Disney Villain Quotes

I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Cheshire cat, someday I will suddenly leave, but the artificial warmth of my smile, that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserably sad people and villains in Disney movies, will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who is in fact soon to be gone. When you look at the picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history, like a traitor in the Soviet Union. Because with every day that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible...

I think a lot about queer villains, the problem and pleasure and audacity of them. I know I should have a very specific political response to them. I know, for example, I should be offended by Disney’s lineup of vain, effete ne’er-do-wells (Scar, Jafar), sinister drag queens (Ursula, Cruella de Vil), and constipated, man-hating power dykes (Lady Tremaine, Maleficent). I should be furious at Downton Abbey’s scheming gay butler and Girlfriend’s controlling, lunatic lesbian, and I should be indignant about Rebecca and Strangers on a Train and Laura and The Terror and All About Eve, and every other classic and contemporary foppish, conniving, sissy, cruel, humorless, depraved, evil, insane homosexual on the large and small screen. And yet, while I recognize the problem intellectually—the system of coding, the way villainy and queerness became a kind of shorthand for each other—I cannot help but love these fictional queer villains. I love them for all of their aesthetic lushness and theatrical glee, their fabulousness, their ruthlessness, their power. They’re always by far the most interesting characters on the screen. After all, they live in a world that hates them. They’ve adapted; they’ve learned to conceal themselves. They’ve survived.

When I was young and I was forced to watch Disney films, I would fast forward the good guys, wasn't interested in princes and princesses, only by the villains.

the recognition of Evil, not as it was portrayed by Disney villains, but as it was in fact: ruthless and irrational, selfish above all else, convinced of its righteousness and of the beauty of disorder.

It's hard to feel sorry for those willing to fling themselves into disaster. They are their own undoing, my dear. They bring it upon themselves. They don't merit your pity.

every Disney story needs a villain, and mine happened to be a certain dean from the University of Virginia.

That's my point. Almost all of us have been hurt by our families, but look at us now, making families of our own, with people we choose to love,

(At first this struck me as an unusual alliance, but if you think about it, the Disney franchise is staunchly pro-rodent, and its best-known pet pussies, from Cinderella’s Lucifer to Alice’s Cheshire Cat, are all at least mildly villainous.)

Company, Jeffrey Katzenberg not only won $280 million in compensation; he cofounded Dream-Works SKG, a Disney competitor that went on to release the highly successful movie Shrek. Not only did the movie make fun of Disney’s fairy tales, but its villain is also apparently a parody of the head of Disney at the time (and Katzenberg’s former boss), Michael Eisner. Now that you know Shrek’s background, I recommend you revisit the movie to see just how

Time after time, the villain in Hollywood films will turn out to be the 'evil corporation'. Far from undermining capitalist realism, this gestural anti-capitalism actually reinforces it. Take Disney/ Pixar's Wall-E (2008). The film shows an earth so despoiled that human beings are no longer capable of inhabiting it. We're left in no doubt that consumer capitalism and corporations - or rather one mega-corporation, Buy n Large - is responsible for this depredation; and when we see eventually see the human beings in offworld exile, they are infantile and obese, interacting via screen interfaces, carried around in large motorized chairs, and supping indeterminate slop from cups. What we have here is a vision of control and communication much as Jean Baudrillard understood it, in which subjugation no longer takes the form of a subordination to an extrinsic spectacle, but rather invites us to interact and participate … But this kind of irony feeds rather than challenges capitalist realism. A film like Wall-E exemplifies what Robert Pfaller has called 'interpassivity': the film performs our anti-capitalism for us, allowing us to continue to consume with impunity.

The villains had seen better days. Cruella, with her wild black-and-white hair, wore a ratty, nearly bald black-and-white dog-fur coat, which sported a bejeweled stuffed toy Dalmatian head next to her neck. She stroked it lovingly as if it were alive. Jafar, with his trademark mustache and goatee, was rocking a potbelly, a comb-over, and puffy Sansabelt pants. Evil Queen, a former beauty, pulled at her cosmetically altered face and stared into a mirror. Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos feared their parents nonetheless.

he says, pushing his hood back, so I can see his Disney prince blond hair. Only, it’s strange because he’s not the prince; he’s the villain that slaughters the wide-eyed royal and buries his body in the woods.

The world is not a Disney movie where villains are obvious and one-dimensional.

but he killed the best Disney villain of all time, the drag queen that is Ursula. Unforgivable. RIP. 4.

Here in the land of Faulkner, I walked to my clean little school, filled with only white faces until I turned nine, and learned the comic book tale of the founding of America: intrepid Columbus followed by the scrubbed-clean Pilgrims in their sturdy Mayflower, who landed at Plymouth Rock carrying God’s Word with the Purest Intentions, who shared Tom Turkey with Squanto and then Settled the West according to the Divinely Inspired law of Manifest Destiny, Christianizing the Wayward Heathen as they went. Hollywood helped me along this simpleminded path, with formulaic westerns that left no doubt about heroes and villains, or the symbolism of white versus red, white versus Black, or white versus any other color. But even in the fog of that controlled culture—in the coddling arms of Papa Walt Disney and the United Daughters of the Confederacy—I wasn’t physically blind. I lived in Mississippi, ground zero for what would soon become known as the Movement. And slowly I came to realize that the slavery I had always wondered about, the evidence of this great historic crime that people had begun to murmur about—and then speak openly, bitterly about—was all around me. All I had to do was look. Half the people in my town were Black. They lived among us, yet apart. They reared us, fed us, bathed us, taught us. And all the while, they performed their great trick of survival, which was to be simultaneously visible and invisible. Present but nonthreatening. And yet . . . One unguarded look by either party could reveal so much.

No woman could have her life so completely changed and not expect some level of anxiety.

A triangle, a triad, a throuple. Perfectly balanced in every way. We're not bound tightly but I already know I'll be feeling the weight of the ropes for a very long time. Forever.

Even after months together, we're still figuring each other out. We each have our histories and old wounds, and that means sometimes we unintentionally prod at them in each other. Sometimes it's intentional because we're both a little bit of an asshole.

I hate that he's right. I love that he's right.

I've f*cked enough former Boy Scouts to know those assholes are all kinky.

Hook and Tink are a f*cking mess, and they are going to be amazing parents.

Our children will be loved and taken care of, and f*cking happy.

I was full of folly, ready to believe that he was going to thank me. Instead he said ‘I have never loved you, daughter.

Snow, my sweet girl, my little bird, I have to tell you something.” Snow looked up from the bluebird she was feeding and smiled at her mother. “Hello, Momma!” Snow said, smiling brightly.

I think maybe you’re wrong, Momma, he promised he would come home soon, and Papa never breaks his promises.

The Queen stood to greet them, and Marcus pulled her close and embraced her. He felt warm and real; she felt safe and protected in his arms. Her heart threatened to break under the weight of his kindness.

The Queen nodded absently, not even truly processing which gift they were speaking of. Not thinking about the mirror at all.

The Queen stared at the awkwardly wrapped gift. She reread the parchment. Then she steeled herself and tore the linens open at their seams.

Soon after the King’s departure, the Queen suffered a new loss—her father. In the days following her father’s death, her own life was infused with light.

Because she didn’t love herself. She feared rejection because she was so unlike anyone she’d ever known. She was so full of fear that she sequestered herself away. This sad woman’s only companions were striking blackbirds that soared in the skies around her home, perching in trees and on ledges, gathering information so she would have news of the outside world. That is how she learned of the princess’s christening. No one understood why the woman was so angry for not being invited to the christening. But you see, my little bird, she knew something the girl’s parents and fairy godmothers did not.

The dress was of the deepest red, and somehow the years had done nothing to mute its brilliance. It was embroidered with a lavish pattern of blackbirds, and bejeweled with smoky black crystals that sparkled in the light.

But over time, and many visits, it seemed that she was all that the King wanted. Her life began to seem like a dream: light, ethereal, and breathtaking. The King’s people embraced her.

The Queen observed their weird behavior as she passed by another window—this one shaped like a huge letter X.

He was beautiful, but even more so in his formal attire, with his dark hair and pale eyes. His glistening sword hung at his side, and his tall boots shined in the candlelight. The Queen felt as if she were floating in a dream.

The King and Queen exchanged words of love, promises, rings, and finally a kiss.

Snow was a little bird of a girl,

On the day her father died—before word had traveled to the King or anyone else in the land—the Queen brought every one of his mirrors out into the light.

The Queen remembered that his wife, Vivian, had recently fallen ill.

Ursula, a villain who did not deserve to be considered one, was my favourite Disney princess. She’s a working woman, offering a service, and was vilified for it. The payment was obvious. The whiners knew the score. They just thought they were special, that they could get magic for free. That’s not how magic works. You always have to pay. Plus, octopuses are incredible, so I refused to support fairy tales disparaging them.

You don't know what to do with the jam jar, the chicken stink, the sinister mountain fog that is everywhere, but the adults pretend to ignore when you are in the room. It seems the only thing you can do is listen for it. You hear it in the four measures of Vivaldi's "Winter" that you can still remember from Sarah and the Squirrel, and once you make the connection between the music and mountain fog you play the notes over and over again inside your head. You paw up the trash-strewn ravine. The sky is low and gray, the color of the cinder blocks the men in your town manufacture from ash and dust. The dirt-filled strawberry jam jar is in your denim coat pocket. Vivaldi is in your head. The music you hear is like the blaze-orange clothing the men wear on the mountainsides while deer hunting in autumn. The music is like a bulletproof vest, a coiled copperhead, a rabies shot. The music is both a warning and a talisman. The music tells you things: You're not imagining this. Better children than you die in the snow for no reason. The music says: What's hidden beneath this picture of strawberry jam? The music says: This isn't a Disney movie. Death doesn't just take the wicked villain. Look at that dirt in the jar. It will take you. It will take everyone, and everyone, and everyone. The music says: What you feel is real. Follow me. Run.

is behind the spell,” continued the reporter. “We are trying to discover who is responsible for these vicious lies and which evil villain perpetrated this

The girl was a child of the Isle of the Lost. You know the one. Just off the coast of the United States of Auradon. The isle was home to every evil villain and sidekick who had ever plotted, cursed, cheated, plundered, or wreaked havoc. The girl was seven, and although she had been marooned there when she was a baby, she always knew she was destined for greater things.

Try regarding the inner critic as something that lacks credibility. You could imagine it as a ridiculous character, like a silly cartoon villain in a Disney movie. Place it “over there” in your mind, outside the core of your being, like that annoying person in a meeting who is always critical but whom everybody tunes out after a while.