So it’s this sexy fantasy film, that’s got all these veiled references to sex, with a sexpot lead actress, who pouts and stares a lot, sexily, and these two sexy guys fighting over her, one of whom may or may not be a sexy werewolf. And it’s not Twilight? Even though it’s got the same director. Framing everything in twisty angles and splashes of sexy colour. So, more like Twilight 2: Twi Harder?
It’s sort of difficult to avoid the inevitable comparison of Catherine Hardwicke’s latest paean to pubescent girls, Red Riding Hood, to the behemoth saga she started back in 2008. Both stories focus on one girl’s sexual magnetism over two beefcakes against the backdrop of daydream fancying and nightmarish monsters. Both films contain a female lead who deserves better material and veterans who frankly should know better. Both films will make you laugh, unintentionally. Frequently. And most tragically of all, both films mark another nail in the coffin of previously promising director.
In 2003, Hardwicke smashed the sugar glass ceiling that so impedes the fairer filmmaker with her terrific début, Thirteen. Since then, she’s focused on teenagers, adding skateboards, messianic births and feminism-destroying-fangs. All with increasing failure. And this time, there’s no hood big enough to shelter from the monsoon of criticism. Not to mention what she’s doing next, sigh.
So, we’ve ditched the coiffed vamp, but Hardwicke’s still likin’ the lycan, so come full Moon time, this hodge podge medieval hamlet gets a vicious visitor. Amanda Seyfried does well with a piecemeal protagonist, making her Valerie slyly seductive and threatening, in the way all teens in hoodies should be, but this won’t go down as one of her breakthrough performances. The boys fare less well, with 2D roles that don’t explain why either of them is so smitten with Seyfried, nor why she’s swooning either. Shiloh Fernandez, particularly, makes zero impact as woodcutter Peter the Edward, while Max Irons, generally sidelined as Henry the Jacob, is… well… noticeably tall – that’s about it. There’s some fun to be had with Gary Oldman’s nutcase cleric Father Soloman, but when everyone else is so po-faced, this devilish pantomime dame falls flat.
Adaptation is always risky, but when the source material is a bedtime-friendly fairytale, stretching it to 100 minutes is quite the challenge. Screenwriter David Johnson weaves together a hammy whodunit out of his script, which starts promisingly, but quickly descends into cliché-driven drivel that borders on the ridiculous. Not only will you not care which blink-and-you’ll-miss-it character gets slashed next by an uninspiring CGI coyote, by the time the big reveal is exposed in the blink of a brown eye, you’ll be struggling to keep your own eyelids open. Add to this some Wicker Man cult dancing, bizarre incest undertones and more phallic symbols per frame than is really needed, and babe, you’re lost in the woods.
Less happily ever after, more a dissatisfying wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann leben sie noch heute.
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