The following also applies to Anne of Green Gables

You’d think that out of my many guilty pleasures (ABC family original movies, ABBA, Molca Salsa, the X-Files, etc.), my fondness for Little Women would be the easiest to admit to. The novel is considered a literary classic of sorts, and reading is much better for the intellect than spending hours on the couch watching Mulder and Scully getting chased by vampires. Yet I would much rather walk around wearing an “I Want to Believe” T-Shirt than admit to how many times I have read and/or watched Beth die, Jo break Laurie’s heart, Amy complain about that freaking nose of hers, etc. I think this is because, unlike my other guilty pleasures, which I thoroughly enjoy and would indulge in on a regular basis were they not humiliating and/or bad for me, I kind of hate Little Women.

I hate prissy Meg and the fact that she pretty much has no personality beyond her desire to be rich. I hate spineless Beth and really wish she would have just met her maker during that first bout of scarlet fever instead of hanging around all uselessly. I hate Marmee and her nauseating moralistic speeches (the fact that they call her “Marmee” instead of “Mother” or something equally normal is really just annoying in and of itself). I hate Jo because you can tell she is Louisa May Alcott’s shameless idealization of herself, and because she pretty much makes the worst judgment call of all time by refusing Laurie and marrying that loony old German instead. Amy is tolerable as a young girl, but gets to be a drag when she grows up and joins the other March sisters in their quest for sainthood. Laurie would be a great character had homeboy not been so attached to the Marches and gone off to party in Europe instead. I could go on and on but I think I will spare you my opinion of the March’s “poverty” (they have a maid for Pete’s sake!) and condescending treatment of the poor Hummels. ‘Cause I think you all get the idea.

So why would I, with all the books and films out there, spend my time absorbed in a story that annoys me to no end? I really couldn’t tell you. I think a part of me (the cynical part that could pretty much critique anything if it sat still long enough) likes being annoyed- likes to feel that familiar blend of irritation and nausea as Alcott describes yet another touching discourse between Marmee and the girls as they resolve, for the gazillionth time, to give up all their sinful ways so their dad can be proud of them when he comes home from fighting the racists down South. I love to roll my eyes and point out the passages that are so contrived and cheesy they make the English major in me cringe. But there is also a part of me that genuinely enjoys the story- not the melodramatic highlights included in every film adaptation- but the non-sequitor chapters that get skimmed over- like the one about Laurie’s boating party, the one that describes Amy’s various botched artistic attempts, and especially the one where Meg makes a buttload of jam that won’t thicken and pretty much has a conniption about it. The preachy “And Everyone Learned Their Lesson” tone present in the rest of the book is absent from these chapters, and they end up being lovely descriptions of wholesome, simpler times: the literary equivalent of comfort food.

My relationship with the movie is pretty similar. I love watching the 1994 version because it is a veritable gold mine of mockable qualities: Beth, as played by Claire Danes, appears to be not only shy and sickly but also borderline retarded, Susan Sarandon’s Marmee takes her character completely out of context by continually spouting random feminist rhetoric, and the actress that plays the older version of Amy is downright awkward in her primness. Despite these flaws, which keep the critic in me satisfied, I do find myself enjoying the film every time I watch it. Mostly because it is just so dang pretty. The March’s house is gorgeous whether it’s covered in snow or surrounded by spring flowers, the party scenes are detailed visions of 19th century splendor, and Christian Bale as Laurie doesn’t hurt matters, either. He and Winona Ryder’s Jo seem so perfect for each other (probably because Winona Ryder succeeds in the nearly impossible task of portraying Jo as a somewhat appealing human being), that every time I watch the proposal scene I find myself hoping that this time will be different, that this time Jo will come to her senses and accept Laurie’s beautifully worded offer instead of settling for creepy Professor Baehr.

So if you ever find me either curled up in an armchair, completely engrossed in a novel that most people outgrew at adolescence, or sitting in front of the TV admiring the beauty of 1860s Massachusetts and wondering where I can find a recipe for Christmas cake decorated with fresh holly fronds, please don’t judge. And don’t be surprised if I am shamelessly mocking Beth’s death scene.