Beauty VS The Beast

Beauty and the Beast is one of the most well-known fairy tales and movies of all time. In fact, the 2017 movie grossed 1.27 billion dollars and became the second-highest-grossing film in 2017. Nevertheless, this story isn't just a delightful fairy tale; it is a deep story that teaches important lessons about love, personal growth, and the true essence of beauty. This story encourages readers to look beyond the window and into the open sky.

Before we move on, let’s go through the story. 

Our heroine is Belle, a bookworm who finds her life going from "loved by every single man" to "magical prison" real fast. Why? Because her ingenious but terribly silly dad, Maurice, gets locked up by a gigantic, grumpy Monster for taking a single rose! Belle, being the brave soul she is, swaps places with her dad and becomes the Beast's brand-new (and very unwilling) roommate.

As the story goes on, we learn that the Beast isn't just a monster; he's a Prince suffering from a curse, one that made him the most hideous beast that anyone could think of - courtesy of an enchantress who didn't appreciate his rude attitude. The curse's escape clause? He has to find true love and have that love reciprocated before the last petal drops from a very dramatic, enchanted rose. Talk about a ticking clock!

Initially, the atmosphere in the castle is pure awkwardness. But slowly, Belle realises that beneath the claws and all the growling, the Beast is actually a kind, sweet guy who just needs a bit of love. She starts seeing the Prince’s true self, ignoring the outside, and he, in turn, finds his inner gentleman. 

But every great fairy tale needs a villain! Enter Gaston, the village's ridiculously handsome, comically narcissistic, and utterly toxic top man, who is furious that Belle won't marry him.  He thinks that she (the prettiest girl in the village) must marry him and him only. He finds out that she is enjoying herself with the Beast and, in denial that she chose a monster over him, he whips the town into a frenzy, convincing them the Beast is a real threat. He then leads a charge into the castle to take him out.

In the showdown, the Beast is gravely injured. Just as that final, precious rose petal flutters down, Belle cries out that she loves him. Poof! Magic happens! The Beast is transformed back into a dreamy Prince (complete with great hair!) and the Prince and Belle finally get their happily-ever-after dance. 

Let’s look at some other life lessons this story teaches us:

1. Empathy and Understanding:

Characters like Belle and the Beast teach us that every individual carries a unique story shaped by personal experiences, struggles, and emotions, and all of which cannot be understood solely from one’s physical appearance. Belle’s journey shows that people need to learn about, talk to, and spend time with others with an open mind, and not let themselves become hindered by looks. By doing this, we build more connections, create healthy relationships and are just generally happier. 

2. The Power of Love:

The transformative power of love is a central theme throughout the entire tale. Doomed by a curse, the beast isolated himself, only to go on a journey of self acceptance where realised his worth on the inside. His relationship with Belle is built on kindness and positive qualities, rather than her beauty and his ugliness. In a world obsessed with looks and glamour, the pair reminds us that outward appearances are meagre in comparison to an amazing personality.

3. Self-acceptance:

The narrative highlights the importance of self-acceptance. Both Belle and the Beast undergo journeys that show the importance of accepting oneself. Belle learns to appreciate her identity, choosing herself over others' opinions on her looks and behaviour. Meanwhile, the Beast learns that he is worthy of love, regardless of his appearance. This directive serves as a powerful reminder for readers: self-love and acceptance are essential for a happy life.

In conclusion, the simple story of Beauty and the Beast carries a deep message: what's on the inside matters so much more than what's on the outside. Belle eventually sees past the Beast's scary looks and finds the good person underneath. The Beast had to learn this lesson the hard way; his monstrous appearance was just a reflection of how mean and selfish he originally was on the inside. He only started to change when he learned to be kind, caring, and willing to sacrifice himself for others. The message is clear - true connections are built on character and kindness. This fairy tale reminds us of one thing: beauty shines from within.

The Dollmaker

We lived in a neighborhood that was fighting for respectability. The two-storey houses were squeezed against each other, asphyxiated in their parallel formations, along the dirt road. The air was always heavy with dust, clouds of it gently erupting from every wheel and inopportune foot that dared tread on the ground. Despite the regrettable lack of a proper street, the homes gleamed starch white, sporting gleaming windows and proud, pointed roofs. Occasionally, there was the triumphant sight of a front porch - prim steps and bannisters peeling white paint - or even a miniscule balcony, nursing some yellowed ivy from its clay pots. 

Overall though, it was still trash. In particular, there was one house that seemed determined to lower the value of the entire neighborhood. Tall, thin and green, it was crushed between its squat neighbours like an unwelcome wart. Rotted shutters danced in the wind like winking eyes, the slate roof practically caving in on itself. The only redeeming feature of the whole house was the door, which had been fashioned most admirably - wood carved into winding patterns and blooming flowers, the misplaced work of an artisan. 

The place belonged to an old creature - the “Dollmaker”, as we called him. In fact, we were unsure if he was really a “he”, the Dollmaker’s gender having been dispelled by the ravages of time, so wrinkled and ancient his features. According to onlookers, the longer you gazed into his face, the more it seemed to recede into its withered, parchment-like folds. 

It was a respected initiation ritual to knock on the Dollmaker’s door. A gang of boys, hidden behind a bush, would observe the fearless adventurer as he braved nettles and rickety steps, ultimately rapping loudly on the lovely door and running off. Breathless, squirming in tortured fear and excitement, we would wait to see if the phantom would make its appearance. It never did. 

Sometimes, if we really had the guts, one of us would peek through the bronze lock. And the risk of being caught was well worth the reward, for then you could see the dolls.

The dolls! Yes, for the Dollmaker had earned his name through his craft - the creation of these lovely toys. He made wool babies wrapped in colourful cloth, wooden figurines with furtive expressions, and puppets with dancing limbs. But most splendid of all were his porcelain dolls - often life sized, with silken hair and sweeping eyelashes veiling their gleaming eyes, all of them beautiful and startlingly lifelike. If one had stood up and began talking to us, we indubitably would have started talking back. 

There was one doll in particular we could not help but notice. She was the Dollmaker’s masterpiece, his ultimate tribute to Beauty. We began peeking through the lock every day to appreciate her evolution. We watched as he fashioned her delicate fingers, her slim torso and head, which in itself was a work of art.

Oh! You have never seen such eyes. Eyes that could not belong to a human woman, so pearly the whites, so crystal clear the irises, so onyx black those pinpricks of pupils. When the old man pushed the eyes gently into their sockets, the angel’s face came to life - and what life! What mystery concealed under those sweeping lashes, what beauty in the upturned lip, what grace in the curve of the cheekbone! 

The dollmaker’s trembling hands painted her a cupid’s bow and rosy cheeks, affixed every lock of ruby red hair to the vulnerable head with affection - like a parent to a child. She was soon dressed, the stiffness of her limbs hidden under voluminous petticoats, a baby blue bodice, and a parasol hat that flopped over that lovely hair. 

Sometimes the Dollmaker would sit her near the window, place a book in her hands and leave her in the sunlight - the picture of a young lady taking her afternoon tea.

We gave her a name: Ophelia. 

And we never tired of those endless afternoons, crawling up the stairs, peeking through the shutters, spying through that lock. We all secretly loved Ophelia, held her in our minds and gave her life, pressed her in our arms and touched that silky hair. 

Eventually, the town clamoured to see the magical doll which had coloured so many imaginations. But however many people came to his door, however high the price that was offered, the Dollmaker refused to part from his doll. Exasperation slowly grew into anger, as the neighborhood began to complain of the old man’s arrogance. Envy spread through the town like a poisoned stream, resentment bubbling into violence. 

It was night when the men came. Inebriated, curious and cruel, they broke into the house, dragging the lifelike doll into the street. When they began to pull her apart, the noise was so great that we all leaped out of bed and into the street, stopping short at the scene. 

Many of us, cringing and heartstruck, turned away, but the strongest ones remained. We watched as they tore at her crimson hair, smashed her hands and feet with broken bottles, and twisted her head from her body. They seemed trapped in an animal fever, lost in primal cruelty. But all heads turned when an inhuman screech tore through the air, coming directly from the Dollmaker’s porch. 

The cry was painfully familiar. Hadn’t we heard it before, from the mouths of mothers? Our sisters? No, there was no doubt, the Dollmaker was a woman. Face contorted like a banshee, she continued wailing, until the men slinked off in a drunken haze, the women shut their shutters and we ran back to our homes. In our beds, we could still hear her moaning. 

It could never have been any other way, we knew that. The doll was of a beauty too great for the hands of man. And all truly beautiful things - roses, sunsets, youth - are not meant to last. 

We never saw the Dollmaker again. She left like the breeze moves the leaves, like dust swirling in the air. Without her the house decayed and collapsed, leaving nothing behind but dirt. 

But not quite. When we scavenged the ruins for any remains, any scrap of the Dollmaker’s art, we found the visage of an unfinished doll, its head and body nowhere to be found. The porcelain face had come clean off. 

We held it in our hands, and it smiled at us, nymph’s lips pressed into their rosebud pout, beautiful, lush, rotten.