Wait–How Is Ash Ugly?
This question has been posed to me a couple of times by fans. If this is a modern retelling of Beauty and the Beast, then isn’t the Beast supposed to be ugly? Ash is described as being exceptionally handsome. Irresistible, even. What gives?
The answer to this question lies, in part, in the afterword I wrote to the last installment. I point out, there, that “the principle problem with most modern retellings is they keep the bones of the story but lose the part where it’s a modern story, meant to be relatable to modern women. Jokes about “Stockholm Syndrome relationships” arise from the fact that, to modern women, the story in its most-used form makes no sense. They don’t relate to Belle; she isn’t a modern woman, in any sense, and even if she’s suddenly plunked down in modern day, in some sort of vague lip service to the idea the whole “tale as old as time” bit, her problems are still nonsensical. Modern women don’t, you know, get traded by their fathers over roses.
“Of course, they didn’t in the middle ages—or in the 1750’s—either. The rose is a metaphor. For any number of reasons that women were sold into what essentially amounted to indentured servitude. The rose represents something that’s perceived as perfect. To the point of lunacy, even, desired far beyond its actual worth. It doesn’t matter what the object of lust is, really; whether a rose or a chest of jewels. A thing’s value, ultimately, lies in the perception of its value.
Just as in Beauty and the Beast, the rose has greater value than Belle.”
Another “lost in translation” element of this tale tends to be, too, the Beast’s looks. In the original, the Beast isn’t cursed to be ugly. Rather, he’s cursed that his outside might match his inside. He’s ugly already–where it counts. Which brings me to the crux of my argument:
Belle is named for the Disney character, with whom she shares many commonalities, but the story itself is in fact far older. Originally a medieval tale, it was first put down in writing by a female author, the well-regarded novelist Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, and published in 1756. The same year when the Treaty of Westminster was signed, the first candy factory in the world opened in Germany, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s father published his now-famous textbook on learning to play the violin.
Ironically, most modern versions of Beauty and the Beast focus on something that the original story did not: this notion of a superficially ugly guy being not so bad after all. And what makes him ugly is always superficial. Oh, he has a scar. Or oh, he’s not a billionaire with a gigantic, pulsing…wallet. Which…okay, just how shallow are we saying women are, here?
Moreover, what actually makes a person ugly: what’s on the outside, or what’s on the inside? As far as literary devices go, the disposable “problem,” i.e. the hypothetical scar, is a pretty cheap trick. Easily gotten over, by the heroine and everything else. Because, after all, who really cares? Beauty fades, but bitch is forever. A point that Charlotte makes well, in her last visit to Ash’s castle.
The question of what actually makes someone ugly is usually sidestepped, because the things that make us ugly are almost always a little more challenging to get past. When I was first conceiving of this story I wondered, what would make someone a beast today? What’s the modern equivalent of the wolf outside the door, that so terrified people in the middle ages? Or indeed, the man who’d be regarded as a “beast” during the reign of King George II?
In a time when disfiguring injuries were common, would physical deformity really be seen as terrible? Richard III had severe scoliosis. The whole Hapsburg line was famous for its deformities. Lesser problems like smallpox scars were also common and, indeed, not seen as terribly problematic. Lost teeth, even lost limbs were a fact of life. What were a few scars?
So really, what we have here is a tale of values: a woman who’s undervalued and a man who is, perhaps, overvalued. And who, as a result, has never required much of himself. In learning to see his captive as a person, he discovers that he, himself, is a person. And that, really, is the tale as old as time: that as we gain wisdom, we gain a more meaningful understanding of what is and is not important. Looks go but love, in both the immediate and in the more universal sense, is forever.
It isn’t that Belle “loves him better,” it’s that they both tap in to the love in the universe. And so see themselves more clearly. As we value ourselves, we value others. Neither, in the end, loves the other for their position in society or for their looks. Both love themselves, first. Enough to be themselves.
The question was also asked, is Ash actually cursed?
That, you’ll just have to decide for yourself. I will point out, though, that in no fairy tale is a curse the ultimate determiner of one’s fate. It’s an obstacle, an unfortunate circumstance. Free will is always an element and, in the end, curse or no curse, we’re defined by the choices we make. In tough times especially. And I’d argue that living without love is the greatest curse of all.
Thoughts? Are you enjoying the story? Are there other questions, you’d like to see answered?
