There is, reportedly, a new “moment” in the
new Disney Beauty and the Beast. Some are calling
for boycotts; some are calling the boycotters names.
This is not a post about that moment. There will be no post on that moment—not
on TGWWS. For one thing, this blog has
generally focused on things I care about that other people don’t, or at minimum
on offering a different angle on things everyone else is already discussing.
One reason I’ve said
little about the election is that I’m not sure
there’s anything to
say, true or false,
that hasn’t been said.
But trust me, I’ll
think of something eventually.
No, I want to talk about something brought up in a
thread I was reading about B&B, something which I’ve seen raised a few times now, which was there phrased as a
critique of the previous Disney movie. Roughly,
it goes like this: Why are we seeing, and
taking our children to see, a film which glorifies Stockholm Syndrome and
perhaps worse?
If this critique is
puzzling to you, you probably
haven’t seen the first
Disney B&B, which is fine..
If you have seen the
first Disney B&B,
just think about it for
a few moments.
Bothered yet?
Good!
One potential reaction to this sort of question—which is but a particular version of the general query, Why take our children to a
film that glorifies bad behavior?—is best expressed in a response which
I’ve seen time and again when fairy tale adaptations are discussed (e.g., Once Upon a Time). It reads more or less as follows:
Well,
but of course fairy tales are creepy! Or
maybe we could call them “dark” or “edgy” if you prefer. We only think
fairy tales are innocent and sweet and tailor-made for children [alt.: “We only
think children and their tales are innocent and sweet”]. If you read the original Brothers Grimm
stories, you’ll see that they’re actually quite violent and nasty and
disturbing. Good doesn’t even always
win! And of course Perrault was writing
for grownups at the court of Louis-the-Somethinth. So really, we shouldn’t be surprised if the
films we make of fairy tales are sometimes improper. We can’t help it; the originals were improper
too!
Oh, mon frères. Up to a point, I grok this. Fairy tales can, by a certain definition of “creepy”
or “dark”, be … well, creepy and dark.
They contain dragons, after all.
They are even potentially improper—at least, considering them too
carefully can involve the overthinker in impropriety. I remember being a much younger age, and
mentally trying to frame an adaptation of “Rapunzel,” and coming hard up against
the undeniable fact that Rapunzel and the prince managed to have two babies
without a church wedding, and being scandalized.
In this case, you will
note that Disney’s version actually removed
the impropriety,
proving that they CAN when they want to.
There are, however, ways around the “Rapunzel”
problem that even a touchy religious person like myself could work, if we
wanted to. Introduce a chaplain in the
desert (the cast of the story is rather thin for a two-hour movie anyway!),
make Rapunzel and her prince pagans (of the ancient or modern variety), make
them St. Augustines (i.e., sinners who repent).
I can already hear some crying “foul!”; for of
course, such additions may appear to be inexcusable intrusions of morality into
what was an innocently improper genre (see description of Grimm et al.
above). Perhaps; but I am not
convinced. The fairy tale is an innocently improper genre, much
like Greek or Norse myths; but it does not follow that a full-length feature
film or novel can proceed as the original fairy tale did. For one thing, the mere representation of
dialogue in a novel, or of a real actor in a film, awakes questions in
the ordinary adult mind which have no room to rise in the confined paragraphs of a
fairy tale: What is this person’s
backstory? What is their family
like? What sort of world do they live
in? What are their secret motivations
and unrealized goals? In other
words, the film and the novel are inherently psychological; the fairy tale is
not (unless perhaps one wishes to discuss psychology of the Jungian sort). And the novelistic psychological inevitably touches
on history and culture as well; for those same questions which tell the
particular story of a given person, when asked of an entire society, generate accounts
of the doings of nations.
This is where things like ethics, morality, and even
religion enter in. One can, of course,
construct a fantasy world with a different religion, or without much religion
at all, or with no religion beyond whatever vague spirituality is contained in
the magic. The fact remains, however,
that—religious or not—a fantasy world will have its own manners and mores just
as the real world does, and it will be necessary to portray the protagonists of
the now-grownup fairy tale as either in conformity with or in violation of their
universe’s norms. And if these norms differ
significantly from those of the majority of readers or viewers, it will be
necessary for the author to communicate the differences (however subtly) to his
audience, so that they are cognizant of them as a frame for understanding the
characters’ behavior. This need not
imply endorsement of the cultural norms portrayed—an author may
present protagonists who are rightly rebels.
The fact remains, however, that if the characters are rebels, with or
without a cause, it is important to the viewers to grasp this fact; otherwise,
they have not grasped a part of the character.
All of this leads me to say, regarding my adolescent
instinct to give Rapunzel a wedding, that although it may have been clumsy in
the realization, it was not misdirected in substance. In a novel or film some elaboration of Rapunzel’s behavior was necessary; at minimum, the audience needed to
know whether this was par for the course or the sort of thing upon which her
parents would frown. It affects the
happy ending just a bit, if you know what I mean.
To generalize: Fairy tale adaptations must be …
And that is a nonmoral must, a technical must:
If they are to be good
as literature or entertainment …
... fairy tale adaptations must be responsive to the
expectations of normal literary works; must not leave us with psychological or
cultural loose ends—unless, of course, the loose ends themselves are left dangling by design, as part of the story, part of the artistry, to make us question this
or that type of character or situation.
But even then, it is important to realize that these loose ends are an overlay of the
original story: the fairy tale does not, by its very nature cannot raise the sorts of question that makes us say in reply: Creepy (modern sense).
It is only our adaptation of the fairy tale that may, if we choose to so construct
it. If the old Disney Beauty and the Beast is “creepy,” or if Ever After is “edgy,” or if Maleficent is “dark,” we are the ones who made them so; and we
might as well be honest and own up to it. Ultimately,
fairy tales are a magic mirror that reflect who we are, depending on how we interpret them.
This brings me back to the topic with which I
opened, to the particular problems posed by Disney’s (now two versions of) Beauty and the Beast. Does the Disney take on the story in fact
glorify Stockholm Syndrome, or otherwise present an unhealthy image of love?
I’m so glad you asked. But that, at this point, is matter for
another post.
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