'Snow White and the Huntsman': The Visuals Dazzle, the Performances Don't

The debut feature of director Rupert Sanders displays an eye for the spectacular.

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Universal Pictures

Bella Venezia from Italy. Nourie Hadag from Armenia. Gold-tree from Scotland. These and other variations on the story of Snow White (Aarne-Thompson folklore classification No. 709, for those keeping score at home) have been told countless times and in countless forms: plays, novels, TV shows, comic books, Japanese anime. Snow White has spawned more than one horror movie and, inevitably, adult films both animated and live-action. But forget those for now, and forget, too, Tarsem Singh's ill-conceived Mirror, Mirror from earlier this year.

The Grimms' old fable may form the backbone for Snow White and the Huntsman, the feature-film debut of director Rupert Sanders, but he's aiming for something larger, and more epic: for Middle Earth, for Narnia, for Westeros. And while Sanders does not quite hit his bullseye, he's not terribly far off. If you, like me, were disheartened when Guillermo del Toro detached himself from directing The Hobbit, you may find some measure of consolation here. Sanders does not (yet) share del Toro's gifts, but he, too, has an eye for the beautiful and the grotesque, and for that entrancing borderline where the two meet: a verdant glade where the mushrooms have eyes; an Ent-like beast resembling four tons of predatory landscape; a villain who, when struck, bursts into a murder (has the term ever seemed more apt?) of crows.

The rudiments of the story are all in place: A king and queen have a beloved and beautiful daughter named Snow White (Kristen Stewart) and while she is still a girl, the queen dies. The filmmakers have turned the dials up to 11, however, when it comes to the wicked stepmother, Ravenna (Charlize Theron), who takes the queen's place. We first encounter Ravenna launching an attack on the kingdom with a small band of obsidian warriors; when her forces are defeated, she poses as their helpless, brutalized captive. The king, moved by pity and something stronger than pity, quickly brings her into his castle and into his bed. There, alas, his coitus is promptly interruptussed by the dagger she plants in his chest. Ravenna opens the city gates, brings in her genuine army, and begins her dark reign.

It's a trick, we learn, she has performed many times before. Ravenna's great beauty is timeless, or at least subject to regular refurbishment. This she accomplishes in part by bathing in a thick, milky liquid (shades of the Hungarian Countess Erzsébet Báthory's reputed baths in virgins' blood). And, as any serious beauty regimen requires more than a single component, she also has a habit of sucking the youth, Dementor-like, out of the odd pretty girl now and then. One such prematurely wizened lass winds up in a castle cell across the hall from our heroine: Snow White, face to face with a living portrait of Dorian Gray.

Snow White escapes the castle by way of the sewers, like Andy Dufresne flushing himself out of Shawshank State Prison. One conveniently located pale white horse later (there were some audience titters over this), she finds herself in The Dark Forest, which is just as unappealing as you might suppose from the name: animated trees, toxic vapors, beetle hordes, bats and things worse than bats. The queen's men fear the forest themselves, so the queen hires a hunter familiar with the woods (Chris Hemsworth) to find Snow White and to bring her back. He accomplishes the former, but has second thoughts about the latter.

Sanders has an eye for the beautiful and the grotesque, and for that entrancing borderline where the two meet.

And so it spins outward, with Snow White and her Huntsman fleeing, trailed by soldiers led by Ravenna's doting brother (and, yes, there's more than a whiff of Cersei and Jaime Lannister to the relationship between the blond royal siblings). One by one, the familiar trappings are rolled out: the magic mirror, the dreamless slumber that begins with an apple and ends with a kiss, and, of course, the dwarves. Lest you recoil at this last thought, let me assure you that, against all probability, the dwarves are among the best elements of the film. Surely comparable talent has never been assembled in seven packages so small, however much they may be reduced by digital wizardry: Ian McShane, Ray Winstone, Toby Jones, Nick Frost, Eddie Marsan, and Bob Hoskins (in one of his best roles in decades). And if that last dwarf, Gus, bears a nagging resemblance to Brendan Gleeson, that would be because he's played by the great Dubliner's son, Brian.

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Christopher Orr is a senior editor and the principal film critic at The Atlantic. He has written on movies for The New Republic, LA Weekly, Salon, and The New York Sun, and has worked as an editor for numerous publications.

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