Belle (2023) – Review

Somewhere in Iceland, someone looked at Beauty and the Beast and thought, “What if we removed the comfort, the romance, and most of the sanity?” That someone was director Max Gold, and the result is a 2023 adaptation that feels less like a fairy tale and more like a bleak folktale whispered to keep you from trusting anyone, ever. It’s cold, it’s grim, and it has the emotional warmth of a snowdrift that actively resents your existence.

The story drops us into a windswept, joyless corner of the world where Belle (Berta Andrea Snædal) exists less as a person and more as a bargaining chip in a society that treats women like livestock with better posture. When her father (Gudmundur Thorvaldsson) falls gravely ill, she seeks out the Beast (Ingi Hrafn Hilmarsson), a reclusive figure cursed to guard a rose that grants immortality as punishment for his adulterous past. He allows her to use its power to save her father, but only temporarily, unless she agrees to remain his prisoner for all eternity. Because nothing says “fairy tale romance” like a magical ultimatum with no exit clause.

Does that place even have indoor plumbing?

The Beast’s domain is less enchanted castle and more “cave of despair.” Inside, Belle attempts to navigate a life where her captor, who appears mostly human, will unpredictably slip into murderous, feral, cannibalistic outbursts, just to keep things interesting. Rather than immediately running for her life, Belle decides to conduct what can only be described as a series of deeply questionable experiments to figure out what triggers these episodes. There are no singing teapots here, just tension thick enough to choke on and a growing sense that this arrangement is not going to end with a heartfelt dance number.

“This may sting a bit.”

As their dynamic evolves, if that’s even the right word for it, the film leans hard into psychological horror. Belle begins to see the cracks, not just in the Beast, but in the entire system that put her there. Meanwhile, the Beast’s violent tendencies escalate in ways that make you question whether redemption is even on the table or if this is just a slow march toward tragedy. By the time the story reaches its final stretch, any illusion of a traditional fairy tale has been thoroughly dismantled and tossed into the nearest freezing abyss.

Do we at least get a happy ending…kind of?

Stray Observations:

• The Beast’s whole curse exists because he couldn’t keep his eyes to himself, which really suggests that before committing, you should probably confirm your partner isn’t capable of supernatural revenge.
• Nobody in this village seems particularly concerned about the missing people problem. Just a casual local quirk, apparently.
• A blind woman stands outside the Beast’s cave holding a torch, her feet literally rooted to the ground like some kind of human houseplant, and Belle’s response is to grab the torch and head inside. Survival instincts are clearly optional in this universe.
• Belle spends a good chunk of time wandering alone in a place she knows is dangerous, like she’s testing the Beast’s patience on purpose.
• The Beast’s whole “I might eat you, I might brood” routine is somehow not an immediate dealbreaker in this universe.
• The film’s idea of hope is basically “things could be worse,” which is not exactly inspiring.
• While we have the classic “Will they, won’t they” love element, it’s superseded by the “Will he eat the neighbours” plot point.

“And this is why we aren’t invited anywhere.”

Max Gold’s direction strips the fairy tale down to its bones and then asks why those bones were ever dressed up in the first place. His version digs into the historical reality behind stories like this, where young women were routinely forced into marriages with men they neither loved nor desired, all in the name of stability and survival. There’s no sugar-coating here. Belle isn’t waiting for romance to bloom; she’s enduring a situation she never chose, and the film makes sure you feel that lack of agency at every turn. Her frustration simmers constantly. She wants autonomy and something resembling control over her own life, but she’s trapped in a system that denies her even the basic right to exist on her own terms.

This Belle dreams of living in a poor provincial town.

This version of the Beast is less cursed prince and more walking nightmare. A cannibal by nature, or by curse, or by some conveniently unexplained combination of both, he kills without clear motive and consumes his victims like it’s just another day at the office. Gold wisely avoids tidy explanations, which makes the character more unsettling. The film leans into Scandinavian folklore, where transformations aren’t always magical so much as inevitable, like something dark in human nature finally getting tired of pretending. The added twist is that the Beast is haunted by the ghosts of those he’s killed, a walking graveyard of his own actions. It’s less a curse to be broken and more a punishment that never stops.

“I’m not beastly looking, but I do eat people.”

Placed among the many adaptations of Beauty and the Beast, this one sits in a category that might generously be called “for people who think the original needed more existential dread.” It rejects the romanticism that defines most versions and replaces it with something harsher and, frankly, more honest about the story’s roots. Where other adaptations lean into transformation as salvation, this film questions whether transformation even matters if the damage is already done. It doesn’t have the visual poetry of Cocteau or the polished emotional beats of more mainstream takes, but it carves out its own identity by refusing to comfort the audience.

A rose by any other name…

In conclusion, Max Gold’s Belle is a deliberately uncomfortable reimagining that trades enchantment for unease and romance for grim introspection. It understands that beneath the familiar story lies something far less charming: a tale about power, coercion, and the quiet desperation of being trapped in a life you didn’t choose. By stripping away the softer edges, the film exposes the emotional and psychological core of the narrative, forcing it into a space that feels far more relevant, even if it’s harder to watch. It’s not a version that wants to be loved; it wants to be understood, maybe even endured. And in doing so, it achieves a kind of emotional clarity that more traditional adaptations often sidestep.