When I heard that there was to be yet another film adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s classic novel Little Women, I cringed. Don’t get me wrong, I love the March sisters. But the film industry has subjected viewers to scores of reboots these past few years—the endless array of Spider-Man movies and the live action Disney updates are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. While some remakes have been critical and popular successes (see 2018’s Best Picture nominee A Star is Born, for example), many of these cinematic reboots are a far cry from the original material that inspired them (see 2016’s Ben-Hur; or better yet, don’t see 2016’s Ben-Hur; stick to the 1959 classic). Hence my reaction to yet another film version of Little Women, which, over the last 100 years—in other words, since the dawn of the motion picture—has been made and remade for film and television more than a dozen times. I was worried that this latest version of Little Women, when compared to Gillian Armstrong’s beloved 1994 adaptation, was going to be a profound disappointment.
