Of course, today we’re talking about Little Women.
A lot of you are probably sick of hearing about that book. It’s what all of your feminist and movie buff coworkers just read. The trailers and articles were everywhere. No one could stop talking about how Greta Gerwig deserved a best director nomination, and the only reason she didn’t get one is because she’s not a man.
I understand that many of you probably don’t want to hear about Little Women and just want to get back on track with Folk of the Air, but I loved this book and movie, so forget about Folk of the Air (just for a while) and let me get these opinions onto paper.
Also, this is not a democracy, so. You don’t really get a say. (You might if you recommend me a book on the side bar!)
Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women had problems (especially in the second book), but it was overall a lovable, funny, feminist novel that questions society in the same way we need to now.
Before I get too far into this review, quick warning: today I’m going to be talking about the first two parts of Little Women as one novel (Little Women and Good Wives) because so many adaptations and editions group them together.
Often times when I read classics, I have to listen to an audiobook for the first few chapters to be interested in the story, but that was not the case for Little Women. When I started this book, prompted by the prospect of a new movie, as many were, I was immediately in love with the story. Once Jo grumbled that “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” I was hooked. Part of the reason is because every character starts off as a full-blown, thought-out person.
Take Meg, for example—Meg is already established as a responsible older sister type, talking about Marmee being concerned for men in the army, and they all have to make their sacrifices. She was a well-rounded build because she had faults, too, like complaining about her job and children and being poor. All of this is just on a few pages—just on one page, depending on your edition—and she’s not the only character we get an immediate sense of.
Amy is already jealous of rich girls (insert extreme eye roll) and deciding what she needs (no, Amy, you don’t need new drawing pencils); Beth is constantly, gently thinking about music; and Jo is strong willed, ready with a plan to solve their problems. The four main characters are already taking shape and getting their most important character traits; the reader is able to establish something of an opinion on them. Louisa May Alcott’s thought-out writing makes this book an attention-grabber from the very first line.
This book is more than great writing, though. There were so many lovable moments, so many times where the reader sighed with contentment because Laurie is just so cute or because Jo took another step towards her dreams.
Take the dance scene, for example. Book one, chapter three: “The Laurence Boy” was what I call a perfect scene. Something everyone should call a perfect scene, something we should all be shouting from the rooftops about because oh my god Laurie and Jo are already the perfect match. (And, yes, I know I just used the word “perfect” three times in three sentences. Just bear with me, okay? Alcott’s ending really took a toll on me.) The charm of the scene is irresistible, starting with the way-too-real sister moment where Jo asks if Meg can warn her if she’s being too boyish by winking, but Meg decides that “winking isn’t ladylike” and would rather “lift [her] eyebrows.” That quirky adorableness isn’t even the best part of the chapter, no, because then the reader gets to meet Laurie, an adorable, hopeless boy who’s entirely smitten with Jo when he’s only just met her. The two of them have a, you guessed it, perfect scene (I literally wrote “ship it already” in the margins) that Greta Gerwig brought to life better than I could have ever hoped in her movie. Timothée Chalamet and Saoirse Ronan both have breathtakingly accurate performances here—it was like Gerwig knew that Jaurie (Lo?) shippers are never going to like the final outcome of Little Women, but at least they can have this scene; they deserve just one scene of pure fangirling.
I don’t want to get into why I ship Laurie and Jo yet because I plan on having a full-blown love triangle section later, so it’s kinda hard to speak on this scene without getting all persuasive essay on you guys. I’m just gonna leave this part by saying that we fangirls got what we wanted and everyone—fangirl or not—got to see realistic moments between realistic people.
Let’s move onto characters, shall we? I didn’t love every character in this book, but they were all thought-out enough that I had opinions on them, which is a great thing to see in a book.
Part of the reason why they were all so full when the book immediately began (see: five paragraphs above) is because Alcott told us who they all were literally four pages in. Many people and writers find it annoying when authors explain their characters rather than show who they are, but I found it charming, especially when you take into consideration the style of writing Alcott used for this novel.
Often times, Alcott addresses the reader directly as if she’s telling a story in person. Doing this is informal enough that it worked for her to literally describe each character’s appearance and personality. Add in that this mainly only happened with important characters, and that all of the less important, smaller characters were people you had to figure out for yourself, and it’s a fine add.
Anyway. Just thought that was interesting. Back to my actual opinions on the characters. First, a more minor one: Marmee.
I swear to god, for someone with somewhere around four scenes, she irks me too much. Marmee has this high-and-mighty attitude like she knows all, like she understands everything about every single human being under the sun. When Jo is battling her anger issues (sometimes, though, she has a right to be angry and no one accepts that—I mean, her sister burnt the only copy of her first draft), Marmee gives this stupid advice to basically just suppress all of her feelings if they’re not happy. When Jo turns down Laurie’s marriage proposal, it’s because Marmee thought they weren’t compatible (breaking news: the real reason Lulu hates Marmee is because she thinks that Marmee killed Jaurie/Lo). Marmee even told Meg that if she ever gets into a fight with her husband, Mr. John Brooke, Meg should apologize no matter what, even if Meg isn’t at fault and/or still stands by what she originally thought. And, fine, Marmee can have bad ideas and stupid opinions, but she presents them—but they’re interpreted—as pure facts, as if nothing else could even be a possibility because Marmee thinks that Jo and Laurie aren’t compatible. Even the narrator sounds entirely convinced when talking about Marmee. Like, where is the need for some supposedly all-knowing mom? And how is this supposed to reflect on their family structure and responsibility? That parents know everything? That there’s no possible way that a child can be right when disagreeing with their parent? That’s an unhealthy family. Marmee needs to take a step back and let someone else get their opinion out there for a change.
Whew. That was a rant. Next we’ll do the sisters, oldest to youngest, sound good? Then we’ll move on to Laurie, and finally a small section on Bhaer before moving away from characters.
Meg is a cool girl. I don’t know. She didn’t thrill me. I liked that she represented wanting society’s “regular” domestic life and that for that to be okay—that you can still be a feminist and a stay-at-home mom. She bored me, though, just as a person. On the other hand, while her chapters weren’t my favorite to read, I loved seeing Emma Watson portray her on the big screen. Meg gave Watson a reason to talk about living a society-approved life not being a bad thing if that’s what you want.
Everyone’s favorite character is Jo. There’s just no getting around it. Jo is the main character, ish: all of the sisters are important, but the novel follows Jo the most, generally because Jo is the equivalent to Louisa May Alcott (something I didn’t mention: all of this is loosely based on Alcott’s life and family—the girl Amy was based on was even named May). Anyway, Jo is ruthless and independent; she knows what she wants and marches up to take it. My only problem with Jo is that she too often caves to people she sees as superior to her. I know I’ve already mentioned this a few times, but it’s a serious problem that Jo adapts to Marmee’s opinion on her relationship with Laurie and her anger issues. When Laurie proposes, most of the points Jo makes on why they won’t be good together is just a rewording of what Marmee had previously told Jo. Marmee’s ideas on Jo’s anger issues are ignorant (especially because I wouldn’t even really call them anger issues, if I’m being honest; Jo doesn’t take anyone’s nonsense—what’s wrong with that?). I would go so far as to say that Marmee doesn’t even have ideas, they’re just basically I mean, it would be better if you just left the room to compose yourself anytime you get angry and then forget that anything ever happened please and thank you. That kind of thinking could ruin Jo’s life, but she takes it in and tries to follow through. She also listens to Professor Bhaer about her writing because she thinks he’s above her. When she’s writing sketchy, “unladylike” pieces and he tells her that they’re immoral—not that he thinks they’re immoral, but that they’re immoral, like he’s some all-knowing deciding factor—she burns them all. She literally goes up to her room and burns every last one. Months of work gone forever because someone she respects disagrees! Jo’s fatal flaw is not her anger but her complacency to “superiors.”
I’d also like to mention Saoirse Ronan’s incredible portrayal of Jo. It’s not a new idea to say that she understood Jo as if she were Jo, and she deserved that Oscar nomination times a thousand.
Beth is the only character who is supposed to be perfect that I’ve ever enjoyed reading. It’s probably because they don’t really present her as a real, full person with problems—Beth is just this little girl trying to get through life happily after catching a slow-working, deadly illness. No one is trying to convince the reader that Beth has internal struggles, too: her only problem is that she gets sick, and, with her, that’s okay. Often times movie adaptions try to play up her shyness a little too much (including the recent miniseries on BBC from 2017), losing sight of the core of her character: she’s there to remind everyone to be a little kinder, because if a dying fifteen year old is worrying about the family across town with some money problems, they can surely wash the dishes without complaint. Other than screen adaptions trying to give her a little more internal conflict, no one in the book pretends she has problems as severe as Amy’s selfishness or Laurie’s childishness. Beth is a characterture, and it’s okay because no one pretends that she isn’t. I’ll close Beth off commemorating Gerwig and Eliza Scanlen for finding a nice balance between having a believable character and sticking to Alcott’s fantasy of a person.
OH MY GOD I HATE AMY.
That outburst probably doesn’t come as a surprise to those of you who know what the Little Women fandom is like: we’re basically a more respectable version of the whole Team Edward versus Team Jacob, only it’s Jo (the best choice, the only realistic choice) and Amy (the stupid choice, the most obnoxious choice) who both love Laurie. The only problem is that the situation’s Jacob equivalence wins (please, please, no one mention those Twilight reviews I posted before—I was under Stephenie Meyer’s well-crafted tween girl trap when I wrote those, okay?) and Amy and Laurie are endgame.
Sorry. Let’s reword this in a way that all those Twihard-avoiding readers can understand.
Amy is a selfish brat the entire book, riding solely on the fact that she’s the youngest in the family, and therefore has some out for literally any bad thing she’s ever done. As a youngest myself, that’s an unattainable idea. Yes, it would be nice to get away with everything. Yes, being the youngest is a blessing and a curse for too many reasons to discuss right now. Get over it, Amy! God knows that’s what the rest of us youngests do. And yet Amy persists with her selfish ways her entire life. As a teen, somewhere around thirteen or fourteen, Amy burns Jo’s entire manuscript because Jo told Amy that she can’t come on a trip that the host didn’t invite her on. Jo was being completely fair and listing valid reasons as to why Amy couldn’t come, but spiteful little Amy got pissed off and let out her anger by burning months and months of writing. And Jo has anger issues? So much endless, seemingly fruitless work goes into novels, and to be so heartless, so cruel, is inexcusable, even at thirteen—especially at thirteen, when you start to become old enough to understand the world and kindness and being good. Amy doesn’t even regret what she’s done, no, she gets defiant when Jo won’t forgive her after a measly little apology. Amy stays like this for the entire book, never realizing that her actions affect others.
Then Amy and Laurie supposedly “fall in love.” This is just after Jo has rejected Laurie’s marriage proposal. He’s sad and goes to Europe with his grandpa (even though, to be honest, he didn’t want to go because he’d been planning to go with Jo as their honeymoon; a little premature, I know, but the kid can dream). While in Europe, he’s too heartbroken to do anything and is basically a self-pitying bum for months and months and months—a bad life choice, sure. I accept that. He meets up with Amy in France and chills with her, doing virtually nothing. Somehow they fall in love (...?), but I don’t buy in. Laurie never liked her when she was a kid (probably because she always has been and always will be a little brat), and she never really liked him (probably because he had the guts/audacity to call her out on it). In Europe, they chat a little and are suddenly in love. Or something. For Laurie, it seemed more like settling for a rebound, for seeing some small flicker of Jo in her and clutching onto it, convincing himself that she’s just like Jo: it even says in the book that he began to see more and more of Jo in her every day (more like he forced himself to pretend she was Jo more and more every day to numb the pain of heartbreak and eventually forgot he was pretending). Amy is pretty much on the same page with the whole not-being-in-love thing, actually falling in love with this other dude, Frank Vaughn. Amy eventually decides that she never loved Frank, a weird idea because Frank and Amy had been a concept all the way back in the first half of the first book, when Frank visited Laurie during one of my favorite chapters, “Camp Laurence.” Is Alcott seriously trying to convince the reader that this was her plan all along, that Amy and Frank being in love since the beginning of the first book was all a ploy to hide a much larger love story, one that only begins as the second book comes to an end? That’s not a good idea. I mean, there’s just nothing more to say then that’s not a good idea.
Wow. I ended up moving almost entirely into the love triangle portion. Whatever. My last thing for Amy as a character is that I loved Florence Pugh’s interpretation of her. I know, weird—I just made a half-page case on why Amy sucks, and now I’m saying that there’s a version of her that I actually like. The way Gerwig and Pugh crafted Amy made her a modern feminist, focusing on and expanding the idea that Amy only subscribed into the society-driven bratty mindset she had (while very much toning down the brattiness) was because she is a woman from a working-class family with no mem and wants to make sure her parents are able to grow old comfortably. In this version, Amy sees all of her sisters grow up with no intention of having any money at all and keeps her head on straight, focusing on keeping the entire family sustained. Florence Pugh created a strong, smart Amy that, had I not already been so biased, might have made me like Amy the best out of the four sisters.
Okay. I’m going to try as best I can to talk about Laurie without caving to ranting about his ending too much.
Laurie was a great character. Not the best character in history but a great one nonetheless. He was silly and childish for a long time, a realistic thing for his character and, to be honest, rarely annoying, and he eventually grew up. His arc is one of the most stressed and dramatic because of how juvenile he started out. I don’t think Laurie is a revolutionary character—I loved reading him and loved getting to see him grow up, but the actual writing of his was nothing extraordinary. Gerwig’s interpretation of him was a little too immature for me: it literally made my sister hate Laurie, something that made me sad because I love him. Timothée Chalamet is a great actor, don’t get me wrong, but I would have liked to see a kinder, more grown up version of him. Too often it felt like they were taking out his wisest moments and expanding on the mean ones. What’s also hard about dissecting him is because his ending is nothing like his character or storyline, so there’s this random huge jump that makes it near impossible to get a clear look on him.
But I’m not going to talk about his ending. I swear I’m not.
You know what? Let’s just move onto Bhaer. You’ll hear plenty about Laurie in the romance and ships section.
Bhaer was so aggravating. First of all, he’s this old German dude who fell in love with an early-twenties American girl. And second, he’s on a horse almost as high as Marmee’s. Seriously, though—he tells Jo that her writing is immoral and unladylike but tells her in this backhanded, manipulative way that isn’t outright saying he doesn’t want her to write this stuff, just giving enough of an impression that he doesn’t approve to get her to stop. Can you say misogynistic control freak? Also only kind of related: straight up just reading his dialogue was annoying because his thick German accent made the words weird: “Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master’s face? Haf you no respect…” and that’s a pretty chill one. Most of the time he’s all “efening” instead of “evening.” Gerwig’s version (a really attractive young French guy portrayed by Louis Garrel) made me kind of like him, especially because he wasn’t out of the blue (she did this really cool back and forth time thingy—I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m really up with film slang—and Professor Bhaer was in the first scene). Overall, Bhaer bugs me. A lot. Only a really cruel person would stand in the way of Jaurie (aka Lo).
FINALLY THE SHIPS SECTION.
We’ll start with a boring, two-second-talk ship: Meg and Mr. Brooke. Brooke was annoying because he expected Meg to be a perfect, smiling 1950s wife (only with less rights, of course, because this was almost a hundred years earlier). Meg is allowed to be that person, if that’s what she wants, and that is what she wants, mostly, but the second she strays from the path, Mr. Brooke got excessively angry and never, not ever, thought he was at fault. That, of course, was taken out in Gerwig’s adaption (even more props to her). I shipped them only a little before they were married and not really at all when they were actually married.
MOVING ON TO THE GREATEST AND WORST LOVE TRIANGLE OF ALL TIME EVER.
Why did Alcott go crazy and make Amy and Laurie endgame? It makes absolutely no sense! I won’t give the argument as to why they make no sense right now because you can literally scroll up and read it there, but it’s true. I’m right, she’s wrong; we all know it.
Jaurie/Lo makes sense. They were the OG relationship, and Jo said that he was “only a brother to her” (in quotations not because it’s a quote but because it’s nonsense—read in air quotes, if you will). That’s stupid, though, and she made it up. Jo and Laurie are perfect together. If you read the dance scene and the Camp Laurence chapter, they’re in love. They’re in love and there’s no denying it. The only reason Jo does deny it is because her mom tells her to. I know I’ve already mentioned this a million times, but just once more for all those deaf people in the back: Jo’s only reasons for rejecting Laurie’s marriage proposal were just rewordings of exactly what her mom said. When Jo first realized Laurie was in love with her, it described her expression as one with “pleasure” and “pride,” color rising in her cheeks as she told her mom. Can you say in denial? I’m convinced that the only reason Jo and Laurie don’t get married is because Alcott was a mean, spiteful person. “Why,” you must be wondering, “would Alcott be spiteful? Is this for real? Did Lulu just go crazy?” And my answers to those questions would be: getting there, yes, maybe kind of. Just bear with me.
Let’s have a little history lesson, shall we? When Little Women was first release, it was an immediate success. Alcott got hundreds of letters asking what happens to the little women in the book, particularly Jo, as she is our protagonist. While many people were curious about Jo’s book and if she ever becomes a famous writer, a great many more were curious about whether Jo and Laurie got married. Alcott decided that no one understood the book and that the sequel will have no such relationship.
Oh my god, Alcott, get over yourself.
I get that the point of the book isn’t marriage or settling down or conforming to society. I understand that a woman isn’t measured by her husband. I just ship them because they’re in love, kay? Is that okay, Alcott? To have an opinion about your book? To care about what happens with your characters? Am I allowed to do that?
What’s also upsetting is that Alcott caved to society, anyway, and married Jo off. Either let her live out her days as a thriving single Pringle or marry her to the love of her life. I understand and support the idea that Jo doesn’t marry the rich boy, but I don’t understand or support the idea that Jo doesn’t marry the man she loves. It’s not fair to hold his wealth against him and against their relationship.
Her fans allowed her to have a second book: instead of going off course because you have too much fan mail, why can’t you throw us a bone and make the best ship in the whole book a real thing?
I’m just now realizing that it sounds like I hate this book. I loved this book! It’s just that all of my reasons for loving it aren’t so original (yes, I know that a lot of my problems aren’t original either). I’m also still salty about the ending, so it’s really hard for me to praise it.
If you made it this far, I’m shocked, so thanks. This is an absurdly long review that I don’t plan on cutting down one bit. I understand that It might be a little hypocritical to attack Alcott for not giving the readers what they wanted because this isn’t the promised Folk of the Air review, but don’t worry! It’s already kind of in the works and will hopefully be my next post up! Thanks for hanging in there. Keep reading, readers.