Red Riding Hood – 1 Bucket

If there is a way to describe Red Riding Hood in a sentence, it’s that the film is the FX-ed up version of a high school play, from the wooden performances to the pseudo-creative move of murdering… ahem… freshening up the age-old fairy-tale. This is an unfortunate surprise coming from Catherine Hardwicke, who made a vastly underrated first Twilight film by fusing a campy sense of humor with the giddy romanticism of a teenage girl, appealing to both core and general audiences without alienating either one. Red Riding Hood, on the other hand, only attempts to exude the giddy romanticism, but it would be a stretch to claim that even teenage girls will enjoy it, for it has all the energy of an intoxicated sloth. The rich pubescent soap-opera of Twilight is here replaced by intermittent metaphorical shots that come from our hooded heroine’s mind as she longs for her true love, and they lack any feeling whatsoever. Alas, the viewer is left to pay attention to the external plot, which is even less interesting.

Needless to say, this adaptation of the tale doesn’t feature any carefree skipping through the woods to Grandmother’s house (although there is some fast-motion treading). In Hardwicke and screenwriter David Johnson’s version, there is peril from the get-go. In the first few scenes, protagonist Valerie’s (Amanda Seyfried) sister is murdered by “the wolf,” a beast who has ravaged their Medieval forest town for years and years. A troupe of men head out to defeat the monstrosity. Among them is Henry (Max Irons), Valerie’s soon-to-be-husband, who she has been arranged to marry in lieu of her true love, the poor woodcutter Peter (Shiloh Fernandez). After a skirmish that results in the death of Henry’s dad, they bring back what they believe to be the head of the wolf. Hooray, right? If only Red Riding Hood had ended there, not half an hour in.

Fast on the scene to break the news that they have merely killed a wolf of the mortal variety is the werewolf-hunting Father Solomon (Gary Oldman). He informs them that their wolf is actually that super-trendy mythical creature–a human who shifts forms (you know, like Taylor Lautner)–and during the upcoming “blood moon,” s/he will take souls for the cause. Shortly thereafter, the wolf rears its head and speaks to Valerie, telling her that it will spare her village if she comes away with it. But such an exciting development would be out of place in this movie; instead, the wolf quickly disappears and the plot turns into a whodunnit that’s even less profound than the board-game “Clue”. Clearly someone in the village is the wolf. Is it Peter or Henry, both of whom hunger for Valerie’s love? Is it Valerie’s alcoholic father (Billy Burke)? Or perhaps it’s her recluse of a grandmother (Julie Christie), who, by the way, is the one who randomly gives her the crimson cape that allows the film to qualify as a rendition of “Red Riding Hood” at all.

The truth is, no matter who the wolf is, very few in the audience will care. Johnson’s screenplay is far more about arousing cheap suspicion over the fanged culprit than actually developing the characters in a way that would make the proceedings truly mysterious. What the viewer gets, as several other critics have eagerly pointed out, is an hilarious scene in which a character is accused of smelling like a wolf, and another in which one’s shadow looks like that of a wolf. Oh, and also a scene of Valerie’s retarded brother being tortured inside of a giant metal elephant, if you’re into that kind of thing. Elephant included, the story is a real snooze, and Hardwicke’s frantic approach, which begins with vertigo-inducing overhead shots of the forest and then later experiments with just about every kind of stylistic overkill that could possibly fit the material, only works to make it an irritating snooze.

If there is one element of the equation that is more disappointing than Hardwicke’s directorial deficiency, it’s Amanda Seyfried’s one-dimensional performance. Seyfried has appeared in far more bad movies than good ones–from the throwuppy film adaptation of Mamma Mia! to Diablo Cody’s failed foray into horror-comedy, Jennifer’s Body, to the Nicolas Sparks eye-roller Dear John–but she has nonetheless always maintained a likable, promising screen presence. That’s not the case here; she barely registers at all, failing to add anything to the anemically written character-template. For the entire running time, Seyfried is just there, standing around and uttering the minimal dialogue required for the plot to progress from Point A to Point B, with little emotion. Then again, perhaps it’s better that way, for it allows the critic to universally dismiss Red Riding Hood and not be tortured by one small bit of brilliance that makes the rest worth enduring. There is no reason whatsoever to watch this stinker.

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Red Riding Hood (2011, USA). Produced by Leonardo DiCaprio, Catherine Hardwicke, Michael Ireland, Jennifer Davisson Killoran, Alex Mace, Jim Rowe, and Julie Yorn. Directed by Catherine Hardwicke. Written for the screen by David Johnson. Starring Amanda Seyfried, Gary Oldman, Billy Burke, Shiloh Fernandez, Max Irons, Virginia Madsen, Lukas Haas, and Julie Christie. Distributed by Warner Bros. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 100 minutes.