Princesses were glamorous and beautiful, but I don’t recall a single prince who had any personality at all.

In my book LOVELAND: A MEMOIR OF ROMANCE AND FICTION, I spend some time thinking about how fairy tales influenced my idea of romance when I was a little girl. Princesses were glamorous and beautiful, but I don’t recall a single prince who had any personality at all. An exception to the rule of bland prince was Beauty and the Beast. I was supposed to identify with Beauty, but the Beast was far more interesting. And there was something about the heroine’s courage in living with him, her ability (feminine ability!) to tame him, the way he became putty in her hands, that was a precursor of the many stories of romance I was to read in the future. In fact, when I was writing my PhD dissertation, I argued that novels like Jane Eyre were enactments of the Beauty and the Beast myth — through love, a woman conquers a man who would otherwise dominate her. That did not play out so well in my own life, not surprisingly.

Beauty’s power comes from the Beast’s need for her, which is greater than her own feeling for him. If you read the original French tale by Mme. de Beaumont, you’ll see it’s very different from the Disney version. In my most recent book, THE GLASS SLIPPER: WOMEN AND LOVE STORIES, I had a good time contrasting that 18th century version with Disney’s movie, representing traditional vs modern views of romance: Mme. de Beaumont makes it into a moralizing tale about the virtue of marrying someone of good character (who will also support you in style), not so much romantic love. In Disney’s hands, Beauty and the Beast becomes a tale (not exactly old as time) that says you, the young female audience, can have both Pop Feminism AND the rich, buff guy at the same time if you play your heroine cards right.

In other words, the Beast made a deep impression on me, so much so that now I’m addicted to the Instagram feed #WildFreeLions, where I can get my fill of big eyes and paws, impressive manes, and fierce growls.