SNOW WHITE Review

It’s hard to walk into a remake of Snow White without a certain wariness. This is, after all, one of the most iconic fairy tales ever committed to screen—and one that carries a legacy steeped in both timeless magic and outdated messaging. So when Disney announced a new live-action adaptation set for 2025, directed by Marc Webb (The Amazing Spider-Man, 500 Days of Summer), the usual chorus of scepticism erupted: Was it necessary? Could it possibly justify its own existence? Would it fall prey to the soulless, hyper-polished safety of the studio’s recent reimaginings?

And yet, against the odds, Snow White (2025) manages to be something more than a corporate box-tick. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but it does reframe it—taking the familiar elements of the original story and giving them just enough texture, bite, and emotional weight to feel newly resonant. This is a film steeped in its own legend, yes, but it isn’t afraid to carve out space for nuance, melancholy, and a more modern kind of strength.

The first thing that strikes you is the film’s visual design. There’s a tactile beauty to the world of Snow White that recalls the lavish storybook feel of classic cinema, albeit with a sharper, moodier palette. The castle, all stone shadows and austere grandeur, feels like a place rotting from the inside out. The forest, by contrast, is a living, breathing character—wild, luminous, and strangely comforting. The production design is lush without being overstated, and it’s clear that real thought has gone into the world-building. This isn’t just a backdrop for spectacle; it’s a space in which the characters’ emotional lives are allowed to unfold.

Snow White herself, played by Rachel Zegler, is a far cry from the passive dreamer of the 1937 version. Here, she’s sharp, observant, and quietly rebellious. Her early scenes—scrubbing floors under the suspicious eye of the Queen’s attendants, slipping scraps of food to the servants—establish her not only as sympathetic, but as someone already pushing against the system in subtle ways. When she frees Jonathan, the bandit leader, it’s not a damsel-in-distress moment; it’s a moral choice, made in full knowledge of the risk.

The relationship between Snow White and Jonathan, played by Andrew Burnap, is handled with refreshing restraint. It never hijacks the narrative, nor does it fall into saccharine territory. There’s genuine chemistry between the two leads, but more importantly, there’s a shared sense of purpose. They’re both survivors of a corrupt regime, and their bond feels like it grows from mutual respect rather than instant infatuation. That said, the script never quite figures out what to do with Jonathan in the final act, and his capture and return feel a touch convenient.

As for the Evil Queen—well, if you’re going to centre your remake around a classic villain, you’d better bring your A-game. Thankfully, the film does. Gal Gadot plays her with a deliciously malevolent presence, but there’s something deeper at play here. Her vanity is still her defining trait, but it’s laced with a kind of sadness—a desperate, hollow hunger for control in a world that has always measured her worth by her beauty. The dynamic between her and the Magic Mirror is brilliantly reimagined: not just an affirmation of her looks, but a symbolic echo chamber for her darkest fears. When the Mirror finally tells her that Snow White is “fairer,” the betrayal cuts deeper than any sword.

One of the film’s bolder moves is its portrayal of the seven dwarfs—or rather, the seven “magical beings.” While purists might bristle at the rebranding, the result is surprisingly effective. Each character feels distinct, and while the names remain the same, their personalities have been fleshed out with care. They’re not comic relief or background dressing; they’re integral to Snow White’s journey. Their camaraderie with her feels earned, and their decision to stand by her in the final confrontation is genuinely moving.

The pacing, admittedly, is uneven. The first hour builds with a slow, deliberate elegance, but the latter half occasionally lurches into exposition-heavy territory. The Queen’s plot with the poisoned apple is well executed, but her sudden confession about killing the king feels a touch melodramatic—a bit too neat, too timed-for-impact. Still, it’s a testament to the performances that these bumps rarely pull you out of the story. Snow White’s collapse into the Sleeping Death is genuinely harrowing, and Jonathan’s kiss feels less like a magical loophole and more like a gut-wrenching act of grief.

The climax is where the film finally lets loose. The battle between Snow White’s allies and the Queen’s forces doesn’t rely on endless CGI clutter. Instead, it leans into the emotional stakes: the dwarfs defending their friend, the townspeople rising up, the guards turning against tyranny. Snow White’s confrontation with her stepmother avoids the clichéd path of vengeance. Her refusal to kill the Queen with the diamond dagger is a poignant subversion—a choice rooted not in weakness, but in conviction. That moment, more than any other, defines who this Snow White is.

The ending, too, is surprisingly tender. The Queen’s demise, absorbed into her own Mirror, is both metaphorical and satisfying. Her obsession consumes her, quite literally, while the Mirror’s quiet reassembly signals the restoration of order. Snow White’s coronation is suitably grand, but it’s the small gestures that linger—a shared glance, a moment of silence, the sense that this kingdom might just heal.

Is Snow White (2025) perfect? No. It plays things a bit too safe in places, and you can feel the studio hand smoothing off its rougher edges. But it’s sincere, visually striking, and emotionally intelligent in a way that few Disney remakes manage to be. It trusts its audience enough to dwell in sadness, to explore power, and to believe that kindness—true, defiant kindness—is its own kind of magic.

More than anything, it understands the original story not as a relic to be embalmed, but as a living myth worth retelling. And in that, it finds its own voice—quiet, clear, and utterly enchanting.