Fairy tales, with their simplistic, stock characters and happy endings (happy meaning that the good are rewarded and the wicked are punished) may seem most appropriate for children. Yet it is their very starkness that allows fairy tales to examine decidedly adult themes -- life and death, loyalty and betrayal, family ties, the rigors of coming of age -- in a manner that is accessible to children while simultaneously allowing for the complexities of adult interpretation.
In fact, people who are most familiar with the modern, whitewashed versions of fairy tales would be startled to learn that fairy tales are traditionally rife with disturbing images and events, including dismemberment, cannibalism, inter-familial abuse and murder. They were considered children’s tales because they were told simply, without complex language or the adornments of polished fiction -- not because they were sanitized. With this in mind, it is clear that the exploration of the Star Wars films as a modern incarnation of fairy tales in no way brands them as childish or simplistic. Rather, the motifs that recur in both fairy tales and the Star Wars films can reveal something of the concepts and life lessons that we find most important and fascinating, children and adults alike.
Dismemberment appears in one fairy-tale after another. In the Grimm Brothers’ version of “Cinderella”, the wicked stepsisters voluntarily cut off their own toe and heel in an attempt to make their feet fit into Cinderella’s slipper. At the story’s end, this mutilation is mirrored by the birds who peck out the sisters’ eyes. “There is a detailed description of how they peck one eye out of each sister on the way to church and the other eye on the way back” (Lüthi 62). The “Tale of Two Brothers,” includes the description “Silberweiss…slashed away until all six heads rolled onto the sand…and cut the twelve eyeballs out of the troll’s heads” (52-3). In another tale “a beautiful girl’s eyes are cruelly torn out and then, one year and a day later, are replaced and can see seven times as clearly as before” (144). As for Star Wars, the movies are practically infamous for including at least one instance of dismemberment. Heads are lopped off and Darth Maul is literally cut in half, but hands suffer this fate more than any other body part, from Anakin and Luke losing their right appendages to Obi-Wan ending almost every duel by slicing off someone’s hand. Aside from being gruesomely humorous, what purpose does this recurring image serve?
In the example from Cinderella, the motif is used to illustrate the theme that what is reaped will be sown; that is, after abusing Cinderella, the sisters endure the abuse of her bird friends. Similarly, those who suffer dismemberment in the Star Wars films behave violently or treacherously shortly before the loss of a limb. Anakin’s rash attack on Dooku in Attack of the Clones results, eventually, in his arm being sliced off. Zam Wessel’s career as an assassin is halted by Obi-Wan’s quick lightsaber moves, as is the aggressive alien in the Mos Eisley cantina. The message could just as easily be, “Don’t mess with someone wielding a lightsaber,” but a more universal theme is the grim end for one who does not respect the lives or well-being of others. In short, retribution -- the true force behind the so-called happy endings of most fairy tales.
On a less violent note, many a fairy-tale character undergoes a period of death-like sleep, followed by a miraculous awakening. “Sleeping Beauty” and “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves” are perhaps the most famous examples, both involving a princess who suffers the wrath of a jealous woman and falls into a deep sleep. They can be awakened only a prince, either by a kiss or, in less romantic versions of “Snow White,” when the prince “jolted the coffin so violently that the poisonous bit of apple…fell out of her throat” (Larkin 142). The obvious parallel in The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi is Han’s descent into carbonite, where he remains in a state of hibernation until Leia awakens him. The metaphor is plainly that of death and resurrection, perhaps the restorative power of love in particular. It is important that the metaphorical rebirth marks the beginning of a new life, not merely a continuation of the old one. For the heroines of the fairy tales, this means marriage to a prince and freedom from the evil women who oppressed them. For Han, this means a new commitment to the ideals of the rebellion and to his friends. The old Han couldn’t have told Leia “When Luke comes back, I won’t get in the way.” The new Han is unselfish enough to say this, and mean it (however unnecessary his selflessness turns out to be). Han has walked the path through death and back to life again and has become a new man.
Life and death are but one contrasting pair of many in fairy tales: “dreadful punishments and splendid rewards, giants and dwarfs, mangy skull and golden hair, good and evil, handsome and ugly, black and white” (Lüthi 50). Shades of gray are few and far between. Is this also the case in Star Wars? To a certain extent, yes. We see heroes and villains, Jedi and Sith, beautiful princesses and hideous beasts, desert planets and ice worlds. We do also see areas of moral uncertainty where shades of gray abound. However, the most meaningful contrast that marks Star Wars as a modern fairy-tale is the extreme origins of its heroes. In fairy tales we follow stories of “the prince and the young swineherd, the despised youngest son or the clumsy boy; and the girl who watches the hearth or tends the geese and the princess” (50). Such archetypes will sound familiar to fans of the Skywalker family, formed by the marriage between a former slave boy and queen, with a farmboy son and a princess daughter. Their adventures take them from the sumptuous society of Coruscant’s upper classes to “a wretched hive of scum and villainy” on Tatooine; they find allies in such diverse forms as an awkward outcast, a once-prestigious Jedi-in-hiding, and two droids, members of the lowest class of all. In the archetype of the wicked stepmother or father, we also see the contrast of a parent figure, one who is supposed to protect and nurture, becoming the villain of the tale. No one could ever dispute the tremendous impact of learning Darth Vader’s true identity.
Why do such contrasts appeal to us so much? There is something thrilling about the lowest of the low becoming a great hero; it gives us hope that it could even happen to us. And of course, the highest of the high gives us something to aim for. The unlikely hero also teaches us that we cannot make assumptions based merely on someone’s appearance or apparent status. Just as the princess discounts the frog prince at their first meeting as “‘Old Water Plopper’” (Campbell 50), Luke initially assumes Yoda cannot be the great Jedi Knight he is looking for. Later Yoda reminds him of the lesson he should take from this: “Size matters not. Judge me by my size, do you?” Nor should we judge Luke as worthless simply because he grew up on a lowly farm on an obscure planet.
Though we all have our own individual experiences as fans of the flims, many of us who are longtime fans of Star Wars were introduced to the films as children. Years later, we are still drawn to its story, perhaps on a different level than the simple child-like enjoyment, but for the same essential reasons. This resonates with the progression of our relationship with fairy tales:
In the life of the individual, there are periods when one is fascinated by fairy tales and periods of indifference.
After the fairy-tale age (between five and ten), there follows a realistic stage during which one is ill-disposed
toward fairy tales. Some people persist in this attitude all their lives. But in others, understand and love for these
once-coveted stories returns later in life, not only because now as mothers or grandfathers they themselves are
called upon to tell fairy tales, but just as much because they again feel moved by their peculiar charm…The role
that fairy tales play in the lives of children, and the role they played in the lives of adults in the millennia prior to the
coming of the printed word, strengthens us in the belief that we are dealing with a peculiar form of literature, one
which concerns man directly. (Lüthi 21-2)
As we grew into adolescence, we may have endured a period when it was decidedly unpopular to be a fan of Star Wars, or even ourselves considered it a childish thing to be set aside. In adulthood, however, we find ourselves returning, drawn back by its sweeping, fantastic scope. We enjoy sharing it with the new generation, and we love the story’s “peculiar charm.” Like a fairy-tale, its recurring motifs remind us of what it means be human in its purest essence.
Works Cited
Campbell, Joseph. The Hero With a Thousand Faces. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973.
Larkin, Rochell, ed. Great Illustrated Classics: Snow White and Other Stories. New York: Playmore Inc., Publishers and
Waldman Publishing Corp., 2000.
Lüthi, Max. Once Upon a Time: On the Nature of Fairy Tales. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1970.
