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HALEY BERGERON
Another Disney-Tale
Fairy tales can’t be trusted. They are too symbolic and easily
internalized; people have an unavoidable tendency to make them
their own. Yet over the years there has been a continual trend towards
institutionalizing and taming fairy tales, using them as vehicles to
promote the agenda of whichever group appropriates them. From the
oral traditions used to foster communal harmony to the first written
tales glorifying the elite, there is always an ulterior motive in such
stories; and never have the markings of authorship upon our communal
narrative heritage been so evident as in the screen adaptations of fairy
tales by Walt Disney. So argues Jack Zipes in his essay “Breaking the
Disney Spell,” and his criticism, although overly simplistic, is not
unfounded.
The crux of Zipes’s argument is that Disney’s screen adaptations
of fairy tales were utterly his own, completely disregarding the original
meanings of the stories. By animating the tales, Disney narrowed the
range of interpretation permitted to the viewer; by altering key points,
he changed the message conveyed. The morals and themes of his
adapted fairy tales reflected only his own life, glorifying cleverness,
and entrepreneurial spirit; the tale-telling adopted an assembly-line
precision suiting the new industrial era; and the stories themselves
emphasized and lauded the status quo. Zipes calls the animations
“one dimensional,” referring to narrative, characters, and meaning
alike—something intended to amuse and distract, without requiring the
audience to think, and something which relies on trickery and glamour
to captivate.
In particular, Zipes chooses to pick on Disney’s Snow White and
the Seven Dwarfs (1937). The so-called “definitive” animated fairy
tale, Snow White showcases the peculiar elements by which Disney
“violates” the story. For instance, the prince frames the narrative,
appearing in the beginning as a catalyst and saving the day with his
kiss in the end. This is, according to Zipes, a self-insertion: the prince
stands in for Disney himself, the great orchestrator, driving the tale
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Arthur Rackham
British, 1867–1939
Sleeping Beauty, 1920
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Photograph courtesy of the Herbert F. Johnson Museum of Art,
Cornell University
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without figuring prominently on-screen. For another example, Snow
White begins as a Cinderella-like figure, so that we have a rags-to-riches
story of the kind America loves. The dwarfs too are changed by Disney,
given names and developed into genuine characters—industrialists
who make their fortune through hard work and camaraderie. In the
end, Snow White is restored to her proper position as princess, and will
no doubt be keeping house for her prince; the evil queen is defeated;
and the dwarfs return to their mining. Thus resumes the status quo, and
the audience can depart happy that the balance, although perturbed, has
been restored. Zipes states that Snow White is neither subversive nor
revolutionary (with the consequent implication that fairy tales should
be both), and since it is animated, leaving little to the imagination of
the viewer, the only message it can convey is the intended one.
Although Zipes mentions other Disney fairy tales that follow the
same formula—Cinderella (1950), Beauty and the Beast (1991), and
Aladdin (1992)—he stops short of analyzing them in the same detail.
While subsequent Disney films seem to gain some depth and meaning,
the core messages do not change, particularly the idea of a return to
normalcy. Perhaps the most striking example of this is Beauty and the
Beast. In many ways it seems closest to its classical original; whereas
other fairy tales often had to be whitewashed to remove lewd or violent
episodes, the print version of Beauty and the Beast penned by JeanneMarie Leprince de Beaumont had little of either to be expurgated. A
few differences bear mentioning, however. Once again, the prince
frames the narrative; the story begins with the placing of his curse
and ends with its lifting. In Madame de Beaumont’s story, Belle has
a pair of spoiled sisters, and is herself the daughter of a merchant; her
essential strangeness receives more emphasis in the Disney story where
she is the single, overly imaginative daughter of an eccentric inventor.
Finally, there is the introduction of Gaston, a handsome but villainous
foil to the Beast. These changes serve the usual Disney themes—the
commendation of the patriarchy, the triumph of the underdog and of
the new over the old, and the reinforcement of the status quo.
The prince in Beauty and the Beast is indubitably a different
character from the man who swoops in to rescue Snow White. On
the contrary, it is he who is saved by the heroine at the climax of the
tale. Likewise, in many ways Belle appears to be stronger and betterdeveloped than her counterparts in earlier Disney films. Yet the prince
still manages to begin and end the story, and it is a tale about his
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redemption; he is the only remotely dynamic character. He is no longer
a direct stand-in for Walt Disney. Still, a patriarchal attitude persists,
reaffirming the unfortunate conception that men are simply more
complex, interesting, or important than women. Instead of challenging
preconceived notions, the story subtly reinforces them.
Belle’s status of semi-outcast in the town heightens the impact of what
the film construes as her triumph: her ultimate marriage to the prince.
Her father is a tinkerer, and she herself is portrayed as a consummate
bookworm; together, they represent the modern, progressive aspect of
their small town. As in any Disney film, the new triumphs over the old,
pandering to American pride in science and technology. Indeed, there
is a certain technological aspect to the servants in the Beast’s castle,
since under the curse they have become animate objects. Meanwhile,
Gaston is the opposite extreme, a man Belle describes as “positively
primeval”—which he takes as a compliment. In the end, his mob of
torch-wielding villagers is defeated by the Beast’s artificial servants;
technology overcomes brute, primitive force.
Belle, as I have already mentioned, breaks the curse upon the
Beast and his castle. Her method is the unconquerable, if overused,
power of love. The dark Gothic architecture is replaced by cherubs and
happiness; everything is made over in white; the shadows and mystery
vanish. The Beast becomes the idealized handsome prince, and all is
right with the world. The ascribed power of love is best viewed not as
transformative but as restorative, normalizing the strange and bringing
everything back into balance, as Disney likes it to be.
It is clear that Zipes’s critique remains relevant. The fairy tales retold
through animation continue to “capitalize on American innocence and
utopianism to reinforce the social and political status quo” (Zipes 333).
Yet it is also clear that Disney, the institution, has made some progress
since Snow White. Although Beauty and the Beast is the Beast’s story,
Belle is not quite as wan and victimized as Snow White. Her own
choices, rather than some external force, land her in the enchanted
castle. She is armed with the powers of knowledge and technology
that inevitably serve Disney characters well, and she takes actions
throughout the story which do her more good than eating a poisoned
apple. Furthermore, although the Americanized Disney-messages are
inescapable, the messages of Madame de Beaumont’s Beauty and the
Beast linger: self-denial for the good of others (Disney’s Belle gives
herself up to save her father), or the importance of looking beyond
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mere appearance. Zipes hastens to speak of other fairy tale adaptations
that are more satirical or more subversive, as though this were the only
hope for society’s future. Thus, he fails to recognize what may be the
most reassuring conclusion of all this: Disney stories are evolving,
perhaps into something more than two-dimensional frippery to placate
the masses. Despite many flaws, there may be some virtue in Disney
yet.
Z
Work Cited
Zipes, Jack, “Breaking the Disney Spell.” In The Classic Fairy Tales,
Ed. Maria Tatar. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1999.
32–52.
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