Stop Sleeping on the Fairies

By Phoebe Pineda

When I was little, my favorite Disney princess was Aurora. I watched my 2-disc special edition DVD copy of Sleeping Beauty religiously. I played around the house in my Aurora dress, pink with a sparkly overskirt. At night, tired out from my make-believe adventures, I curled up in bed next to a stuffed Aurora and Phillip, which my mom bought from the now-closed Disney Store at our local mall (RIP).

Then I got older, and other princesses began to draw my attention: Belle and her bookishness, Rapunzel and her free spirit, Mulan and her battle-ready wits. I was changing, and so was Disney. As I grew up, I watched princesses become self-aware (Enchanted’s Giselle), fiercely independent (Brave’s Merida), and incredibly powerful (Frozen’s Elsa—technically a queen, but still). And poor Aurora, who sleeps through most of her movie, who only gets 18 minutes of screentime and barely any dialogue, just couldn’t compare.

So why did younger me love Aurora so much in the first place? Well, for one thing, she wore pink. She was also gorgeous, with long blonde hair and sharp cheekbones—like many brown kids, I was not immune to the allure of Western beauty standards. But beyond her beauty, grace, and singing voice, Aurora honestly doesn’t have much to offer. She’s not much of a role model or even much of a character. She’s just kind of, well—there.

On the surface, it’s easy to look at Disney’s Sleeping Beauty and dismiss it as just another basic damsel-in-distress story, where the poor helpless princess must be rescued by a dashing masculine hero. In this case, the hero is Prince Phillip, a handsome stranger Aurora meets in the forest who turns out to be her betrothed. Phillip does everything he’s supposed to do: he slays the dragon, then breaks Aurora’s curse through true love’s kiss.

But here’s the kicker: Phillip, much like Aurora, actually has very little power or agency. He’d spend the entire second half of the movie languishing in Maleficent’s dungeon if it weren’t for Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather—the three good fairies and (in my opinion) the true main characters of Sleeping Beauty.

Out of all the characters in the film, the fairies have the strongest presence, the most dialogue, and the most clearly defined personalities. Flora is matronly and wise, Fauna is absent-minded but sweet, and Merryweather is short-tempered and stubborn. Their action drives the story forward: when Maleficent curses the infant Aurora to death by spinning wheel, Merryweather casts a protective spell, ensuring the princess’s survival. When the fairies realize Maleficent will still pose a threat despite the king’s best efforts, they whisk Aurora away into the forest, raising her as the peasant girl Briar Rose. When they attempt to salvage a disastrous birthday present, their magic accidentally alerts Maleficent’s raven, Diablo, to the princess’s location. And when they realize Aurora’s true love is Prince Phillip, they race to Maleficent’s keep to free him, arm him with a Shield of Virtue and a Sword of Truth, and charm his sword to pierce the ferocious dragon right in the heart.

Over the years, feminists have written off classic Disney heroines for being too weak and too passive. Snow White cooks and cleans for seven dwarves and has to be kissed out of a coma by some prince she only met once. Cinderella toils away for her abusive stepfamily and only finds freedom with help from a fairy godmother and—wait for it—a prince she only met once. To be clear, these princesses are products of their time. They reflect a certain ideal and reality for women that doesn’t necessarily resonate with us in the 21st century. In an age where Disney’s heroines shoot for their own hand, fight their own battles, and control their own destinies, the princesses of Disney's past can seem weak by comparison.

But it seems like we’ve spent so much energy criticizing these princesses for not being “feminist” or “empowered” enough that we’ve failed to recognize the feminine power right under our noses: the unhinged scheming of Snow White’s jealous stepmother, the delightful dastardliness of Maleficent, mistress of all evil; the quirky compassion of Cinderella’s fairy godmother. They might not be on all the merchandise, but they’re on our screens, taking the story by the reins, making magic.

When I discussed this article with my friend Cal, she mentioned how strange it was that in her limited memory of Sleeping Beauty, she could recall the image of Phillip fending off Maleficent the dragon while Aurora sleeps in her tower, but not the fairies. “It’s like how our mothers work so hard, but we don’t even think about it,” she commented.

I think Cal was onto something—not just about how we treat our mothers, but about how we view older women, particularly in media. In Disney, the mother figures are often evil, dead, or relegated to the background. Recent movies have begun to explore them in more depth, from Encanto’s Abuela Alma Madrigal to Turning Red’s Ming Lee, but it’s unheard of for a Disney movie—or any animated movie—to center the story of an older woman. They’re mentors, motivators, opponents, but rarely heroes. And that’s a shame because older women, whether good or evil, have been some of the most memorable characters in animation. Their stories deserve to be told.

The fairies raised Briar Rose for sixteen years. We glimpse, just for a moment, their heartbreak at giving her up. And surely Aurora’s devastation at learning her real identity isn’t just about losing her true love—the forest and her aunts are all she’s ever known. What were those sixteen years like, living in that cottage with no connection to the outside world and no family except three women figuring things out as they go?

Sleeping Beauty was one of the first Disney classics to be remade for live-action, reintroduced to audiences in 2014’s Maleficent. In that film, Maleficent becomes Aurora’s reluctant mother figure, stumbling into the role by way of the fairies’ apparent incompetence. While I applaud the filmmakers for lending depth and nuance to a relatively two-dimensional villain, I can’t help but wish they hadn’t undermined the fairies. They’re more than just color-coded comic relief. They saved Aurora’s life. They abandoned everything they knew to protect her. They are the heart and soul of the film.

I’m tempted to close this article by comparing myself to Aurora, awakening from a deep slumber with a renewed understanding of herself, her true love, and her story. But if I’m honest, I’ve always felt more like a quirky side character—the snarky narrator, or the plucky best friend—than a princess. Though the Disney heroine may have evolved to become more relatable to a modern audience, I see myself in Flora’s stubbornness, Fauna’s misguided attempts at baking a birthday cake, Merryweather’s short temper. I even played Flora in a school production of Sleeping Beauty when I was in 7th grade—and not to brag or anything, but I think my fellow fairies and I stole the show.

Aurora might be the feminine ideal we’re meant to aspire to, the epitome of beauty and grace, but the three fairies are just like us. They bicker over the color of a dress. They try new things and don’t always succeed. And they prove that no matter how small or clumsy or inexperienced we may be, we, too, can change the course of a story. We, too, can slay the dragon.