Hans Christian Andersen’s tragic short story, “The Little Mermaid,” seems to be a metaphorical reflection of a doomed romance that unfolded in the author’s own life. The short story, which was published in 1836, lines up with a series of love letters that Andersen wrote in the mid-1830s to a young Duke named Edvard Collin. Many historians have concluded that the two men were engaged in a romance, rather than just a platonic friendship; their adoring correspondence in letters lends credence to this interpretation.
Much like the Prince with whom the Little Mermaid falls in love, Edvard Collin also faced pressure from his family to marry a princess. Anyone who has read Andersen’s original short story remembers the heart-wrenching conclusion, in which the Prince chooses to marry a princess rather than the mermaid.
The fact that “The Little Mermaid” revolves around the silence of its heroine speaks to the political situation of the era. In some ways, the 1830s in Europe marked an “enlightenment” period for gay activism; although it was still not publicly acceptable (or legal) to pursue a same-sex romance, private romances were another matter. Ariel’s silence serves as a parallel for Andersen’s own situation; he had to keep his mouth shut about his own feelings, even though every moment must have felt like walking on knives.
Unlike the heroine of the short story, Andersen does not turn into sea foam after Collin got married to someone else. Instead, Andersen and Collin remained friends (or perhaps more) for decades afterwards … and, presumably, Andersen (like Ariel) had to remain silent in public about his feelings throughout that entire time.
When Disney chose to adapt Andersen’s short story into an animated film in 1989, did they know about this historical context? Did anyone working on this film know that they were, essentially, adapting a classic queer fairy tale? It’s entirely possible that Disney selected Andersen’s love story with no knowledge of its context, but it’s possible that some of the people on the creative team had a different interpretation of “The Little Mermaid.” In a piece for the Atlantic titled “It’s Not Just Frozen: Most Disney Movies Are Pro-Gay,” Akash Nikolas writes,
[quote]One of the most poignant examples of the company’s tolerant atmosphere is the case of lyricist Howard Ashman, who was openly gay and died of AIDS in 1991. Not only did Ashman write songs for The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin, he was also closely involved in those films’ productions, casting actors and holding story meetings with animators. At the end of Beauty and the Beast, Disney acknowledged his contributions with this tribute: “To our friend Howard Ashman who gave a mermaid her voice and a beast his soul, we will be forever grateful.”
[quote]But Ashman’s story also offers an example of how the substance of Disney’s films reflect an interest in LGBT peoples’ struggles. Ashman worked on Beauty and the Beast while suffering through the worst (and final) phases of his illness, and composer Alan Menken called the film Ashman’s “personal story.” The result is a movie that can be viewed as an allegory: Shunned from society, his body hideously transformed, and his life wilting away like the enchanted rose, the Beast is a figure of degenerative disease. Belle’s love and the ultimate breaking of the curse is the fantasy cure that Ashman was denied.
In addition to providing the Beast with a happy ending, Ashman also “gave a mermaid her voice” (and an equally happy ending), as the quote from Disney states. It seems fair to assume that Ashman might have aided in the creation of The Little Mermaid in much the same way that he did in Beauty and the Beast, by giving its heroes the happy ending that they deserve – a happy ending that would never have been possible for Hans Christian Andersen in 1836, but which might have been worth dreaming about in 1989.