Little Women (1994) is one of those films I will never grow out of—from the first time I watched it until my rewatch for this article, I’ll always cherish the stubborn sharpness of Winona Ryder’s Jo, the awkward eagerness of Trini Alvarado’s Meg, the sweetness of Claire Danes’s Beth, and the duality of a tempestuous Kirsten Dunst as young Amy, the refined strength of her elder self by Samantha Mathis. Even Susan Sarnadon’s perfect Marmie; there’s no other word for her performance. 

My unconditional love for the 1994 version, in its 30th anniversary this year, makes me resist adaptations like Greta Gerwig’s, which others might have suggested is a superior visual version of Louisa May Alcott’s novel. I appreciate Gerwig’s nonlinear approach to the story, as well her own astute Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy, and the equally wondrous performances for each character—Saoirse Ronan, Emma Watson, Eliza Scanlen, and Florence Pugh. And of course, there are the Lauries to compare—the yearning of Christian Bale or the spritely Timothee Chalamet? 

But I can’t quite slip as easily into the joy and comfort of the 2019 version as I can the 1994 one by Gillian Armstrong. I don’t create this binary to suggest these two adaptations for Little Women are the only ones that exist; yet in my mind, they are the only two that matter, the one I loved as a child and the one I love as an adult. But why I tend to prefer the 1994 version more—besides the typical childish attachment I have to films I enjoyed as a kid—is because it’s a holiday movie. 

Little Women (2019) shuffles through a holiday spirit, but it’s really Jo’s story: starting in Boston, returning back in time to Orchard House, and publishing throughout. In fact, in some ways, this disjointed timeline between the past and present, with an overarching focus on Jo’s novel about her life, is stronger than the 1994 version. Yet in the older film, much as it is eventually central to Jo’s story, so too does the enchanting landscape and the cozy fireside gatherings—rich in auburns, crimsons, and emeralds—make the entire film feel like a holiday celebration, rather than exclusively the Christmas parts of the storyline. 

In Orchard House, the girls play make-believe and hold each other close to the chorus of Thomas Newton’s holiday-sounding score. The main theme, named after the March sisters’ house, swells like any holy Christmas hymn, with a tentative yet firm wind instrumental solo yielding to the triumphant, orchestral symphony of the chorus. Think the playfulness of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker and the festive nostalgia of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio.

I linger, as well, in the bright, cold mornings of Concord and Boston, slide into the cozy chairs in the living room of Orchard House, and sing along as the girls carol…Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green; and here we come a-wand’ring so fair to be seen. Then the falsetto—Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too…

As they sing, the carriage from the Lawrence home carries a slight-smiling Laurie away to church. Jo, carrying a steaming kettle and food for the neighboring poorer family, raises the silver kettle to Laurie, snow blanketing the converging road that snakes from one family’s property to the other. 

“Oh, wonderful snow!” Jo chimes out mischievously. “Don’t you wish you could roll about in it like dogs?”

It’s a Christmas celebration charge led by Jo, who hoists the kettle before her like a flag, adopting a gruff voice as she opens the song amid critiques from a nervous Meg that the girls appear unladylike. Yet unladylike ladies they are; I always feel the urge to chime in.

Retrospective Courtesy of Arleigh Rodgers

Image Courtesy of Columbia Pictures