Power to the Princess: Disney and the Creation ofthe 20* Century Princess Narrative Bridget Whelan University of Louisiana at Eafajette "If I WAS a princess—a REAL princess—1 could scatter largess to the populace. But even if I am only a pretend princess, 1 can invent little things to do for people ... I'll pretend that to do things like this is scattering largess. I've scattered largess."' ~A Little Princess (1904) Most of us would agree that it would not be overstating things to assert that the princess narrative has been a staple throughout the body of children's literature. Even before the Grimms' initial publication of their Kinder- und Hausmärchen (1812), English-speaking children were enjoying translated versions of literary French fairy tales, such as Madame de Beaumont's Ea Belle et la Bête (English translation, 1757). Both the Grimms' and the French storytellers' tales featured a wide variet)' of princess narratives. Finette in Marie-Jeanne L'Heritier's The Discreet Princess, or the Adventures of Finette, for example, advises her father on sociopolitical decisions, defends herself from an ardent suitor with a mallet, and tricks her own husband out of murdering her. The princess from the Grimms' "The Twelve Brothers" voluntarily secludes herself in a tree for seven years in order to save her twelve helplessly transformed brothers. Whether dutiful or rebellious, rambunctious or sweet, princesses and their narratives featured prominently in the literary lives of many nineteenth century English and American children. This trend in children's publishing continued with the publication of Andrew Lang's Blue Fairy Book in 1889, which was succeeded by a virtual parade of Fairj Books in the years that followed: the Red (1890), the Green (1892), the Yellow (1894), the Pink (1897), the Grej (1900), the Violet (1901), the Grimson (1903), the Brown (1904), the Orange (1906), the Olive (1807), and the \Jlac (1910). Sandwiched within this colorful narrative display was Hodgson Children's Media I 21 t1 Burnett's A Little Prineess, wherein young Sara Crewe is not born a princess, nor does she ever become one. In fact, the nickname "Princess Sara" is at first mockingly given to her by some of the other girls at Miss Minchin's boarding school. Fortunately, clever, thoughtful Sara decides to appropriate her new identity, and to use it as a means to remind herself to be kind and generous towards others—in essence, to "scatter largess." But here is the ironic thing about Sara Crew: she was not a princess. Instead, she served to represent what all girls at the time were encouraged to aspire toward: ideal girlhood. Locked away with fellow servant Becky in the attic of her now hostüe boarding school environment, Sara envisioned herself a princess; she transformed herself into a veritable Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty in the Woods, trapped in a tower and awaiting rescue by an exotic prince from a foreign land—or, in Sara's case, an Indian lascar and his pet monkey. This image of stillness and passivity was echoed in other girls' books throughout the nineteenth and early part of the twentieth centur)', for "the best girls were passive, sdU," writes Deborah O'Keefe. "It was understood that not every girl came naturally to this exalted state but the rebellious ones were urged to emulate the saindy ones, and they usually gave in by the end of the book or at least the end of the series."^ Sara Crewe, however, does not so much "give in" as give up—on the physical world around her, that is. Instead, she turns to the inner workings of her imagination, and in her mind's eye, this is what saves her from Miss Minchin's dutches, as she believes the gifts that Mr. Carrisford and Ram Dass have lain out for herself and Becky have been produced by magic—and by her own imagination. There is power here, however miniscule. Sara is rescued by the workings of her own inriagination—something even Miss Minchin fears at times, the woman at one point enthralled by the mesmerizing power of Sara's words on her "narrow, unimaginative mind."^ This imaginative power coincides with Sara's actual physical escape, which involves her returning the lascar's monkey to Mr. Carrisford's house. But it is at this point, towards the end of the novel, when Sara exclaims over her new wealth, recalling her earlier desire to "scatter largess": "Yes ... and I can give buns and bread to the populace."'' For Sara, and for her author and readers, princesshood was both a state of mind and an emblem of ideal girlhood which encompassed duty, compassion, and condescension towards the less fortunate. Becky the scullery maid is, after all, informed that she wül now be serving the "Missee Sahib" instead of the evü Miss Minchin—a rise in circumstances if not in situation.^ However, even with the publication of Burnet's widely-read and beloved A Little Prineess, the imprint the princess narrative was making on children's literature and culture was only just beginning. The mande of princesshood was to be taken up by the Walt Disney company, which released the world's first ever feature-length animated film, a groundbreaking retelling of a Grimms' fairy tale: Snow Wbite and tbe Seven Dwarfs (1937). The film begins and ends with the opening and closing of a book, hinting at its literary origins and cleverly making the link for the audience between book and film. Interestingly, the tale 221 Interdisciplinar)' Humanities loosely mimics the narrative of Burnett's A Uttle Princess: Snow White is born into wealth, loses that wealth, and Uves in poverty for awhile, then reclaims it towards the end. However, unUke Sara, Snow White remains a true princess throughout the film. Perhaps more importandy, she is depicted not as a child but as a young woman, her corseted dress oudining her small but womanly curves, her face and hair made up to reflect what was considered attractive for a young woman at the time. Perhaps the most significant difference between the two Ues in the fact that Snow White is thoroughly tricked by the evil female presence in the narrative and ultimately must be rescued by the prince. The intention here, however, is not to draw too narrow a comparison between Burnett's and Disney's narratives, but to instead show how Disney manipulated a somewhat fluid, traditional, and existing narrative and shaped it into their own. From that point onward, Disney staked a claim on the princess narrative. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs became a formative film in the psyche of the American pubUc. By rendering the princess and her narrative on film, and in beautiful, vivid color at that, Disney brought the princess narrative to Ufe in a way that children had never before witnessed it. Its impact was not to be underestimated—and not just among young girls. "Like mothers and fathers everj'where," writes Sheldon Cashdan, "my parents read Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the Beanstalk, and other popular tales to me."*» He continues: But my most vivid childhood memories of fairy tales came by way of Walt Disney. I remember sitting on the edge of my seat in a darkened movie theater watching Snow White and holding my breath as the gamekeeper prepared to cut out the heroine's heart."^ And Cashdan agrees that the impact the film had on its audience was overwhelming, to say the least. "More than any other film," he points out, "Snow White and the Seven Dwa^/i' heralded an era of fairy-tale animation that changed the pubUc's view of fairy tales forever."^ And as fiction for children moved towards reaUsm for girls—books such as Laura IngaUs Wilder's Uttle House on the Prairie books (series run 1932-2006, intermittendy) and the Nang Drew (1930-present) and Trixie Beiden (1948-86) mystery series were the wildly popular girls books of their day—Disney continued to exert a monopoly over the princess narradve. And it was a monopoly that continued throughout the twentieth century and into the next. After Snow White, over ten years passed before Disney released their second animated princess narrative. Ginderelta (1950) was then foUowed by Sleeping Beauty (1959). These two films continued to conform to societal convention regarding girls and their place in society. Novels written for girls contemporary to the first "wave" of Disney princess movies suggested, says Deborah O'Keefe, diat it was "desirable" for girl-heroines "...to have a sweet voice so low it could hardly be heard."^ She condnues, "It was good for a gidheroine to be misty, Usping, and inaudible, and even better for her to be Children's Media I 23 ti dead."'" Two of the three first wave Disney princesses spend part of their narradves in death-like comas—each, of course, then wakened and rescued by a male prince. Cinderella, in a sense, is also rescued from a sodally inacdve state—a state of poverty and servitude. These three films thus neatly solidified Disney's repackaging of the princess narradve, linking "princesshood" to contemporary concepts of ideal girlhood, and presenting it to the public on the big screen and in vivid color at a dme when such a thing was uncommon, and hence utterly capdvadng to its audience. For awhile, however, the Walt Disney Company seemed content to move on and explore other narratives and mediums, leaving the princess-centered fairy tale narratives behind. But the lasdng impression had been made. These three fairy tales—Snow White, Ginderella, and Sleeping Beauty—were now those most familiar to American (and perhaps other English-speaking) audiences. Early second wave feminists such as Marcia R. Lieberman became frustrated with this growing dichotomy between less popular, less well-known but more feminist fairy tales and those popularized by Disney. These more inherendy feminist fair)' tales, she wrote, "are so reladvely unknown that they cannot seriously be considered in a study of the meaning of fairy tales to women."'* Instead, most children were, of course, more familiar with the tales retold by Disney. "Cinderella, the Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White are mythic figures who have replaced the Old Greek and Norse gods, goddesses, and heroes for most children,"'- she rather dismally concludes. Lieberman's suggesdon that large pordons of the American public remained ignorant of the existence of the more feminist tales is a telling one. It points out that Disney's monopoly over the princess narradve was nearly complete. Frustrated with the company's appropriadon and ultra-feminizadon of what could otherwise be seen as a powerful pro-feminist archetjfpe, feminist crides and authors attempted to reclaim the princess narrative by either retelling those lesser known tales or putdng a more feminist spin on those Disney had already retold. Jack Zipes' Don't Bet on the Prince (1987), which, not surprisingly, included Lieberman's essay, featured fairy tale retellings by renowned feminist authors such as Angela Carter, Margaret Atwood, Jane Yolen, and Tanith Lee. One, dded "The Princess Who Stood On Her Own Two Feet," by Jeanne Desy, even features a princess who loudly declares, "A Princess says what she thinks. A Princess stands on her own two feet. A Princess stands tall."'^ "Mist)'," "lisping," and "inaudible" this princess is not! Outside the circle of academia, fantasists like Robin McKJnley and Donna Jo . Napoli condnued the trend. Beauty, A Retelling of the Story of Beauty
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