Red Riding Hood grimmer than Grimm

By Aaren Pastor     4/21/11 7:00pm

From the first pan over a brooding alpine forest, it is obvious that Catherine Hardwicke's directing style still remains in Twilight mode. And the cliches of poorly-made 'tween fantasy movies continue: brooding boys with tousled hair, a doe-eyed heroine who spends her time sighing mournfully, gazing pensively or letting beautiful tears pour out of vacuous blue eyes. The clichés, the appalling script, the surreal ginger-bread house vibes of the village, the infernal red cloak—All smack the viewer over the head to the point that one must leave the theater to escape it, which the two other (smarter) patrons did.

On the promise of a spellbinding, even darker retelling of the Grimm Brothers' classic, Red Riding Hood seems like it would be a delicious treat. Illusions are dashed within the first five minutes, and by the last 30, the plot has so utterly collapsed that viewers can only look on in disgust. Amanda Seyfried (Dear John) spearheads this rickety ensemble as Valerie, a young maiden torn between a brooding bad boy and an earnest, wealthier smithy, either of which could be the werewolf terrorizing her picturesque hamlet. Shiloh Fernandez, in his first stand-out film role as Peter, the orphaned woodsman, stomps about, clad all in black (naturally), wielding a shiny ax and precious little in the way of brains. Max Irons (Dorian Grey) plays the opposing love interest Henry Lazar, the love interest of Valerie's younger sister, whose death marks the return of the werewolf. Lazar is also the parent-approved candidate as the son of Valerie's mother's former lover. Gary Oldman (Rainfall) has a cameo as the priest and stock werewolf banisher. Typically, he is zealous, hard-headed, ruthless and quickly killed. As the Old Grandmother, Julie Christie (Away from Her) infuses some life into her witchy, isolated character, though why an actor of her caliber appears in this film is beyond this reviewer.

The twists of this movie are banal and utterly predictable. Not even the chiseled jawlines of Peter and Henry can redeem their characters or make 100 minutes worth wasting. As the bodies pile up and Valerie begins communications with the werewolf, she is accused of witchery and offers herself as a sacrifice to save the village. Those pure eyes, flawless skin and rosebud lips are surpassed only by the scarlet-cloaked maiden's shining sense of honor, sacrifice and love for her home (nausea sets in). In short order, the werewolf's identity is discovered and, naturally, it falls on Valerie to thwart him, falling in love in the process.

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What should have been a cleverly suspenseful fantasy mystery manifested as a flat, shoddily acted, plotless mess.

"Believe the Legend?" I think not.

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