Jessica's Reviews > Mermaid

Two words come to mind after reading Carolyn Turgeon’s Mermaid: A Twist on the Classic Tale: missed opportunity. Turgeon proved in 2009’s Godmother, a loose retelling of the Cinderella fairytale, that she can craft a well-designed and modern story in the magical realism genre. Mermaid was her chance to address the shortcomings of her previous book, like a tendency to write flat characters or oversimplify a love story. What’s more, Mermaid was an opportunity to modernize a fairy tale for adult readers and bring a fresh and relevant perspective to arguably outdated themes. Sadly, she fails on both levels and her latest book disappoints and frustrates.

Mermaid follows its inspiration, Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, closely—so closely, in fact, that the need for Turgeon’s rewrite becomes uncertain. As in the original story, a young mermaid sacrifices her voice, family, and life in the underwater kingdom for a chance to win a human prince’s love and gain a soul. As an allegory, Andersen’s The Little Mermaid can be studied as a story of self-sacrifice and suffering required for spiritual immortality. Andersen’s mermaid ultimately surrenders her life to save that of her beloved, and in turn gains spiritual transcendence. Turgeon only briefly touches upon these themes, instead devoting the bulk of her novel to a trite love triangle.

The few attempts to include spiritual undertones come off as fragmented afterthoughts. Titular mermaid Lenia offhandedly comments that a human soul, a “web of light inside of her,” would allow her to live forever, rather than the 300 years of a mermaid’s life. The author leaves unexplored any deeper understanding of what it means to have a soul or why only humans possess them. The otherwise simplistic story would have benefitted from diving deeper into this theme or abandoning it altogether to concentrate solely on the love story.

Here is where Turgeon herself tragically fails. She attempts to craft a poignant story of love, friendship, and sacrifice that only succeeds in sounding dated and marginally offensive. Turgeon introduces a foil for Lenia in the character of Margrethe, a princess from Prince Christopher’s rival kingdom. Two women plus one man naturally results in a clichéd love triangle, and Turgeon doesn’t help with her lazy character development and lackluster plot.

Both Lenia and Margrethe are primarily defined by their overwhelming and perplexing love for Christopher, not to mention their tedious bellyaching over how to win his affection. They are such stock characters that their individual voices are almost indistinguishable. For modern, adult readers to accept the sacrifices both women make in the name of love, they must be able to relate to that love, but Prince Christopher is a cardboard cutout of a character, lacking any personality whatsoever. Simply describing his “warrior” build or eyes the “color of a dying weed” (how romantic!) doesn’t make him worth the cost of such suffering. Lenia bases her love on a single encounter with Christopher when he is near death. Her mermaid sister provides a voice of reason: “You only think this because the man was not conscious… You only saw a man who was weak, and so you thought you might love him… You are an adult now, too old for this fantasy.” To which Lenia affirms, “I do love him,” and repeats her blind desire for a soul (which, it must be noted, can only be granted by a man).

Presumably, Turgeon recognizes that her readers may feel the same skepticism as Lenia’s sister. She fails to adequately address this concern, however, and expects readers to believe in the fantasy that a handsome stranger is worth losing one’s voice, enduring a lifetime of physical pain, and forsaking one’s family. Such a sentiment can hardly go unquestioned in the twenty-first century. Not only does this archaic stance prevent readers from investing in and relating to the story, it offends. There are Disney princesses with more backbone and common sense than this character. Turgeon ignored the opportunities to reshape Lenia into an enlightened, inspiring heroine and to make the book relevant for today’s readers. Did she believe the concept of romance would transcend the rather destructive message that pain and self-sacrifice are forgiven in the name of love? For any self-respecting reader, that’s just not enough.

Margrethe is no better. She, too, becomes infatuated with the prince after two fleeting encounters, which Turgeon portrays through overused platitudes. “She walked to the window, threw it open, stared out at the snow and the stars. Wondered if he was staring at the same stars right then. Thinking of her.” Once Margrethe discovers that Christopher hails from the rival kingdom, she convinces herself that a marriage between them will end all war. Even when the prince rejects her, Margrethe tightens her grasp until the prince reluctantly concedes. Knowing the prince doesn’t love her, she fancies herself a martyr and thinks, “This is not about her happiness but about the good of the kingdom,” and “If only she could make her heart understand that its own wants did not matter.” Margrethe’s fragility and feeble personality only alienates her from readers.
To be fair, the story takes place in an unspecified past where such a mindset could be expected. Turgeon keeps the setting vague, alluding to the late middle ages through the characters’ vernacular and style of dress. Instead of challenging the implications of bygone beliefs, Turgeon succumbs to stereotypes that are no longer convincing. Old-fashioned gender roles, a passé fairy tale setting, and a wearisome plot combine for a tiresome reading experience. Why did Turgeon abandon the quirky, contemporary style she fashioned in Godmother? Mermaid lacks the sweetly wistful charm of which she is capable and adds nothing new or provocative to the classic tale.