Directed by Catherine Hardwicke. Starring Amanda Seyfried, Julie Christie, Gary Oldman, Virginia Madsen, Billy Burke, Shiloh Fernandez, Max Irons 12A cert, gen release, 99 min

FEW STORIES are more heavily weighted with post-Freudian baggage than Little Red Riding Hood. Following Angela Carter's brilliantly stroppy The Company of Wolvesand a thousand pointy- headed academic theses, the legend looks to have been totally overpowered by its subtexts.

Thus, it comes as no surprise to learn that Catherine Hardwicke – already, following Thirteenand Twilight, a laureate of female teenage angst – has decided to concern herself with loaded baskets and hairy grandmothers. What big themes you have, Catherine.

Sadly, this Red Riding Hooddoesn't really come off. The joy of Hardwicke's Twilightwas that, unlike its inferior successors, it combined horror fantasy with a loose, naturalistic ambience. Who thought mumblecore Gothic would be so popular? Red Riding Hood, by way of contrast, offers rip-roaring, scenery-munching, corset-ripping action from heated beginning to breathless conclusion. It's not without charm. But the desire to fan one's armpits beneath a cold shower is never very far from the mind.

Grapefruit-eyed, triangle-faced Amanda Seyfried, this generation's Jennifer Jones, turns up as Valerie, a mildly naughty girl hopelessly in love with a bronzed lad named Peter (get it, Prokoviev fans?). From the start, we are made aware that Valerie is no pushover. When gambolling in the woods as a child, she and Peter manage to ensnare a rabbit. He is too weedy to kill the beast, but spirited Valerie happily brandishes the knife. These are post- Buffytimes. No girl need wait on a woodcutter to slice up any pesky predators.

We have become so used to the idea that Red Riding Hoodhas to do with werewolves – not least thanks to Carter's story and Neil Jordan's film adaptation – that we may need reminding that most versions of the myth concern themselves with a wolf who shifts form merely by wearing a lady's clothing. At any rate, it seems that a lyncanthrope does indeed stalk Valerie's Santa's Grotto of a village.

In truth, the psycho-sexual undercurrents of Hardwicke’s version never properly form themselves into a distinct stream. Girls are strong. Sex is a powerful urge. It’s all a little obvious.

The film is, in fact, at its best when at its most red-bloodedly unsubtle. Gary Oldman has great fun as a religious zealot who recalls Vincent Price in the great British shocker Witchfinder General.More such uncomplicated hokum would have helped keep the wolf from the door.