The Ugly Stepsister and sinister societal expectations of beauty

The story of Cinderella is a beloved fairy tale for many, though this new film twists its focus and examines the pursuit of beauty at any cost.

Centred on Cinderella’s much vilified sister, Emilie Blichfeldt directorial debut The Ugly Stepsister (Den stygge stesøsteren) takes a hammer to the classic fairytale story and reworks it into a bloody body horror.

Whilst there has been a recent surge in the retelling of beloved childhood stories within the horror genre, The Ugly Stepsister stands out as a deliciously deviant film when compared with projects like Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey or The Mouse Trap. Thankfully, the film’s connection to ill-conceived public domain horrors ends there and The Ugly Stepsister is instead a bloody and thrilling morality tale concerning self-worth. Set in medieval Germany, the film follows Elvira, played by Lea Myren, as her ruthless and cynical mother Rebekka, played by Ane Dahl Torp, remarries a widower. However, celebrations are cut short when the groom fatally gorges himself on cake at the wedding party. Believing her new husband to be rich, Rebekka instead finds that she has been left penniless and has only acquired the effortlessly beautiful Agnes, played by Thea Sofie Loch Naess, as her stepdaughter. In a bid to find the wealth she so desperately wants, Rebekka subjects Elvira to a series of brutal cosmetic treatments in the hope that she will catch the eye of Prince Julian, played by Isac Calmroth, at his forthcoming ball.

Despite its period setting, Blichfeldt’s spin on the concept that pain is beauty feels particularly apt in the modern landscape. The twisted fairy tale explores how patriarchal society pits women against each other and forces them to measure their self-worth by how beautiful others perceive them to be. Blichtfeldt upends the viewer’s expectation of the Cinderella story from the opening credits of the film, which establishes a nightmarish atmosphere as the camera slowly pans across an abandoned wedding feast. The food is gooey and gluttonous, as pink cursive text contrasts with the rotting state and sets the tone for the film’s captivating visuals. Cinematographer Marcel Zyskind creates images which oscillate between grotesque and magical, with a particular standout moment being when maggots infesting a dead body move from the corpse to weave a ripped dress back together. It is this contrast of beauty with death which Blichfeldt effectively uses to force the audience into confronting the physical agony of aesthetic conformity. The horror is only bolstered by frequent revolting close-ups which portray the increasing pressure of society’s demand for beauty.

Myren imbues her performance as Elvira with earnestness and childlike innocence, which becomes a strong contrast against the self-assured and confident Agnes. It is revealed in vivid daydreams how Elvira imagines Prince Julian carrying her into a happily-ever-after. However, Elvira appears identical to Agnes in these visions as she has flawless skin, luscious blonde hair, and dons an elegant pale blue gown. Her lack of self-worth becomes immediately apparent and in darkly comedic moments, Blichfeldt subverts expectations about which character is truly the conceited stepsister. Scenes of physical abuse, self-mutilation, and sexual impropriety are contrasted strongly with the idealistic but magical daydreams in Elvira’s imagination and messages about the quest for inner beauty. As the pressure of beauty standards becomes more intense around Elvira, her blood, pain, and tears are all spilt. Myren shows how her character clings even more tightly to her fantasies as she believes that obedience and submission are the only way to achieve true love. It is here where Blichfeldt effectively contrasts the freshness of youth with decay and critiques a world where beauty is used as a currency for successful societal integration. Romance is merely an illusion, with lavish ballgowns and banquet tables disintegrating into blood and bile. The film interweaves these classic elements of the Cinderella story with biting satire and gory folk horror. It is with this gnarly aesthetic that the critique becomes effective, particularly when used as a tool to ruin the gleam of princes and romantic heroines to show the original story’s root in patriarchal and sexual imagery.

Much like Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance, The Ugly Stepsister uses body horror to critique impossible beauty standards and patriarchal expectations of obedience. The sub-genre is becoming increasingly used to ask why society has always been overly obsessed with the outer beauty of women and will likely continue to gain prevalence in the film landscape. But just why is body horror so effective for conveying these critiques? Well, it is a medium where visceral metaphors revolving around the relentless and unforgiving dissection of appearance have no bounds. Imagery can be taken to the extreme to demonstrate the heavy pressure placed on women to alter themselves. Whilst The Ugly Stepsister takes place in a period setting, its illustration of the painful and psychologically destructing lengths Elvira undertakes to become more beautiful fits strikingly within the modern landscape. Producing films which centre on extremity and gore can be used by directors like Fargeat and Blichfeldt to reclaim narratives about women’s bodies, though of course there are some body horrors which perpetuate misogyny and should be critiqued for their depiction of women. When used effectively, body horror can be used to show the gruesome transformations which women go through. As such, the sub-genre becomes a dark, bloody reflection of a society which is obsessed with its own vanity.

Put simply, The Ugly Stepsister is the grim realisation of a young woman who knows she will never be beautiful enough. Body dysmorphia is pushed to a bloody breaking point and yet the film is ultimately also a story about rebellion and defiant joy in the face of impossible beauty standards. Though there are some gross scenes which will see viewers watching through their fingers, the brutality serves to show that self-worth is not defined by what appears in the mirror.