An Open Access Review Journal Encouraging Critical Engagement with the Continuing Process of Inventing the Middle Ages

February 18, 2014

Klitgård, Chaucer in Denmark

Klitgård, Ebbe. Chaucer in Denmark: A Study of the Translation and Reception History, 1782-2012. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2013.

Reviewed by Candace Barrington (BarringtonC@mail.ccsu.edu)

It might not be clear to most Chaucerians why they should be interested in Ebbe Klitgård’s fascinating new book on translation and reception history, Chaucer in Denmark. Denmark, after all, is a small county, and it’s been nearly a millennium since Sweyn II’s failed invasion marked the end of Danish incursion on British shores. Beyond an epic hero (Beowulf), a tragic one (Hamlet), and Old Norse remnants in modern English (a “happy oaf”), the Danes’ literary and linguistic influence on the English seems to have been minimal, leaving most Chaucerians to assume they have no professional interest in Danish language or literature. So, in addition to providing an overview of Klitgård’s study, this review will also try to convince readers why his work is important to Anglophone studies in medievalism as well as to Anglophone studies of Chaucer.

Chaucer in Denmark is the first comprehensive study of a non-Anglophone culture’s reception and translations of Chaucer, an unexpected distinction considering that Chaucer’s works traveled to colonies throughout the British empire and were widely translated in the past century.  This is not to say nothing has been written on Chaucer’s global reception. A handful of studies have provided brief overviews, with tantalizing hints of Chaucer’s readership in French, Romanian, and Hungarian. And we get a sense of Chaucer’s place in many more cultures when we read the introductions appended to translations that now number over fifty contemporary languages, ranging from Arabic to Finnish and Mongolian. Despite being a goldmine of information, these resources have generally been overlooked by Anglophone Chaucerians. The most extensive study of Chaucer’s modern reception, Steve Ellis’ Chaucer at Large: The Poet in the Modern Imagination (2000), remains focused on Chaucer’s Anglophone reception and considers translations into only varieties of Present Day English and not other languages. Even when scholars have looked beyond the Anglophone matrix of Australia, Canada, U.K., and the United States, their engagements remain steadfastly with Chaucer’s reception in the academy.   Thus the only previous book to study extensively Chaucer’s non-Anglophone reception, Richard Utz’s  Chaucer and the Discourse of German Philology (2002), focuses on the ways German scholarship has shaped our understanding of Chaucer; he does not look at translations of Chaucer’s tales into German. Klitgård’s book covers new terrain and should inspire scholars to examine what these understudied non-Anglophone Chaucerian translations can provide, from useful prisms for examining the receiving culture to new perspectives on Chaucerian hermeneutics.

Chaucer’s Danish reception also undermines some easy assumptions about the trajectory of British cultural expansion. Whereas global translations of Chaucer’s tales might be expected to neatly map onto the outlines of the British empire, a remnant of the British cultural impositions, Chaucer has had a rich history Denmark, near a part of Britain’s colonial expansion. Klitgård reveals a history of Danes discovering Chaucer on their travels and in their studies, part of the bounty of cultural goods brought back home to displace the German tradition. At the same time, the story of Chaucer in Denmark belies the truism that a rising tide lifts all boats, showing how the increased dominance of English has not always resulted in a correlating increased profile for Chaucer in Denmark. The story begins at a point when The Canterbury Tales were mishandled because English was relatively unknown in Denmark, then moves through a period of increased fortunes as English overtook German as the dominant second language, and ends with the Tales sidelined once again when Denmark’s educated class became thoroughly bilingual. By placing those representations of Chaucer’s Tales in protean contexts (English education and the spread of English in Denmark; Danish scholars and their criticism; and, non-academic forms of information, such as encyclopedias, anthologies, and reference works), this reception history records an intriguing dance in Denmark between the upward linguistic fortunes of English and the mixed literary fortunes of Chaucer’s Tales, the contours of which should encourage scholars to trace those in other linguistic and cultural domains.

Interspersed within this story is another, less obvious tale in which translations can reveal to English readers what they might otherwise overlook in Chaucer’s Middle English. For this reason, Chaucerians with no interest in medievalism can learn from Klitgård’s study. By carefully reading the Danish translations against their Middle English sources, he guides us through those moments where the Danish text illuminates the Middle English in ways unavailable to the non-Danish reader, thereby problematizing what Middle (and Present Day) English takes for granted. Sometimes it’s something as simple as the domesticating convention of translating place names, wherein the Tabard Inn becomes the “Herolds-Vamsen,” or herald’s coat, helping us keep in mind what “Tabard” would have evoked for Chaucer’s early audiences (120). At other times, it’s a matter of locating a Danish word that conveys more fully a Middle English word’s connotations now lost in Present Day English, the case when Uffe Birkedal translates in 1911 the Shipman’s disdain for a “nyce conscience” (I.398) as “øm Samvittighed” or tender conscience, “which in Danish has connotations to a softness that would be both foolish and too scrupulous in a character that makes stealing from others part of his living” (132). In the case of translating from historical forms of English to modern Danish, two languages that share a common Germanic ancestor, we can see how some syntactical patterns taken for granted in English are innovations unknown to its distant cousin. For instance, Otto Jespersen translates “elvyssh,” Harry Bailey’s description of the Chaucerian persona, “as ‘elleskudt,’ meaning hit or shot by the elvish people…[because] there is no idiomatic adjective correspondence in Danish” (105), reminding us that affixing the –ish suffix was somewhat uncommon in Old English and had reappeared as a rather recent strategy for converting nouns into adjectives modeled more on French than German antecedents. Other examples highlight the inevitable slippages of meaning that occur when an idea is so embedded in the source language that no translation can approximate it, a dilemma translators such as Børge Johansen  try to circumvent with comparable idioms, which in turn cause a new set of problems (220-233). Thereby re-awakening meaning in the source text, the translations allow us to engage more deeply with the Tales, initiating the hermeneutic conversation that Hans-Georg Gadamer finds beneficial to both interlocutors in the exchange. By providing numerous back translations into Present Day English and then carefully explicating what a Danish reader would see in the intermediate Danish translation, Klitgård guides his English readers into a textual world otherwise close to them. 

In telling “the particular story of how the most important medieval English poet has been translated, presented, analysed and discussed in one European country in the period from the Enlightenment to the present day” (273), Klitgård predominately examines three forms of reception: translation, reference works, and scholarship. The issues he examines in the translations include the use of archaic language, idioms, and euphemisms or deletions regarding sexually explicit passages, tale selection, and the translator’s general Chaucer biography and his complete works. With reference works, he is concerned about their accuracy vis-à-vis contemporaneous scholarship. And with scholarship, he establishes their contributions to the larger field of Chaucer Studies. To identify these bits of Danish Chauceriana, he has tracked down translations in textbooks, ephemeral magazine publications, and adaptations for the stage. Because Klitgård writes with a non-Danish audience in mind, he includes ample, well-placed background information on Danish culture and its history without overshadowing his main interest in Chaucer’s reception. 

Perhaps it is fitting a Danish scholar should produce the first study of this type. After World War II, the Danes were among Chaucer’s first and most prolific translators. As Klitgård’s thorough research establishes, the Danes had at this point already been translating Chaucerian texts for over 150 years. These translations predate any translations of Shakespeare into Danish, a fluke of literary history that arises here (and in the Americas) when Dryden’s and Pope’s versions of Chaucer are transmitted and translated without any reference to their Chaucerian source. The first oblique appropriation can be traced through a series of translations that begin with Dryden’s modernizations of the Wife of Bath and (via French and German translations and adaptations) end up as Johan Herman Wessel’s musical drama, Feen Ursel eller hvad der behager Damerne (1782); nearly a half century later, the second series of appropriations begins with Pope’s adaptation of the Wife’s Prologue and ends as Thomas Christopher Brunn’s Slagelse-Madamen (1823), a de-medievalized narrative poem set in nineteenth-century Denmark. Apparently neither Danish author realized his source was ultimately Chaucer. Shaped by the Danish sense of decorum and the public’s general unfamiliarity with English medieval culture, the translations are highly domesticated and refine any elements deemed coarse among bourgeois readers.

Klitgård continues his historical survey with the nineteenth-century nationalist turn to folklore studies. Among those active folklorist was Louise Westergaard, whose 1853 translations of Chaucer were part of her enthusiastic effort to introduce to Danish readers English writers she had discovered during her travels to England for the 1852 industrial exhibition in London. Relying on British scholarship and Thomas Wright’s midcentury collection of Chaucer’s works, her booklet, Chaucer, relates several tales by interweaving short passages in Middle English (using modernized spelling) with her glosses and explanatory notes in Danish. Primarily focusing on tales most amenable to Victorian tastes and sensibilities (such as The Clerk’s Tale and The Knight’s Tale), she selects for translation passages of high pathos in order to illustrate and exemplify the moral lessons serving her larger didactic purposes. By the second half of the nineteenth century, English begins to have an established presence in Denmark, and Chaucer’s elevated profile was aided by the work of Britain’s Chaucer Society and the Early English Text Society. During this time, anthologized Chaucer primarily consisted of “oblique translation mixed with summary” (92). Denmark also cultivated serious Chaucerians, such as Otto Jespersen, whose Chaucers liv og digtning [Chaucer’s Life and Poetry] (1893) included translated passages that moved beyond the usual tales of high emotion and didactic purpose.

Soon after the turn of the century, in 1903, English became “a compulsory main language in the Danish gymnasium for the first time” (110), and with that change in status we see more translations of Chaucer, each attempting a different effect. All these translations were generally shaped by conservative social mores, and Vilhelm Møller’s perplexing decision to include The Summoner’s Tale among the limited number of tales he translated in 1901 meant he had to severely bowdlerize it. Uffe Birkedal’s translations of The General Prologue and The Nun’s Priest’s Tale try to convey a medieval sense by using poetic terms so archaic they have to be explained; at other times he invents archaic sounding words as he tries to capture Chaucer’s sense in poetry rather than prose. During the interwar years, English language and literature surpassed German in Danish schools. Significant Chaucerian scholarship came from Denmark with Aage Brusendorff’s The Chaucer Tradition, which established the canon of Chaucer’s works. He brought together Anglo-American and German research, each otherwise isolated from the other. At the same time, Niels Møller’s three-volume survey of world literature, Verdenslitteraturen, gave Chaucer a more sympathetic and accurate treatment, and Margrethe Thunbo’s highly redacted and illustrated volume of tales for children neatly parallels choices made for Anglo-American editions of children’s Chaucer.

The war years accelerated the general anglification of Danish culture, a paradigm shift magnified by Danish resistance to censorship during the German occupation and manifest in an increase in the proportion of translations from English relative to other languages. Translation of Chaucer’s tales reflect this cultural shift in number and kind. Transforming the tales into short stories in line with contemporary tastes, Lis Thorbjørnsen’s translations do not include explanatory notes and affect a certain sentimentality by evoking the Danish past with archaic word choices and native idiomatic expressions. On the other hand, Flemming Bergsøe’s reader-friendly poetic versions admitted more of Chaucer’s exuberant humor, captured his tone, and followed his meter, while avoiding useless archaisms. Jørgen Sonne, a poet of note, continued this post-war Chaucerian effloresence with a series of lively translations, first in the 1950s into prose (translating The Reeve’s Tale, The Franklin’s Tale, and The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, plus unusual choices such at The Manciple’s Tale and The Physician’s Tale), and decades later into poetry (translating “To Rosemounde,” “The Complaint of Chaucer to His Purse,” and excerpts from The Book of the Duchess, The Parliament of Fowls, and “Merciles Beaute”). His unusual choices helped to fill in gaps of Chaucerian works previously not available in Danish.

The postwar period also features the only two complete (or nearly complete) translations of The Canterbury Tales, and each translator approached his enormous project differently from the other. Beyond one being in prose and the other in verse, each strove for different effects. Mogens Boisen, a renowned translator whose reputation often overshadowed that of the authors he carried over into Danish, relied primarily on R. M. Lumiansky’s 1948 modernization of the Tales into English prose. Boisen worked to make the medieval English tales accessible (even palatable), and the end result is a translation that avoid difficulties by veering toward euphemisms and direct moralizations. Børge Johansen’s 1958 poetic translation works to capture medieval authenticity by tending toward the old-fashioned, both retaining the old Danish spelling system (which had been reformed in 1948) and finding comparable generic forms (such as using a form of Danish folk poetry used for occasional verse with “dubious syntax, rhymes and idiom” for The Tale of Sir Thopas (221). He undergirds this mediated authenticity by relying on (and acknowledging) valid scholarship and Skeat’s Middle English edition. These remain the only complete Danish translations of The Canterbury Tales.

After this profusion of translations, Chaucer’s visibility in Danish culture has paradoxically diminished as the English language’s has risen. Since 1960, English has become widely read and spoken among the educated classes, and most “important English literature in prose is translated with a year of publication” (237). Left behind are older English works, such as Chaucer’s. Except for Shakespeare and Dickens, these older texts are seldom retranslated because they appeal primarily to highly educated readers who no longer need a native, Danish text to stand in for the foreign, English text. In schools, Chaucer is predominately taught either in Middle English or in modern English translations via extracts found in English literature anthologies. (By including Chaucer and other Middle English in their curriculum, Danish universities differ from those in other Scandinavian countries that begin their English literature studies with Shakespeare.) When Chaucer’s tales do appear outside the academy, they are translations of modern English popularizations, such as Barbara Cooney’s children’s picture book, Chanticleer and the Fox. By illustrating the provisional nature of any translation project, Klitgård’s Chaucer in Demark provides a salient reminder that Chaucer’s reception in non-Anglophone cultures is no less complex and no more predictable than the more familiar Anglophone reception in the Australia, Canada, United Kingdom, and United States.

With the commendable precedent for the study of Chaucer’s non-Anglophone reception now in place, Chaucerians and medievalists should encourage similar studies by our colleagues in predominately non-Anglophone universities and cultures.  Such work enriches the study of Chaucer in important ways, yet its survival is not necessarily ensured.  Because we know first-hand the difficulties of maintaining medievalist lines in English departments where we serve an English-speaking student population, we should be sympathetic to the even more precarious situations of Chaucerians housed in foreign-language departments. By attending to what they can tell us, ordering their books for our campus libraries, and by incorporating their research and translations into our own studies, we can support their important work and their careers.  We have just begun to listen to them; it would be shameful to lose their voices now. 

Candace Barrington
Central Connecticut State University

Tristan & Yseult, dir. Emma Rice

Tristan & Yseult Revisited

The West Coast American premiere of Cornwall’s Kneehigh Theatre’s production of Tristan & Yseult for the Berkeley Repertory Theatre, a review of the January 5, 2014 evening performance.

Reviewed by Kevin J. Harty, La Salle University (harty@lasalle.edu)

The story of Tristan and Yseult (both names, especially hers, have variant spellings) is the great love story of the western Middle Ages, and it has resonated since the Middle Ages in any number of genres.  Joan Tasker Grimbert’s Tristan and Isolde, A Casebook (1995; rpt. 2002) remains the indispensable source for studying the legend in its multiple retellings.  But, briefly, the story of an early pair of star-crossed lovers, which preceded by centuries that of Romeo and Juliet, found a literary home in the works of writers as diverse as the two Anglo-Norman writers Béroul and Thomas d’Angleterre, Eilhart von Oberge, Gottfried von Strassburg, Friar Róbert (who wrote in Old Norse), Sir Thomas, Malory, Tennyson, Swinburne, and Updike, as well as an equally rich home on canvas when, in the mid-nineteenth century, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Morris and Burne Jones eagerly took to the story as the subject of their work.   Film embraced the legend from at least as early as 1909, and, of course, Wagner coined the term Liebestod to describe the fateful ending of the eponymous heroes in the final aria of his 1859 opera Tristan und Isolde.

Cornwall’s Kneehigh Theatre’s production of Tristan & Yseult at the Berkeley Rep is a distinctly Aristotelian production.  No, not the Aristotle of The Poetics who defined tragedy and spoke of the unities all stage plays should have.  Rather, the Aristotle of The Metaphysics who wrote of certain works of art in which the totality is not, “as it were, a mere heap, but the whole is something besides the parts” (or, perhaps more familiarly, in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts).  Kneehigh’s production of Tristan & Yseult is definitely a play whose whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Kneehigh’s approach to the legend is a mix of the comic and the tragic, of stage play and stage musical.  Added to the legend here is a chorus of the unloved (the Love Spotters)—costumed not unlike a bunch of modern-day geeky birdwatchers—indeed, all the actors wear modern dress.  Upper house right is home to a musical combo, whose chanteuse, Whitehands (Carly Bawden),  functions as magistra ludi for the whole production, while also filling the role of the legend’s second Yseult (she of the white hands).  When first conceived as a stage project (Emma Rice adapts and directs from a script by Carl Grose and Anna Maria Murphy), the play was envisioned as a site-specific outdoor production at Rufford in Nottinghamshire and at Restormel Castle in Cornwall.  London’s National Theatre then picked up the original production and moved it indoors, and sent it on tour nationally and internationally.  Now, some ten years after the original production, it has come to Berkeley for its American West Coast premiere. I

In Kneehigh’s view, the legend retains its power because of the endless series of loveless worlds into which it has been adapted.  To suggest such continuing universal relevance and resonance, in this production Tristan (Andrew Durand) first speaks in French; Yseult (Patrycja Kujawska) first sings in Hungarian; Giles King’s Frocin’s blind devotion to King Mark (Mike Shepherd) is more than tinged with the homoerotic; and the same actor (Craig Johnson) plays the roles of both Morholt and Brangian. If in medieval Cornwall, the love of Tristan and Yseult dare not speak its name, in present day California, fresh from a successful fight for same-sex marriage and in the midst of a continuing debate over additional rights for the transgendered, too many loves have been constructed as unnamable.

The timelessness of the legend is further underscored by the modern set and costumes, by  the musical score which blends the Prelude to Wagner’s opera and “O Fortuna” from Carmina Burana with some playfully effective variations on songs by Willie Nelson and Roy Orbison, and by Andrew Durand’s Tristan with his torso tattoo of an outline of the borders of the state of Georgia underneath which are written the words “on my mind.”   Just as for Ray Charles, so too for Tristan:

Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you.

I must admit that, at first, I couldn’t decide whether the tattoo was permanent or part of Durand’s make-up and costume, but in the final analysis it makes no difference.  That the tattoo is integral to the production, and to Kneehigh’s approach to retelling the legend, is clear since it is featured prominently on the program cover and on advertisements for the production.

Even before the production begins, the Love Spotters interact with the audience moving between the house and the stage, taking notes, searching with binoculars, and distributing heart-shaped bits of paper.  To the accompaniment of Wagner’s Prelude, they explain how, for them, “Love is at arm’s length.”  They are soon joined by Whitehands who welcomes the audience to the Club of the Unloved, whose members stand “on the sidelines” as they tell a love story of “blood and fire,” a story they (and we in the audience) are all in, “all of us.”  As the dying Tristan appears crying “Noir ou blanc?” Whitehands notes:

“He need not fear entry into our club, for he has been loved enough to save a thousand loveless souls.  But this is the end: and you cannot have an end without a beginning.”

The audience, later inflating the white balloons distributed to them with their programs, will further become participants in the production when they join with the Love Spotters to celebrate the marriage of Mark and Yseult.

King Mark then enters with the ever-oleaginous Frocin at his side, as both describe the Cornish-centric loveless world in which they live—“the best kings rule not with their hearts, but with their brains.”  Indeed, war, not love, is in the air, as the Irish King Morholt threatens invasion, and Tristan arrives at court, his very birth seemingly a warning against love:

“Je suis né en tristesse, par pitié,
Contre tout conseil ma mère a suivi son coeur.” 

Morholt’s entrance through the audience with a band of thugs in effect puts the audience under lockdown, and leads to a confrontation first with Mark and then with Tristan –“If there’s anyone I hate more than the Cornish, it’s the French.”  While Mark and Frocin quickly capitulate, Tristan challenges Morholt and is stabbed in the side, but not before driving his knife through Morholt’s eye.  The suddenly courageous Mark boasts that he will now he will marry Yseult not out of love, but out of revenge for Morholt’s numerous past transgressions—

“For every life you stole every village you burned, every unjust step you took on this soil.” 

—and the still bleeding Tristan is quickly dispatched to Ireland to retrieve Mark’s bride.

The events that take place in Ireland are familiar enough—Yseult unknowingly heals Morholt’s murderer, Tristan, and both fall in love with each other after they (here willingly) drink a love potion—but the casting of the same actor who has just played Morholt as Yseult’s faithful maid, Brangian, is as disconcerting as it is in keeping with Kneehigh’s reinterpretation of the legend.  If the legend is ultimately the celebration of a love so pure, so unfailing, so timeless, and, therefore, so rare, how better than the casting of a frumpy male Brangian to emphasize that point?  When on the wedding night, Brangian must substitute herself for the now no longer virginal Yseult and then in the morning slip out unnoticed from under Mark as the sullied Yseult takes her place, it is with Brangian that we are meant to sympathize and identify, for we and our fellow Love Spotters, like her, yearn more than anything else to be loved:

“I shook like a leaf.
He whispered, ‘Be calm, sweet one’—
But of course I could not speak.

He inhaled the scent of the flesh
As if he wanted to remember it.
And then . . . then I felt the weight of him,
Oh Lord!
My knees quaked, my hands trembled,
My stomach turned somersaults. . . .

But last night it was me who was beloved.”

Of course, we know all too well, that in the world of Tristan and Yseult love is doomed to fail.  Mark will not in the end be deceived—Frocin makes sure of that.  And here Frocin is more the stereotypical mean-spirited dwarf of medieval legend.  His devotion to Mark is not just that of an overly dutiful servant to his master.  Frocin’s obsession with exposing Tristan and Yseult’s affair to Mark seems rooted as much in jealousy as it is in loyalty—jealousy because he is unloved, and jealousy because the object of his affection seems to be Mark.  While Mark here may, despite Frocin’s machinations, waver in his desire for revenge, this somewhat sympathetic portrait of Mark would not be the first recent one.  Rufus Sewell’s Mark in Kevin Reynold’s 2006 film Tristan + Isolde breaks with tradition in being a sympathetic, if not wronged, figure.

            Tristan is finally, as in the legend, deceived by Whitehands:

“You want to know?
You really want to know if your precious Yseult is coming? . . .
Black. The sail is black.”

and both Tristan and Yseult die.  But the play’s coda is delivered by an unusually pensive Mark (again in Kneehigh’s version there are interesting shades to his character):

“Where does all the wasted love go?”

—as Tristan and Yseult join the Love Spotters—

“It is hard to keep things white:
Dirt loves it, blood loves it, sin loves it.
If one were baptised in black,
It would not show the dirt picked up along the way.”

In a world (both on and off stage) so lacking in love, where indeed does all the wasted love go?

Cornwall has long been that forgotten fifth part of Britain.  Yet it is also, perhaps, fittingly, if not ironically, home to one of the most unforgettable love stories, as Kneehigh’s production makes clear.  Emma Rice notes in the preface to the printed text of the play that this production of Tristan & Yseult is “my letter to love . . . simple in its telling and true to the heart of the ancient myth.” (18)

Tristan & Yseult, November 22, 2013-January 19, 2014, a project of Cornwall’s Kneehigh Theatre and a production of the Berkeley Repertory Theatre in Berkeley, California.  Adapted and directed by Emma Rice from a script by Carl Grose and Anna Maria Murphy.  Design by Bill Mitchell. Lighting by Malcolm Rippeth. Sound by Gregory Clark and Helen Atkinson, with Stu Baker as Composer and Ian Ross as Musical Director. Script: Tristan & Yseult, The Bacchae, The Wooden Frock, and The Red Shoes. London: Oberon Modern Plays, 2005.

Kevin J. Harty
La Salle University

February 2, 2014

Buck/Lee, dirs.: Frozen


Frozen. Dir. Jennifer Lee and Chris Buck. Disney, 2013. Currently in theaters. 108 mins.

Reviewed by: Elan Justice Pavlinich (justice7@mail.usf.edu)


Frozen has been under revision since 1943.  Proposed, abandoned, revived, and defunded, for decades multiple teams at Disney have struggled to render the dark tale by Hans Christian Andersen, The Snow Queen, relatable to audiences.1  Now, after a tradition of frustration, writers Jennifer Lee, Chris Buck, and Shane Morris have constructed a screenplay that frustrates tradition.  Directed by Jennifer Lee and Chris Buck, with powerful songs by Robert Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez, Frozen came to fruition before audiences in November of 2013.

Following on the heels of Disney-Pixar’s recently released period piece, Brave, Frozen is what Leila K. Norako has described as “a fantasized medieval landscape, [that] is ultimately intended to be a modern one.”2  Frozen engages familiar Disney conventions in order to convey a modern moral that criticizes the traditional heteronormativity of the canon.  Although the medieval context is superficial, Frozen anticipates many of the roles codified by Andreas Capellanus in The Art of Courtly Love, along with features common to romances by such poets as Chrétien de Troyes and Geoffrey Chaucer.
 
Frozen is a courtly romance that manipulates the courtly romance structure.  It exploits qualities of familiar Disney animations to sacrifice the heteronormative “happily ever after” in favor of a morality that is facilitated by fantasy and grounded in realism.  While Frozen operates in the idealized fairy tale realm, it complicates the structure audiences expect of Disney fantasy in order to privilege practical morals.  As the narrative subverts heteronormative fairy tale expectations, the privileging of practicality and familiarity reconstitutes the structure of the fairy tale and, through a series of frustrations and doubling, integrates familiar experience as essential to—rather than opposed to—the fantasy.

Critics, however, are outraged by the aesthetic direction of Frozen.  Sociologist Philip N. Cohen has found that the princess’s eyes are bigger than their wrists, and Amanda Marcotte argues that Frozen sends the message that “an inherent part of being female is to be as small and diminutive as possible, and impossibly so.”3  Granted, the chronic doe-eyed expression of Frozen’s leading ladies does convey vulnerability, but this aesthetic bolsters the strategy to upset the heteronormativity the audience might assume customary to a Disney animation.  These eyes are familiar.  They resemble other Disney princesses such as Belle of Beauty and the Beast and Jasmine of Aladdin.  Just like the Disney logo, computer-animation, and the medieval setting, the dainty doe-eyed princess informs audience expectations: As part of the Walt Disney Animated Classics canon we can expect singing and dancing, love (at first sight), and a heteronormative “happily ever after” that is sealed with a kiss.  The standard Disney aesthetic establishes expectations for this familiar structure.  Deviation from this structure, however, is more than mere plot twists.  Upsetting the standard moral that goes hand in hand with a heteronormative “happily ever after,” Frozen seems to issue an apology for the dangers of the Disney tradition, and by imposing realism onto the fantasy narrative, Frozen renders the realistic fantastic.

In fact, much of what is familiar about the courtly love tradition is established and undone as the plot progresses.  Audience reliance on standard Disney plot structure is upset from the very opening.  To summarize, Elsa (Idina Menzel) and Anna (Kristen Bell) play in the ballroom of their castle when Elsa accidentally strikes Anna in the head with her cryokinesis.  On account of this accident, we learn from the trolls that it is easy to thaw the brain (erasing Anna’s memory of Elsa’s powers) but the heart is far more difficult to fix, establishing the familiar separation between matters of the mind, which are governed by reason, and matters of the heart, which are persuaded by passion.  Following this, Elsa goes into isolation to contain the secret of her powers, the King and Queen of Arendelle die at sea leaving Elsa and Anna alone and all the more estranged from one another, leading up to Elsa’s necessary emergence for her coronation and the first public celebration at Arendelle in years.  From this point, Frozen establishes a familiar courtly romance structure.  It is Spring—the season of love—just before a celebration that will unite royalty from other realms.  Anna is fantasizing about love at first sight before bumping into Hans (Santino Fontana), Prince of the Southern Isles.  Anna and Hans share character traits such as clumsiness, they finish each other’s sentences, and they sing the standard Disney duet.  But their plans for marriage are upset by Elsa’s refusal to bless their union.  A fight breaks out, revealing Elsa’s powers to everyone at the coronation celebration and she is forced to flee her own kingdom across the frozen fjord and into the mountains where her new isolation permits her to use her powers freely and happily.  She literally let’s her hair down and fashions an intricate castle of ice.

Now, Frozen complicates the Disney fairy tale structure by presenting familiar conventions, doubling them, and reconstituting the narrative center and periphery.  Typically, one might assume that our protagonist is the elder sister, who has a rightful claim to the crown of Arendelle and who possesses magical powers that are worthy of a Walt Disney Animated Classic.  But Elsa is an outcast who enjoys her hermitage in the wilderness.  She is not the dainty princess who communicates with animals and sacrifices her own well being for the happiness of others.  For all of the familiarity established by the film’s opening, the instability of a central character is a forewarning to the audience that the standard Disney structure does not apply.  The medieval kingdom in springtime customary to the courtly love story is overtaken by the blizzard unleashed by Elsa.  As the plot progresses, Elsa, the elder sister with political and magical power, recedes, and Anna becomes the focus of the narrative.  Kristen Bell describes Anna as “not a good fighter, she doesn't have good posture, she's not very elegant, and she's constantly putting her foot in her mouth.  But she's a good person and she's utterly determined.”4  Anna is the second sister, without inheritance or supernatural powers, who becomes the main character.  Anna, who is traditionally decentered by her elder sister Elsa, becomes the new center in defiance of the standard Disney structure. 

Reconceiving the center in this way, however, incites another anxiety.  If Anna is the protagonist princess in a Disney fairy tale, according to the tradition she ought to be recuperated by the end of the trial through wedded bliss to the man she fell in love with at first sight.  Then, what of Elsa?  Frozen’s producer, Peter Del Vecho, explains, “There are times when Elsa does villainous things but because you understand where it comes from, from this desire to defend herself, you can always relate to her.”5  But within the standard Disney structure, Elsa is a queen who threatens her own people.  Either her actions render her antagonist, or identification with her character complicates traditional categories within the narrative.

Frozen plays with this uneasiness.  Anna teams up with Kristoff (Jonathan Groff) and his reindeer Sven to bring Elsa back to Arendelle and save the people now trapped by the frozen fjord.  Elsa casts them out by creating a giant snow monster and again strikes Anna with her powers—this time in the heart.  We learn from the trolls that the heart can only be thawed by an act of true love, thus Anna is affirmed as the center of the romance as they race to return her to Hans of the Southern Isles, because she fell in love with at first sight, and so only his kiss can break the spell. 

Except, Hans is conning Anna.  Hans plans to facilitate Anna’s death, condemn Elsa as the culprit, and control Arendelle himself.  He provides a bold new moral:  Prince charming may not be trustworthy.  Frozen demonstrates that love does not happen at first sight; rather love flourishes through experience, as trials reveal a person’s true character.  For a Disney fantasy this is an oddly practical moral. 

Still, if Hans was a bust, what will save Anna and Elsa?  Thank goodness they kept a back-up hunk just in case of an emergency.  Before Hans confesses his true intentions, his character actually garners sympathy as Anna and Kristoff show signs of developing affection, and once again it is made unclear whether it is more appropriate to identify Hans or Kristoff as the Disney standard suitor whose efforts will recuperate the damsel in distress to the heteronormative “happily ever after.”  Kristoff does not come from royalty, he is certainly not refined, and he is socially marginalized—just like Anna!  They met circumstantially and seemed to be at odds at first.  Now, after enduring the aventure, they share an ineffable bond.6  It is Kristoff who can administer the kiss that will save Anna’s heart from freezing.  His love will recuperate the doe-eyed princess to the fairy tale tradition; without him Anna is doomed to become an ice sculpture emblem of failed love.

As the audience rolls their eyes anticipating the inevitable kiss towards which the traditional Disney classic culminates, Anna turns away from Kristoff and towards her sister.  She relinquishes herself to the ice in order to protect Elsa.  Anna reaffirms the bond between them and redefines ‘true love’ as a dialectical process conjured between kin, rather than some inexplicable and ineffable occurrence between royal strangers.  Anna’s action saves her sister, and because it is an act of true love she also saves herself.  The center of the traditional structure, the heteronormative kiss, has been pushed to the periphery twice, frustrating the standard Disney narrative, in favor of self-sacrifice and the bond between siblings. 

Audience expectations are continuously undermined, privileging practical morals such as ‘don’t trust strangers despite their charm,’ and ‘familial bonds constitute true love’ over and above the fantasy romance that has dominated much of Disney Animated Classics.  This privileging of realism at the expense of idealism facilitates audience assumptions in order that these practical morals emerge as the new ideal.  That is, there is no sense of having been manipulated by the cartoon fantasy to forego practicality.  Because the realism of the narrative emerges from a structure of frustrated idealism, the practical morals reconstitute the center of the narrative by which familiar experiences with which the audience can identify are rendered fantastic.

Upsetting the Disney heteronormative tradition does not end with the explicit and repeated derailment of the kiss.  It is also subtly reaffirmed by Elsa’s rise to power.  We’ve seen Cinderella and Ariel both blissfully wed to their princes, but rarely have we seen a Disney queen rule (justly).  Women in power is not a simple notion that plays out within the fantasy, negligent of practical concerns.  The reality of Elsa’s rule is made part of the fantasy through a real decision that does not lend itself easily to “happily ever after.”  Over the course of the film masculine forces control commerce: the Duke of Weselton seeks to infiltrate Arendelle to exploit their trade; Oaken, the mountain shopkeeper, overcharges in the midst of a winter sale because he has no competitors; and Hans plays the courtly love game because he is the youngest brother and must marry into wealth.  (Of course Elsa and Anna, historically, would have been integrated into these economic concerns as property.)  Elsa’s command of power, however, is not an idealized conclusion that does not involve itself in the messiness of authority.  She places Hans into captivity to be returned to his people for punishment and she ceases trade with Weselton.  This seems like a simple enough command, but it demonstrates practical leadership decisions made by a woman that have potential consequences within the Disney fantasy.  Granted, Elsa’s decisions are still quite tidy because she does not explicitly execute Hans, and severing the bond with Weselton is based solely on personal moral offense rather than the ambiguous commerce of her kingdom.  This is, after all, a children’s cartoon.  The issuing of a command that affects all of Arendelle from the doe-eyed Queen reorganizes the economy corrupted by men and integrates realism into the idealism of Elsa’s rule.

In addition to frustrating heteronormativity, Frozen presents the natural realm along a spectrum that ranges from realistic to fantastic.  In accordance with common experience, Sven, the reindeer, does not use words.  This upsets the anthropomorphism characteristic of Disney fables in favor of familiarity.  Conversations in which Sven’s dialogue is supplied by Kristoff resonates with how some people talk for their pets at home to enhance the pet’s participation in circumstances and to translate and engage the pet perspective for their human companions.  The integrity of the natural realm is maintained because Sven depicts a range of emotive responses.  He is equal to other characters in that his actions and reactions mobilize the narrative, but he uses reindeer morphemes rather than human words.  Realism, however, is not the governing principle behind Sven’s lack of anthropomorphism.  There are moments when Sven’s lack of English contrasts starkly with the speaking roles of other characters who are closely acquainted with the natural realm, such as the musical number performed by Olaf the snowman and the trolls who live in the forest disguised as boulders.  Kristoff’s voice imposed onto and in place of Sven’s inability to speak commands attention for its departure from the Disney anthropomorphic standard and it assumes privilege for its realism and familiarity.

Finally, concerning anachronism and medieval ceremonial practices, ritual in Frozen has been evacuated.  A term borrowed from Stephen Greenblatt’s Transreformational analysis of signification, ‘evacuated’ refers to the properties of the medieval mass that are reappropriated for the stage in accordance with Protestant criticism of the theatricality of traditional religion.7  Greenblatt’s terminology appropriately describes Elsa’s coronation, which imitates medieval ritual but signifies Protestant anxiety.  Frozen stands between the ideal of an efficacious medieval priest, and a post-Reformation anxiety over the trappings of traditional religion.8  The priest utters a phrase to pronounce her queen and, like the hoc est of the medieval mass, she is rendered the ruler by the priest’s efficacy.  The orb and scepter, however, have been evacuated of their properties as relics and their signification is replaced, by Elsa and the audience, with anxiety because we know that anything she touches will visibly frost over.  The ritual coronation begets social cohesion in the moment of performance without identifying any specific religious allegiance, but as Elsa’s political body is revealed to be corrupt and she is accused of witchcraft the stability that she signifies unravels along with the well being of her people.  The coronation ceremony and Elsa’s conformity to tradition do not unite Arendelle.  Elsa’s powers, the cryokinesis perceived as corruption, become the source for social cohesion amongst her people, privileging the passion of self-expression rather than romantic feelings, as the sociopolitical source for a new happily ever after.

Frozen presents conventional Disney animation features integrated with common experience in order to upset problematic fairy tale ideals and to present a practical morality that privileges the process of emotional development and the freedom of personal expression.  By manipulating traditional Disney narrative qualities Frozen signifies the emergence of a fairy tale that presents the practical as inherent to the fantastic.

Elan Justice Pavlinich
University of South Florida




1 Jim Hill, “Countdown to Disney Frozen: How one simple suggestion broke the ice on the Snow Queen’s decades-long story problems,” Jim Hill Media, October 18, 2013, accessed December 28, 2013, http://jimhillmedia.com/editor_in_chief1/b/jim_hill/archive/2013/10/18/countdown-to-disney-quot-frozen-quot-how-one-simple-suggestion-broke-the-ice-on-the-quot-snow-queen-quot-s-decades-long-story-problems.aspx.
2 Leila K. Norako, “Andrews, Chapman, and Purcell, dirs.: Brave,” Medievally Speaking, August 30, 2013, accessed December 20, 2013, http://medievallyspeaking.blogspot.com/2013/08/andrews-chapman-and-purcell-dirs-brave.html.
3 Amanda Marcotte, “New Disney Heroine’s Eyes Are Bigger Than Her Wrists,” Slate, December 18, 2013, accessed December 22, 2013, http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2013/12/18/anna_in_frozen_her_eyes_are_bigger_than_her_wrists.html.
4 Bryan Alexander, “Frozen defrosts Kristen Bell’s Disney dreams,” USA Today, June 17, 2013, accessed December 28, 2013, http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/movies/2013/06/17/frozen-disney/2389171/.
5 Brendon Connelly, “Inside The Research, Design And Animation Of Walt Disney’s Frozen With Producer Peter Del Vecho,” Bleeding Cool, September 25, 2013, accessed December 28, 2013, http://www.bleedingcool.com/2013/09/25/inside-the-research-design-and-animation-of-walt-disneys-frozen-with-producer-peter-del-vecho/.
6 Anne Brannen, “What is an Aventure, and why would I want one,” Anne Brannen Life Coaching, 2014, accessed January 5, 2014. http://annebrannen.com/what-is-an-aventure-and-why-would-i-want-one/.
7 Stephen Greenblatt, Shakespearean Negotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England, (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1989), 126.
8 Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400-1580, (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 298 and 390.