Finn Hauberg Mortensen: “The Little Mermaid: icon and disneyfication.”

In searching for an article to examine for this assignment, I was inspired by a desire to explore Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid and Walt Disney’s film adaptation of it. In 2008, the Society for the Advancement of Scandinavian Study published in the magazine/journal entitled Scandinavian Studies an article written by Finn Hauberg Mortensen, a Professor of Scandinavian Literature at the University of Copenhagen, which aims to discuss the icon that the mermaid has become. It appears to be aimed at academics or literary critics rather than parents or children as is suggested by the way in which Mortensen describes his intentions to  “focus on H.C Andersen’s fairytale and . . . how the mermaid in the text can be seen as an icon” and to analyze the fairytale “and its remediation by Walt Disney.” The article is divided into four sections, preceded by a brief introduction in which Mortensen discusses the mermaid as an “ICON IN MASS CULTURE,” specifically the way in which the Little Mermaid “has become the official image of Denmark.” The introduction briefly informs the reader of that the “iconicity” of the mermaid stems from both Andersen’s fairytale of 1837 and “Edvard Eriksen’s famous bronze statue . . . on the Copenhagen waterfront [that was erected] in 1913.

            In the first major section of the article, entitled “FOLK CULTURE AND MASS CULTURE” Mortensen discusses other works that perhaps served as templates for The Little Mermaid, despite Andersen’s claim that the story “had no model.” Mortensen gives several examples Andersen’s work, as well as work by others, which provide evidence for his point, including an assertion that “part of the plot is borrowed from B.S Ingemann’s . . . De Underjordiske [The Creatures from the Underworld] (1817).” Disney’s adaptation of the film, according to the text, in turn borrowed both from Andersen and Eriksen, evidence that the story “serves as a springboard for remediations that . . . plays a significant role in today’s folk culture.” As evidence of this, he cites such things as billboard advertisements, political agendas such as a gay rights movement “Danish mermaid pride”, and even a water park in Weeki Waachee, Florida which have all drawn from images of the mermaid. He supplements these examples with a description of the tourism and media attention associated with the Eriksen’s statue from which he is able to draw the conclusion that “the mermaid is now living in a modern, industrialized folk culture.”

            The second section of the article, entitled “ANDERSEN’S MERMAID,” is divided into two sections: “Space and Setting” and “Soul and Gender.” In the first, Mortensen describes the structure of the story, which is “highly economic in its construction” and goes on to explore the implications of the “daughters of the air” at the end of the story and the accusations by many that they are “an after-the-fact moral appendage,” which he disputes by making the assertion that through the Daughters of the Air, children who hear the story become “participants in the fiction.” He conveys his belief that the children listening to the narrative are “the true agents in this sphere of Christian morality. . . . [they learn] to feel sorrow and shame . . .[and] a sense of responsibility . . .” In making this assertion, he also draws parallels between the Daughters of the Air and the parents telling the story.

In the second subdivision, Mortensen establishes the story as a Bildungsroman and referencing Danish author Carsten Hauch, he questions the mermaid’s “ability to follow her own instincts toward the good . . . without already possessing the soul for which she so yearned.” He touches on the lack of sexuality in the mermaid’s family and discusses the phallic symbols within the narrative associated with the witch, into whom “the sum of underwater sexuality has been driven,” the sisters, who undergo a symbolic castration in cutting their hair, and mermaid, who by throwing the knife into the ocean, uses it in a phallic sense to liberate herself by offering her body “on behalf of [her]spirit,” and adds that through her sacrifice, the mermaid is identified as an “embodiment of righteousness.”

            The third major section of the article, “DISNEY’S MERMAID,” is a discussion of “the publicity campaign [that] was set in motion . . . so children would persuade their parents to purchase posters, records, erasers, pencils, and burgers at McDonalds.” Through this assertion, Mortensen examines the ways in which the film has been “grounded in contemporary American cultural industry.” He emphasizes his belief that the film “cheats” its audience with its shift in focus to the mermaids “emancipation from puberty” rather than the search for a soul as well as his belief that the film was well received by American audiences more so than by Danish audiences “because it gave little girls the opportunity to continue playing the mermaid” through the media and the production of the afore mentioned merchandise.

            The final major section of the article, “THE MERMAID AS AN ICON,” Mortensen defines an icon as a “picture, a saint, or more specifically an image of a saint” and adds that “iconography deals with . . . symbols used to depict gods, heroes, and saints.” He suggests that the mermaid, because she was seduced by humans, is a “siren in reverse” and asserts that through her desire to become human and gain an immortal soul she draws a line between her animal/human half, which represents “sexual drive, loss of virginity, and . . . guilt,” and her divine nature, which “amounts to both self-sacrifice and good deeds.” She is likened to “the highest order of saints Catholic Church: those who were martyred for their faith.” Mortensen concludes the article with the suggestion that these creatures are perhaps created out of our own “need to explore human nature,” and therefore “[their] beginnings can be found in the human need to understand sexuality and love.”

            Overall, the article was rather intriguing and informative, with more or less well supported points and ideas. He supported his assertion that the mermaid has become a symbol of Denmark as well it’s adoption into the mass media market quite well in his descriptions of the tourism and media associated with it Eriksen’s statue and the advertisement and merchandise campaigns which were coupled with the release of the film. It was interesting to consider the origins of Andersen’s tale, namely the fact that although he claimed that it “had no model,” Mortensen was able to provide the reader with several examples in which central themes of the story had been incorporated previously by Andersen and other authors, which further supported Mortensen’s claim that the story in seems by its nature designed for reproduction and re-adaptation.  In arguing that the ending of the story is in fact a core element to the moral and Christian heart of the fairytale, Mortensen uses compelling evidence, including a letter written to Anderson from a friend, to prove that the “Daughters of the Air” were from the start the driving mechanism of the tale.

            Mortensen’s comments regarding the Disney film adaptation of the story, however, seem lacking solid examples and seem instead saturated in cynicism. While he argues that the film “invokes a series of stories . . . [which] intrude like rude fragments,” he does not provide the reader with any examples of these so-called “manipulable quotations.” He also claims that the film “merely” hands children “sporadic, momentary experiences” and accuses Disney of producing “gift-wrapped . . . sexuality as watered down Freudian clichés.”  Although Mortensen provides no direct reason for the apparent bad taste the film has left in his mouth, his semantics and word choice make this quite clear. While Mortensen may have a point in his arguments, his lack of evidence and strong use of negative insinuations suggests that his argument is based more in his personal dislike of Disney than in evidence from the film itself.

            Mortensen’s analysis of the culture, origins, and iconicity of the Little Mermaid nonetheless provide good insight and background to this sad and beautiful tale. Previous to reading his arguments, I was among those who considered the final limb of Andersen’s story somewhat of a moral afterthought. However, Mortensen’s claim that this finale in actuality serves as a means though which “virtue and love for one’s parents are able to stand guard together over home life as abstract instantiations of actual parental supervision” has me quite convinced otherwise. Andersen’s own words, once reread, have suddenly made Mortensen’s point rather obvious: “Unseen we float in to human homes where there are children and, for every day we find a good child who makes father and mother happy and earns their love, God shortens our time of trial” (Tartar 232).

            Mortensen claims that “many have argued that the prince is the main character of the tale.” While I had never come across this assertion in the past, I can see what may draw people to this conclusion. In reading Andersen’s fairytale, the mermaid seems indeed quite helpless and meek beside the prince, who treats her as his possession, or pet: “The Prince said that she must never leave him, and she was allowed to sleep on a velvet cushion outside his door” (Tartar 228). This is frustrating because we, as readers, know that she is no meek “dumb child,” but rather a brave, strong, captivating one to which he owes his life (Tartar 229). Her strength is exhibited in her ability to enchant the kingdom and remain loving and sweet despite the pain which she must constantly bear: “she went on dancing, although every time her foot touched the ground it felt as though she was treading on sharp knives” (Tartar 228). Therefore, while the prince is the exalted character, I maintain that the mermaid, through her strength, endurance, and eventual self-sacrifice proves herself to be the true heart of the tale. This is also supported by Mortensen’s statement that the prince, despite his centrality in the story, “is neither able to act nor develop as a character.”

            I also found Mortensen’s discussion of the symbolism of the mermaid of particular interest. His claim that the half animal and half human aspects of the mermaid are symbolic of “the separation between the divine and the human . . . [and] is often perceived as the division between the divine and the animal within human beings.” It is true that Andersen’s text, in which the mermaid finds herself torn between the animal and human sides of herself, suggests that the mermaid’s search for an immortal soul is representative of her desire to be released form the animal/earth and rise into the divine/heavens: “when our life comes to an end we merely turn into foam on the water . . . we’ve no immortal soul . . . but human beings have a soul which lives forever” (Tartar 223-224). Mortensen in turn compares this symbolism to the purpose humans have for such a fairytale: it helps them understand their own struggles to reconcile their moral versus their sexual inclinations: “it is plausible . . . that we also have a need to explore human nature, particularly our own drives, and we do so when we see such drives reflected in the qualities found in or attributed to animals.”

This idea, like the many others proposed by Mortensen, is intriguing and certainly worth contemplation; it provides an example of the way in which the Disney adaptation of the film “watered-down” the elements of Andersen’s story, given the fact that in it her desire to become human was based solely out of rebellion, curiosity, and her desire for a man, not a soul. This, along with Mortensen’s other conclusions about the usefulness of the various literary elements of this fairytale as well as the cultural value of the film; provide a map of the ways in which this fairytale has been adapted into both folk and popular culture and the differences in the symbolism presented by the story in each arena.

Works Cited

Mortensen, Finn Hauberg. “The Little Mermaid: icon and disneyfication.” Scandinavian   Studies                        80.4 (2008): 437+. Expanded Academic ASAP. Web. 30 Nov. 2010.

Tatar, Maria, ed. The Classic Fairy Tales. W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.: New York, 1999.         Print.

Missing Mothers: A Contrast of Living and Dead Mothers in Literature

Throughout time, literature has been riddled with stories for children in which there is a pronounced absence of the child protagonist’s biological mother. These missing mothers, who as a rule are loving and perfectly maternal women, when contrasted with their ill-reputed replacements, reveal something about the gender roles that have been outlined by the some of the literature written for children over time. The differences in the ways in which living and dead mothers are presented in children’s literature can help reveal undertones that in effect define female gender roles, often resulting in a dichotomy in which there are only two types of women: good and virtuous or evil and sexual. This dichotomy can be observed through an examination and comparison of the numerous samples of mothers, both living and dead, that can be found in the children’s literature throughout time.

With a just a mild look into the histories of children’s tales, it does not take a very long time to realize that is not too uncommon at all in classic tales for a living mother to be portrayed rather poorly. In the Brothers Grimm version of Hansel and Gretel, for example, the children’s mother is alive, but she is selfish, cruel, and abandons the children (not only once, but twice). She calls her husband a “fool” for refusing to abandon the children. She then scolds the children upon their return and turns the blame on them. “You wicked children! Why did you sleep so long in the woods? We thought you were never going to come back” (Tatar 186). This is type cruelty is a common attribute given to the mothers in many stories who are either still living, or who have been introduced as a replacement to a deceased biological mother.

The living mother is also commonly associated with flesh as a motif. Bruno Bettelheim draws a parallel between the flesh mother and the witch’s gingerbread house, in which he states that the house, in actuality, is a symbol of the flesh mother’s body. He asserts that “a gingerbread house, which one can “eat up,” is a symbol of the mother, who in fact nurses the infant from her body. Thus, the house at which Hansel and Gretel are eating away . . . stands in the unconscious for the good mother, who offers her body as a source of nourishment” (Tartar 275). The house, however, turns out to be a trap; this gives the impression of a caution against the temptations of the flesh, aside from what it suggests about a child’s struggle to cope with being weaned from the breast. The old witch, who Bettelheim believes is commonly accepted, at least unconsciously, as the mother and witch simultaneously, is also associated with food, fat, and flesh as depicted in her intentions to eat the children (Tartar 277).

This theme of a “fleshy” living mother is also evident among the stories by the Brothers Grimm. Take for instance, The Juniper Tree, in which the child’s living stepmother, (whom, it should be noted, is also the biological mother of his sister) is depicted as cruel, jealous, hateful and devilish. Her jealousy is suggested in the fact that looking at her stepson made her “sick at heart.” When it is stated that “the Devil got a hold of her so that she began to hate the little boy” there is no doubt of the association of the living mother with evil and hatred (Tatar 191). Her affiliation with flesh also comes in the form of cannibalism, when she feeds her stepson’s flesh to his own father (Tatar 192).

This pattern can also be found outside of classic fairy tales, as is evident from a look into Ronald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach, in which a young and recently orphaned boy is sent to live with not one, but two aunts who prove to be the epitome of narcissism and cruelty. While little is said of James’ dead mother, it is made clear that she was a “gentle” mother and that the life she provided him with was one of peace and joy (Dahl 1). The aunts, on the other hand, were “selfish and lazy and cruel” (Dahl 2).

The hill atop which the aunts live with James is depicted as a rather barren and sterile place: “The garden, which covered the whole top of the hill, was large and desolate, and the only tree in the entire place . . . was an ancient peach tree that never gave any peaches” (Dahl 4). This bleakness serves to assert the aunts as anti-mothers, as they are set in opposition to fertility and motherhood by their surroundings. 

Their link to infertility, however, does not seem to diminish their association with sexuality and flesh, as the aunts are shown to exhibit a rather strong fascination with their bodies: “‘Behold my gorgeous curvy shape, my teeth, my charming grin! Oh beauteous me! How I adore my radiant looks!”’ (Dahl 7).

Yet another example in which a protagonist is stripped of a mother can be found in J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Like James, Harry is an orphan who is sent to live with an aunt and her family. While aunt Petunias’ links to sensuality and flesh are not as pronounced as the earlier works of the Brothers Grimm, her indulgence of her fat and gluttonous son Dudley is enough to draw a parallel. Dudley is described as having “a large pink face, not much neck . . . [with a] thick, fat head . . . Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig” (Rowling 21). The fact that Aunt Petunia is the clear enabler of this fleshy monstrosity likens her to him. She is the mother of hideousness. If the living/ replacement mother is not barren, like Aunts Spiker and Sponge, they can only birth wretchedness.

Consider, for instance, the descriptions and fates of the mother ogres in Charles Parrault’s Little Thumbling and Joseph Jacob’s Molly Whuppie. Both are mothers to apparently wretched creatures who, like Dudley, are set in opposition to their respective protagonists. The children of the ogress’ ultimately suffer death at the hands of the protagonists, and in the case of Molly Whuppie, the mother ogre meets the same end. In this case, while the mother ogres were not necessarily evil in deed, they were the mothers and wives of monsters, and by their very nature, were monsters themselves. This is yet another example of the negative way in which living mothers are often found to be depicted in contrast to living mothers. 

These many associations with flesh among the living mothers and substitute/ stepmothers allude to strong sexual undertones within the stories. The evil living mother, once associated with flesh, becomes a symbol of sexuality and carnality; entrenching in the readers’ minds a relationship between evil and a woman’s sexuality. This association lays the foundation for the construction of one half of the dual female gender role: the evil, sexual woman.

 In contrast to the wretchedness of the flesh mother, the dead mother is commonly associated with morality, reverence, a variety of positive maternal virtues, and of course, chastity. The Brothers Grimm, in Juniper Tree, portray the biological mother of the young male protagonist as “beautiful and pious,” adding that “. . . day and night she prayed for a child . . .” (190). The fact that she becomes pregnant after her experience under the juniper tree in which she prays for “a child as red as blood and as white as snow” is reminiscent of Immaculate Conception because she becomes pregenant only after her prayer beneath the tree. This which draws a soft parallel between the dead mother and the holy virgin.

The sequence describing her pregnancy is filled with images of and allusions to nature and fertility. We see this in the description of the green landscape and tall trees, the birds and blossoms; these images of nature associate the dead mother with the universal mother, or mother Earth, which strongly supports her role as a nurturing and maternal figure (compare this to barren, infertile world of the aunts in James and the Giant Peach) (Tatar 190). The fact that she dies from joy upon the birth of her son alludes to the sacrifice his mother made in giving him life; through the act of birth, she has sacrificed her life for his.

Young Harry Potter’s deceased mother, Lily also exhibits traits associated with purity and a positive maternal nature. Aside from the fact her name directly likens her to a flower, a symbol of nature, fertility, and femininity; she is described as a creature of pure and powerful love. This is clear in Dumbledore’s address to Harry: “Your mother died to save you . . . love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark . . .to have been loved so deeply, even though the person loves us is gone, will give us some protection forever” (Rowling 299). Therefore like the mother described by the Brothers Grimm in The Juniper Tree, Lily Potter becomes a symbol of pure love, a positive maternal figure, and the epitome of goodness. Unlike the gingerbread house, which held a false illusion of a mother’s devotion and sacrifice for her child, Lily’s sacrifice is real; she has literally given her body to save her son.

Through their deaths, these mothers are literally removed from the flesh; their deaths separate them from carnality, which further symbolizes their spirituality and purity. Through these connections, we can only conclude that the dead mother in children’s literature is often made to represents feminine purity, beauty, love and spirituality. This forms the other side of the gender role dichotomy in discussion: the virtuous virgin.

Therefore we are presented with the complete dichotomy of female gender roles as defined by much of the literature written for children over time. On the one hand, we have the virgin mother, the Earthly, purely maternal archetype of love and fertility; she is a woman of virtue, faith, and untainted, unconditional sacrifice. On the other, there sits the living mother, a creature of lust and flesh. She is the embodiment of greed, selfishness, the nurturer of gluttony and all that is monstrous. Although exceptions to the trend can be found in many pieces of children's literature, there is no lack of evidence this good/evil dichotomy exisits.  This duality offers little to no grey area for young girls. There is no room a woman who walks between the polar extremes of virtue and flesh; there is no middle ground, there is no compromise, there is no amnesty, no slack, no forgiveness; as in so many other social arenas regarding women, there can be only the virgin or whore.

References

Dahl, Ronald. James and the Giant Peach. New York: Puffin Books, 1961.

Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. New York: Scholastic Inc., 1997.

Tatar, Maria, ed. The Classic Fairy Tales. W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.: New York, 1999.         Print.