On May 11th, 2013, Merida – the heroine of Pixar’s Brave – officially became recognised as the eleventh Disney Princess. But before this fictional ceremony could take place some significant revisions were made to the character’s appearance.
She was given a new gown – one much brighter and more elaborate than the simple dress she wears for the majority of the film. Functionality has given way to chic belts, sequins, and gold lace. Much more worrying, however, are the physical alterations. The waist has certainly been taken in an inch or two, and I suspect those cheeks are no longer rouged by the bracing Scottish wind.
Before and after the Disney makeover.
Some critics have gone too far in suggesting this new Merida has been intentionally sexualised. Yes, the neckline has dipped ever so slightly and she’s definitely wearing eyeliner – but it’s not that scandalous and 16-year old girls wear make-up. What I find most niggling about this transformation is the strange authenticity of Merida’s smile.
That smile should be extremely troublesome to anyone who’s seen Brave. Early on in the film there’s a crucial scene in which Merida’s father hosts a competition to win his daughter’s hand in marriage. Sons from neighbouring clans eagerly arrive to display their prowess in a variety of disciplines. Merida’s mother even forces her daughter into a formal gown for the occasion. She's patently uncomfortable – wrapped in reams of fabric, the gown threatens to suffocate her. But she's more worried about the idea that she can be won, and so sets about upstaging the contestants by flaunting her prodigious archery skills.
“I’ll be shooting for my own hand,” says Merida, defiantly. But as she raises her bow to take the first shot, she can’t move – the fancy dress is too tight, too restrictive. “Curse this dress,” she exclaims, before ripping it at the seams. The symbolism is pretty obvious – she can’t be contained by the trappings of femininity and all that is expected of her. That’s why Princess Merida's newfound smile bothers me so much. It's a betrayal of her character. The Merida I know wouldn't be so pleased to find herself back in a corset, squeezed into a gown of silk for show.
This isn’t a righteous screed on how the Disney Princesses are terrible role models for young girls – quite enough has been written on that subject down the years – and I’m not sure I could contribute something more substantial than an echo. What I find much more interesting, however, is the conflict that seemingly exists within Disney itself – between the marketeers and animators.
While the former continue to squeeze each female protagonist into a shimmering gown, the latter are doing their very best to reconcile the studio with its past. And Disney, to the immense credit of its animators, writers, and directors, isn’t doing this by disavowing the past – pretending Snow White never sang the words "I'm wishing for the one I love/To find me today" – but by engaging with, satirising, and rewriting the politics of its early films.
There are three movies central to this recent period of immensely entertaining self-critique – Enchanted, Tangled, and Brave.
Enchanted brilliantly exposes just how antiquated a role model the classic Disney princess is for a young girl. If you've not seen it, the opening is set in the animated fairytale world of Andalasia – it's a merciless parody of those early Disney classics, where animals talk, evil queens scheme, heroines learn how to bake and sew while they patiently wait for their handsome prince to arrive. Julie Andrews even narrates the whole thing.
This is the cloying world of Disney circa 1930 – the world into which Snow White and Cinderella were born. It's also the home of Enchanted's princess, Giselle (Amy Adams). Through some textbook scheming, the Evil Witch banishes Giselle to the live-action city of New York. It's here, stranded in the present day, that we see just how woefully the culture of Andalasia has prepared Giselle for the real world. She's too meek and deferential. But over the course of the film, she becomes a strong, independent women. She learns how to be angry, and eventually who falls in love not with her fairytale prince but a divorcee with a daughter. She even ends up rescuing him.
Rapunzel was the last of the classic fairy tale princesses tackled by Disney. You’d be forgiven for thinking they’d missed the boat: the source material seems so mired in the studio’s past – an isolated woman patiently waiting to be rescued by her one true love. But the way in which Tangled satirises the traditional Disney film is perfectly established in the lyrics of its opening number, ‘When Will My Life Begin?’
Whereas most classic Disney films end with the princess being married – one of the final lyrics in Snow White is “And away to his castle you’ll go/To be happy forever we know”. Tangled begins in that castle with the princess thoroughly bored out of her mind. Tangled's opening number exposes the dreary reality of living happily ever after.
While she might not be married, she finds herself in the same predicament – trapped at home all day long with nothing to do but wait for her prince to arrive. The song is little more than an exhaustive list of all the things she does to pass the time. She cooks, cleans, mops, polishes, bakes, sews, paints, knits, and reads. Out of sheer frustration she excessively brushes her long hair. This is all poignantly interspersed with the melancholic refrain in which she wonders when her life will begin. This is the situation that awaited the first generation of Disney princesses, and it's a mould that Tangled takes great pleasure in breaking. Rapunzel quickly escapes from her domestic prison, embarking on a exhilarating adventure.
The message of Tangled couldn’t be more positive, but like Merida, it too suffered at the hands of Disney’s meddlesome marketeers. Believing The Princess and The Frog under-performed at the box-office because it had ‘Princess’ in the title, Disney rebranded Rapunzel as Tangled and began to emphasise the role of Flynn Rider, Rapunzel’s love interest. 'It's his story as much as hers,' they said.
Brave was a natural successor to these two films. It gave audiences their most capable and canny Princess yet. Merida is a tomboy – the 'Touch The Sky' scene follows her running away from the kingdom into the Highlands, riding horses, shooting targets, scaling mountains. Brave asserts that muddy shoes and scraped knees aren't the exclusive province of young boys. Merida can do anything her suitors can, and in many cases, she can do them better.
Given this trajectory, it makes the decision by Disney's marketing department to redesign Merida all the more cowardly – it's entirely at odds with the studio's ongoing project to craft a more positive message for future generations while not erasing the past. (Notice how they haven't placed Pocahontas into an evening gown – divesting her of her native dress would be too controversial.) My only real fear is that this tampering will one day extend beyond ephemeral marketing material and stupid title changes, and start to affect the content of the films themselves.
But thankfully, the films remain untouched. Gilselle will always transform herself into a savvy businesswoman. Rapunzel will continue to break free from her cozy prison. And Merida – the real Merida – will still found running through glens and climbing trees.
Daniel is IGN's UK Staff Writer. You can be part of the world's most embarrassing cult by following him on IGN and Twitter.
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