by Tim Gordon
Forget everything you thought you knew about Cinderella. With The Ugly Stepsister, Norwegian filmmaker Emilie Blichfeldt, in a staggering directorial debut, delivers a searing, genre-bending retelling that trades glass slippers and fairy godmothers for tapeworms, rotting corpses, and the disfiguring obsession with beauty. A twisted, blood-soaked satire of vanity, class, and womanhood, this is the kind of film that leaves you disturbed, impressed, and strangely moved.
The story centers on Elvira (a transformative performance by Lea Myren), a young woman living under the tyrannical gaze of her mother Rebekka (played with icy precision by Ane Dahl Torp). When Rebekka marries the seemingly wealthy widower Otto, she dreams of elevating her family’s social status through proximity to wealth and aristocracy. But Otto’s sudden death reveals only rot, both literal and figurative, leaving Rebekka clinging to one last hope: marrying off Elvira to the insipid, virginal Prince Julian.
The problem? Elvira is not conventionally beautiful. And in a world ruled by aesthetics and status, that’s a death sentence. What follows is a harrowing descent as Rebekka subjects her daughter to a series of grotesque, primitive cosmetic interventions, including dietary torture, worm ingestion, and degrading lessons in etiquette, all in the name of transformation.
Meanwhile, Agnes (the stepsister and our inverted Cinderella figure) is no picture of kindness or virtue. Cold, elitist, and unapologetically cruel, she plays the traditional heroine in appearance only. When Elvira betrays her after discovering an illicit tryst with a stablehand, the script flips completely. Agnes is demoted to servant, now called “Cinderella,” while Elvira, emaciated and patchy-haired, is forced toward the royal ball.
What’s remarkable about The Ugly Stepsister is how deftly it shifts between horror, satire, and tragedy. Blichfeldt’s direction is bold and unflinching, using fairytale iconography as a canvas to explore the brutal cost of beauty and the destructive ways women are conditioned to see each other as threats. The body horror elements aren’t just shocking for shock’s sake; they serve as grotesque metaphors for self-sacrifice, societal rot, and maternal cruelty disguised as love.
Lea Myren is unforgettable in the lead role. Her Elvira is pitiable and frightening, fragile yet desperate, caught in a psychological tug-of-war between her desire for love and her growing resentment of a world that rewards only the beautiful. You watch her deteriorate physically and morally, and still can’t look away. It’s a performance that walks a high wire and never missteps.
Visually, the film is a stunner. It’s lush when it needs to be, grim when it should be, and always striking. The costume design, makeup effects, and production design all work together to ground the story in a reality that feels fairytale-adjacent but never fantastical. It’s a world of illusion built on decay, where beauty masks horror and dreams curdle into nightmares.
Despite its gruesome imagery, The Ugly Stepsister maintains a razor-sharp wit. The dialogue is laced with dark humor, and Blichfeldt isn’t afraid to poke fun at both traditional fairytale tropes and modern beauty standards. That balance between horror and satire, violence and vulnerability, is what makes the film such a standout.
And while this might not be a film for every viewer, particularly those averse to body horror or bleak comedy, it’s undeniably one of the boldest, most original titles at Sundance this year. Even for someone not typically drawn to this genre, it’s hard to deny the film’s potency. The Ugly Stepsister doesn’t just reimagine a fairytale; it guts it and wears its skin.
Grade: B+
