By Scarlett Stubbings

Representation of the figure of the mermaid in cinema has been as volatile and varied as the waters they roam. From the innocent, love-struck Ariel in The Little Mermaid (1990) to the seductive sirens who reign in the dark depths in Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (2011), these mythical creatures of the deep have been regularly demonised or demoralised at the hands of those who encounter them. There is no denying their beauty and strength, so why are these goddess-born creatures portrayed so monstrously?

Though many cultures have varying beliefs about the origin and meaning of the mermaid, the first known was thought to be Atargatis, the Syrian goddess of fertility. Her association with birth soon became one of rebirth as she entered her aquatic transformation, mirroring the transition into womanhood to an extreme level. Lisa Brühlmann’s Swiss-German coming-of-age tale Blue My Mind (2017) depicts the fear and confusion of this change through the metaphor of a mermaid metamorphosis. Mia, the object of this traumatic transformation, endures horrifying changes to her young body whilst experiencing the teenage newness of sex, drugs and alcohol. This trinity of temptation seems minor compared to the body horror which the audience witness unfold…

As a children’s fairy-tale, The Little Mermaid maintains the classic love story of the archetypal charming prince and besotted maiden. However, like most Disney stories, beneath the surface hides sinister allusions to Ariel’s loss of innocence. It is undoubtedly Prince Eric’s arrival in her life that ignites this natural change, representing her growth into womanhood and the humanisation of her character. Lullabies lapse softly between the two as she saves him from a shipwreck, and it is the memory of Ariel’s singing which lingers in the prince’s mind, leading him to search desperately for the heavenly voice of his rescuer.

However, the cost of Ariel’s humanity causes her to give away what attracted Eric to her in the first place. Blinded by love, she fails to see the devastating irony of this exchange. Of course, the film ends happily ever after, yet the image of Ariel willingly sacrificing something as valuable as her voice in exchange for love creates a mournful atmosphere surrounding their love. Her naivety is presented as her downfall: nothing is more powerful than her voice.

Similarly, the relationship between love and sacrifice is disturbingly portrayed in Agnieszka Smoczyńska’s 2015 Polish musical horror film The Lure, which follows the journey from sea to land of two sisters: Golden and Silver. Discovered by curious mortals, the mermaids are plunged into the neon underworld of a nightclub, becoming valuable assets for the owner. Persuaded to partake in both stripping and singing, the young sisters become priceless artefacts, admired for their beauty, rarity and talents. However, as is the case in most mermaid films, love leads to a vulnerable and violent transformation for the two, concluding in Silver’s heartbreak and Golden’s consequent revenge. The hurt of human heartache evokes sympathy and pity for Silver, and her refusal to remain alive and harm the man she loves (as in the original tale of The Little Mermaid) taints this tale with a tragic end.

Whilst she is pitied, her sister turns monstrous, savaging and ultimately killing her sister’s unrequited love. Smoczyńska’s brutal depiction of love and sex plays heavily into the female coming-of-age genre. In an interview with Michael Gingold for Rue Morgue, the director stated that ‘the goal of our mermaid is to achieve…sex, to be a girl’, and through Silver’s love and lust, she ‘create(d) a mermaid as a metaphor for a girl growing up.’ As well as depicting an extreme, yet at times painfully real tale of growing up, this film is another presentation of the relationship between the mermaid and her humanity: to die mortal or to be demonised for being her true self are her only choices.

Hans Christian Andersen’s original mermaid story takes a similarly sinister, depressing approach to first love. When the prince marries another, the heartbroken mermaid feels the urge to kill them both, yet out of selflessness she sacrifices herself to the sea. Though an admirable act, her murderous urges aren’t uncommon in the cinematic depiction of mermaids. Blood is synonymous with both murder and menstruation, creating a violent atmosphere around something so natural. Perhaps the most defining symbol of these half-mortal half-marine beings is the tail: the physical barricade between the human and their humanity, as well as their sexuality.

In Monique Roffey’s post-colonial novel The Mermaid of Black Conch (2020), the loss of her tail and the return of the mermaid’s menstrual cycle signify her full return to a mortal, Indigenous American woman, which indicates that this change holds great importance for the character in terms of her female identity.

Misunderstanding of this creature has been exacerbated through sea shanties, old legends and modern-day depictions, which has in turn created fear. Jealousy has warped their innocent beauty into depictions of disgust and degradation, alienated as the demonic temptresses of their tales as opposed to the autonomous, admired goddesses of the sea who they originated from.

Commonly associated with the horror genre, the portrayal of the modern-day mermaid is far from the nostalgic teenage trio seen in H2O: Just Add Water (2006-2010). Though most mermaid films follow a similar formula and therefore do not ring true to reality, it leaves us questioning why these creatures are portrayed this way. Despite the role of the villainous

seductress that seems to be imposed upon them, these women of the deep reflect the impossibility of perfection and the pressure of growing up in a world where fear festers into hate.