall under the spell of his new wife, who sends her spouse off to a war from which he never returns, allowing her to assume the throne as the Evil Queen (Gal Gadot). Indifferent to her stepdaughter, the Queen turns Snow White (Rachel Zegler) into a castle slave, thereby denying the princess the right to care for her people, who are soon robbed, starved and subjugated by the wicked monarch.
Fleshing out Snow White’s backstory is unsatisfying if predictable, as is the film’s reconfiguration of the princess from a merrily one-note maiden to a brave, tough altruist concerned with issues of fairness and equity. Imbuing Snow White with agency certainly goes some way toward correcting the original’s archaic vision of womanhood. Still, it feels shoehorned in and weighs the proceedings down with transparent, italicized “progressiveness.”
This is exacerbated by changes to the story’s central romance, which now involves Snow White falling for a Robin Hood-ish bandit leader named Jonathan (Andrew Burnap), whom she catches stealing bread from the Queen. Snow White eventually teams up with this rogue and his Merry Men, complete with an actual little person (George Appleby) who’s asked, stunningly, to share screen time with the computer-generated Doc (Jeremy Swift), Sleepy (Andy Grotelueschen) Happy (George Salazar), Sneezy (Jason Kravits), Grumpy (Martin Klebba), Bashful (Tituss Burgess) and Dopey (Andrew Barth Feldman).
At every turn, Snow White tries to tone down and/or correct what it believes is wrong with its precursor, from Dopey’s dim-wittedness to Snow White’s motherliness—the latter of which involves her not baking pies and encouraging the Dwarfs to clean up their own home. As far as lessons for young girls go, these adjustments are unimpeachable. Yet they nonetheless ring false, draining the action of the old-fashioned atmosphere and attitude that defined the fairy tale.
What they suggest is that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is perhaps fundamentally incapable of being modernized; without the sweet naivete and offensive stereotypes—and, with them, the air of otherworldly magic—it’s just another cookie-cutter Disney affair, full of corny duets (including one dubbed “Princess Problems” in which Jonathan mocks Snow White for her entitlement) and italicized expressions of you-go-girl strength and resilience.
Decked out in a long, shiny black gown, sharp fingernails, and a spiky glass crown, Gadot looks the part of the Evil Queen but generally overdoes it to borderline-campy effect, although some of that is the fault of Pasek and Paul’s “All is Fair,” which clumsily amplifies the villainess’ sassiness.
The Dear Evan Hansen songwriters’ tunes are blandly conventional, and that additionally goes for Zegler’s performance as the empowered Snow White, who gaily teaches her pals to whistle while they work and sternly stares down the Queen during a new conclusion that allows the heroine to author her own happily ever after. Burnap is even duller, cast in a rote mold that offers zero surprises and generates scant sparks with Zegler. Despite boasting more personality traits and motivations, they’re all wan facsimiles of their archetypal ancestors.
Many of Snow White’s signature moments and sights (a poisoned apple that looks like a skull; the Dwarfs marching in line to their mine) are adequately faithful reproductions. Yet the director’s shallow digital imagery renders them flat and forgettable. More tedious is an extended midsection bit involving the Queen sending her palace guard to hunt down Snow White—a sequence that affords perfunctory action and opportunities for Snow White and Jonathan to warm to each other.
Worst of all, though, is Dopey’s climactic first words and the ultimate revelation that he’s the proceedings’ narrator. By giving Dopey the power of speech, Webb and screenwriter Erin Cressida Wilson underscore their film’s interest in giving voice to the voiceless, but like a raft of similar gestures, it comes across as a groan-worthy revision.
Smushing Snow White into an up-to-date template negates the original’s unpleasantries as well as its charms, which it replaces with standard tunes, plotting, and messaging that transform it into something resembling an ungainly AI-esque creation. While it won’t make anyone pine for the sleeping death, it also won’t replace its illustrious and pioneering predecessor.
