Hailed as a classic of American literature and the picture of sisterhood, Louisa May-Alcott’s Little Women has inspired multiple interpretations, with on-screen depictions earning millions of dollars. In the female-directed 1994 and 2019 versions, there is a very present sense of female empowerment that goes beyond the novel’s original plot. That being said, while Greta Gerwig and Gillian Armstrong’s adaptations have their own strengths and weaknesses in regards to their character interpretation, both films fall short in their acknowledgement of race both in the story and in the audience.
In her essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” Laura Mulvey states that true change in cinema will come by “examining patriarchy with the tools it provides, of which psychoanalysis is not the only but an important one” (58). A crucial moment of psychoanalysis occurs when Meg is sent off to a high society party, where she mingles with potential suitors. She is dressed up by the other women, causing Laurie to insult her for pretending to be someone she is not, objectifying her in the process. Meg’s character overall is much more one-sided in the 2019 film versus the 1994, wherein Meg questions her role as a woman on multiple occasions. Gerwig has Meg largely accept gender roles as a necessary evil, whereas Armstrong has her question and analyze them. Played by Emma Watson — a high profile actress with a preceding “good girl” reputation — the 2019 Meg March is far more content with her status than the 1994 Meg. At the same party, she sheepishly asks Laurie “Let me have my fun tonight. And I’ll be desperately good for the rest of my life” (1:01:08, Gerwig). She is aware that she is only playing a role for the night, but maintains her image of conventional womanhood. Armstrong’s Meg, however, wonders “Why is it Laurie may do as he likes and flirt and tipple champagne (43:10)”, in an intimate discussion with Marmee. Furthermore, she considers the implications of the male gaze; after Jo asks why anyone would care about the opinions of men, Meg (almost guiltily) replies that “It’s nice to be praised and admired. I couldn’t help but like it” (37:34). She understands and disagrees with her role in society as an object of desire; in Claire Johnston’s analysis of Laura Mulvey’s Spare Rib, it is articulated that in media, “woman represents not herself, but by a process of displacement, the male phallus” (33). This analysis can be applied to Meg, who knows that society dictates she become a possession for men, and therefore would rather seek fulfillment in love than wealth. In their depictions of Meg March, Armstrong provides a more well-rounded and inquisitive sister. In addition to character alterations, however, is the alteration of the ending.
One of the largest differences between the two films is the conclusion. Gerwig’s interpretation provides a much more complete ending, in which we see the product of Jo’s writing manifested as a hard copy of Little Women, as well as the flourishing co-ed school. Jo’s relationship with her publisher is also much more fleshed out in the 2019 version, showing her not only as a rebellious writer, but furthermore a matured adult, capable of navigating the publishing industry as a single woman. This is in great contrast to Armstrong’s film, in which Jo is indebted to her suitor, Friedrich Bhaer, for her literary success. While the addition of a love interest for Jo is not an unwelcome part of the plot, it is Jo’s reliance on Friedrich in a defining career moment that defies her character traits. The act of her falling in love is not contradictory to her nature, but rather her surrender into dependence on him. In “Women’s Cinema as Counter-Cinema”, Johnston asserts that “it is not enough to discuss the oppression of women within the text of the film; the language of the cinema/the depiction of reality must also be interrogated, so that a break between ideology and text is effected” (37). In Gerwig’s subversion of the plot itself, the effect is that much more powerful. Jo’s independence is not just conjecture, it is written into the script by another woman. That being said, there is still a critical perspective barely touched on by either directors: that of race.
Despite the centrality of the Civil War to the plot, both films fail to a certain degree to acknowledge Black viewers and/or characters. It’s important to note that, historically, traditional gender roles are not always attainable for Black women, and one concept critical in this analysis is the idea of the second shift. Coined in 1989 by Arlie Hochschild in her novel of the same title, the second shift refers to the housework undertaken by working parents. Essentially, after returning home from a full day of work, there is a second shift consisting only of housework. When applied to this period in history, the concept primarily affects women of color (or really any working class woman). Anita Cornwell articulates this in her 1971 article “Open Letter to a Black Sister”, in which she speaks to the reader: “Didn’t you ever wonder why you have to come home every evening after putting in ten feet-killing hours and then put in at least five more of back-breaking toil getting dinner and seeing to the kids and waiting on him” (207). The idea of homemaking as a living is not in itself an invalid aspiration, and in no way do I seek to diminish those who look forward to parenthood — but this lifestyle as romantic (as seen in the relationships of Meg and Amy) does not consider the history of Black women. In a movie that subverts the original plot to attain a more feminist conclusion, the lack of acknowledgement of Black issues feels like, more than anything, a lost opportunity. It must be added that despite the 1994 version’s more prominent references to the war, the lack of Black characters undermines the attempt to discuss social issues with nuance and varied perspective.
The March’s condition almost borders on white savior complex in the earlier adaptation, with their family’s hardship attributed to their anti-slavery views — at one point an acquaintance of Meg snidely remarks “Meg, isn’t it true your father’s school had to close when he admitted a little dark girl?” (39:47). This places Meg in the position of victim, as opposed to those who are being taken advantage of. Later on in the film in New York, Jo feels alienated as the only woman in the room as the group discusses politics — that is until she interjects to provide her opinion on women’s suffrage. Prior to this part of the debate, however, was the discussion of race and the 15th Amendment — a discussion that takes place without the opinion of a single Black person. Jo is given the opportunity to speak on women’s rights in this circle, but Black people are still denied their own voice in even a fictional context. Still, as disappointing as this white-washing of is, it is still crucial to understand the power of self-interpretation.
Despite my breakdown of certain lukewarm takes provided by both films, I must express how much I still love both. All aspects of melodrama are present to create two excellent female-centered films — in my opinion. Did I see myself represented on screen? No, there are no mixed-race girls in this plot. Did I still identify with each March sister, at some point in both films? Yes. In her 2020 New York Times article “The Bearable Whiteness of ‘Little Women’”, Kaitlyn Greenidge defends Gerwig’s adaptation, reminding her readers that the viewer/reader has agency, and that while she understands “the fatigue of watching a prestigious film about white women being claimed as a cultural watershed for women everywhere”, she added that she felt “the pull of narrative, of images on the screen, of watching an artist build a world and inviting others to enter”. This idea is articulated by bell hooks in “The Oppositional Gaze”, wherein she states that “As critical spectators, black women participate in a broad range of looking relations, contest, resist, revision, interrogate, and invent on multiple levels” (128). Black women (or any non-white, non-straight viewers) hold the authority to alter media in their frame, critical or not. It is with this power that I am able to thoroughly enjoy these works, without feeling the need to “forget” racism.
Even with regard to Gerwig and Armstrong’s surface-level recognition of race in their films, I argue that the unapologetically feminist stance depicted allows for an enjoyable watch; and despite my comparison of the two films, neither is “better” than the other. Both films portray Louisa May-Alcott’s work as if it were an old friend: vibrant, nostalgic, and unapologetic. But the adaptations’ greatest achievement is the way in which they remind female viewers that they are the authors of their own story; there is endless possibility in the viewers’ interpretation of each film. As put by the novel’s original authoress, “writing doesn’t confer importance, it reflects it” — a message that Gerwig and Armstrong have embraced wholeheartedly.
Works Cited
Armstrong, Gillian, director. Little Women. Columbia Pictures, 1994.
Gerwig, Greta, director. Little Women. Sony Pictures, 2019.
Greenidge, Kaitlyn. “The Bearable Whiteness of ‘Little Women’.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 13 Jan. 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/01/13/opinion/sunday/little-women-movie-race.html.
hooks, bell. “The Oppositional Gaze.” Black Looks: Race and Representation, South End Press, Boston, MA, 1992, pp. 115–131.
Johnston, Claire. Women’s Cinema as Counter Cinema, 1973.
Mulvey, Laura. Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. Screen, 1975.
White, Armond. “Greta Gerwig’s Little Women Romanticizes White Privilege.” National Review, National Review, 7 Jan. 2020, https://www.nationalreview.com/2019/12/movie-review-little-women-greta-gerwig-romanticizes-white-privilege/.
