Princesses are easy to hate. They don't save kingdoms. They don't fight dragons. They don't battle giants. They just dress up and look pretty and get saved and get married. They're passive and boring and so, so...feminine.
The hatred of Disney Princesses in particular, then, can end up looking something like a hatred of, or a discomfort with, the feminine itself. Peggy Orenstein pointed this out in a 2006 article about her discomfort with princesses. After her daughter began questioning her obsessively about the reason for her anti-princess stance, Orenstein suddenly wondered,
What if, instead of realizing: Aha! Cinderella is a symbol of the patriarchal oppression of all women, another example of corporate mind control and power-to-the-people! my 3-year-old was thinking, Mommy doesn't want me to be a girl? [...] I may be inadvertently communicating that being female (to the extent that my daughter is able to understand it) is a bad thing.
So how do you hate princesses without hating girls? Or how do you separate princesses and femininity?
In a column last week at The Week, Monika Bartyzel suggested that these are maybe the wrong questions. The problem, Bartyzel argues, isn't princesses, but the fact that "princess"—and by extension, femininity—has ended up meaning such a limited range of things. Bartyzel argues, "The truth is that, just as there are all kinds of women, there can be all kinds of princesses." She points to the film Brave, where the heroine, Princess Merida, is basically defined by her dislike of the princess role—she hates dressing up, doesn't want to marry anybody, and loves archery and swordplay like her father. And yet, as Bartyzel says, when Disney officially coronated Merida into their official Disney brand, they gave her a makeover, complete with bigger breasts, less wild hair, and the sort of finery she disliked in the film. The outcry—including a withering statement from Brave writer Brenda Chapman—was sufficiently intense that Disney backpedaled, and has apparently pulled the redesigned Merida from their site.
Bartyzel argues that more different kinds of princesses would mean more different role models, and more options, for little girls. That's certainly true. But it could also, and relatedly, provide a broader definition of femininity. Merida's love of sports and weapons and her rejection of marriage and dresses and etiquette is a welcome alternative to Cinderella. But are the only options really tomboy and girly girl? Merida is a different kind of princess in part because she doesn't want much to do with traditional femininity—and her story is exhilarating for that. But still, it seems like it maybe leaves out a fair number of girls who like princesses because of the femininity, not despite it.
There are some princesses out there who exemplify additional options. Probably not coincidentally, many of them aren't from Disney. Perhaps the best known example is Wonder Woman, who is rarely even thought of as a princess. And yet, a Princess she is—Princess Diana of the Amazons, specifically.
Created in the 1940s by William Marston, a psychologist and radical feminist, Wonder Woman was specifically and deliberately designed to show not just that women could be brave, but that femininity itself was a kind of superpower. Where heroes like Merida and The Hunger Games' Katniss Everdeen use pointy, utilitarian, arrows, Wonder Woman's weapon is the deliberately non-phallic lasso. Over time, that lasso has morphed into a lasso of truth, but originally it was a much more effective lasso of command. Anyone who was caught by it was compelled to obey the wielder.