Leia: The Prototype Princess

My grandmother’s name was Carrie, and both my children are named after her. But they might have also been named for Carrie Fisher, who came into my life in 1977, when my parents took me to see Star Wars, for the first of approximately a billion times.

In that theatre, at age five, my future crystallized. Movies. I was going to make movies. The inspiration was right in front of me on the screen. Star Wars gave me everything I never even knew I wanted: adventure, fantasy, hope, and The Prototype Princess.

Before there was Star Wars, I don’t remember princess characters. It was decades before the Disney merchandising explosion of these young royal ladies, so all I knew from princesses were the tropes in fairytales. They were damsels in distress: sleeping (Sleeping Beauty) or sweeping (Cinderella) or both (Snow White). They were as insignificant to me as any other simply drawn figure in a children’s book without a catchphrase. I never gave them a thought when the story was over. They weren’t cast in my dramatic play scenarios, and if they appeared in coloring books, I’d dutifully fill in their gowns with my only care being to stay within the lines.

But Princess Leia was a person. With plans, opinions, and putdowns.

She drew upon her own bravery, even when she was in need of rescuing.

And she sounded like a grown-up woman. Not a cartoon.

To me, Princess Leia was the original princess.

During my childhood, we never saw the likes of her kind of character until she returned in the two subsequent sequels — The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.

Shocking, considering how every girl who saw Star Wars (and that was pretty much all of us) wanted to be her. But, given the patriarchal environment that was big media at the time, not surprising.

It’s only been in the last decade when the idea of “princess” expanded just a tiny bit to include traits like courage (Brave), self-discovery (Moana) and non-romantic love that served the plot (Frozen).

All the princesses that came in the 35+ years before them failed to take cues from that rebel with a cause from Star Wars.

Princess Leia created the mold.

But it was then cast aside for an entire generation.

You can argue there have been plenty of “strong female characters” (as if the default female character is written with weakness, and that weakness is a bad thing) in films since Star Wars. And you can give all the credit to George Lucas for having written Princess Leia to be as much an action hero as a monarchical figurehead.

But what I latched on to, as a kid, was Carrie Fisher’s performance.

Her voice, which was unwavering.

Her facial expressions, in particular, the eye-roll, which I borrowed excessively as a pre-teen.

The fact that she didn’t assume that the fellas who broke her out of her prison cell were any smarter than she was.

She was well-spoken, outspoken, and my absolute favorite thing about the original Star Wars trilogy.

And The Force Awakens.

(But not Rogue One because no amount of CGI comes close to capturing Carrie Fisher’s screen-searing performance.)

With her small but mighty guest role in Catastrophe, I was enjoying her in a new stage of her career, and though she was being trotted out to promote the new installments in the Star Wars saga, she was doing so on her terms: bringing Gary. Calling out shallow questions in interviews. I am sure she knew how much it meant for girls like me to have watched her portray Princess Leia. I am also sure she didn’t expect to carry the burden of being the sole role model of “strong female character” for so many years.

Thank you for your service, Carrie Fisher. May the force be with you.