Fairy Tale and Film

The Enchanted 
Screen
, Zipes argues that ‘fairy tales films, the very best of them, are con-
cerned with profound human struggles and seek to provide a glimpse of 
light and hope’, while the worst ‘belong to the society of the spectacle 
and generate illusions that divert us from we need most ... illumination 
about the causes of our conflicts, hope that we may enjoy epiphanies 
that deepen the meaning of our lives’ (2011: 350). Immediately, a prob-
lem of interpretation arises: when is a film simply a diversion, and how 
can ‘hope’ be distinguished from such ‘illusions’? Zipes selects half a 
dozen examples deemed to be particularly worthy of commendation, 
all of which cast children as protagonists yet do not offer ‘escapist’ 
assurances through allowing the children’s desires to take precedence. 
In fact, in two of his examples, 
Pan’s Labyrinth
and 
Mermaid
(Anna 
Melikyan, 2007), the protagonists – both alluring figures with vivid 
imaginations – die in perplexing and pointless fashion. While Zipes 
applauds the fact that these films do not ‘create a false sense of happy 
end or an empowered child who can obtain anything he or she wants 
and master the world’ (366) we might ask what is wrong with such a 
fantasy, and why dreams of empowerment are so negatively regarded. 
The fact that both films suggest a rebirth in another realm seems far 
more unsettling, particularly given his wariness about issuing ‘false 

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Epilogue 
167
promises’. The purpose of fairy tales is manifold, yet far from simply 
allowing dark realities to engulf the protagonist, they provide a means to 
transcend problems, rather than succumb to them. In fact, Zipes has 
claimed, in an earlier work, that ‘we have been attracted to fairy tales 
because they are survival stories with hope’ (2006: 27). It consequently 
seems imperative, one would assume, to applaud tales where pro-
tagonists not only face adversity, but successfully overcome it. A happy 
ending is far from necessarily conservative. On the contrary, it grants 
us the imaginative power to rethink what is possible. Unlikely heroes 
who earn themselves a kingdom, imperilled heroines who put a difficult 
past behind them, fabulous beings and magical encounters that enable 
dreams to come true may all seem unbelievably far-fetched, yet a sense 
of wonder should also be valued for the creative freedom it allows to 
defy apparent restrictions and imaginatively reconceive reality. 
Many of the most inspiring films of recent years corroborate what 
is arguably the fairy tale’s greatest aim: the belief that we might bend 
reality to our will, with protagonists who use their imaginations to 
rewrite the rules and turn established ideas on their head. The hero-
ines in 
Whale Rider
(Niki Caro, 2002)
 
and 
The Secret of Roan Inish 
(John 
Sayles, 1994) pay no heed to cynical adults in their midst, or belief-
systems that have no place for them. Instead they create a world they 
can fit into, in which they fulfil a central heroic mission. Their faith 
in local myths is rewarded with a magical encounter, thus providing 
their embattled communities with a sense of identity and hope. A 
Maori legend is thus rewritten, granting a 12-year-old girl a central 
place as the mythical whale rider, repudiating the limitations her elders 
have set in finally assuming the role of leader, while the Selkie legend 
is similarly reborn through a young girl’s imagination, reuniting her 
fragmented family in rural Ireland. Fantastical events may be included 
in these narratives, yet they seek to imbue a recognisable world with 
magic, fuelled by their heroines’ refusal to accept mundane reality 
when they can believe in something better. In a similar vein to these 
girls, Hushpuppy (Quvenzhané Wallis), the six-year-old protagonist of