Note to the reader: this article references Disney’s 2010 animated film Tangled. If you have not watched it, be forewarned of spoilers.
As Lent has just begun, I want to take you all back into my theological analysis of Disney’s Tangled. For, the whole point of God becoming Man at Christmas was for Him to suffer and die to bring us back to union with God. As you might recall from my last post on Tangled, Rapunzel’s rediscovery of her daughter-identity echoes the reality that the True Light came into the world to more fully reinstate us as cherished daughters of a loving “Father of Lights” (see James 1:17).
Images in this article used under fair use for film reviews.
In this post, I am going to focus on the “swashbuckling rogue” and deuteragonist of the tale, Flynn Rider, who also journeys toward reclaiming his true character. In fact, only through Flynn’s transformation can the lights on the lake lead to a happily-ever-after. If you are wondering how, let’s take another theologically rich excursion into Tangled to find out.
From Light to Life
Not long after lanterns and love fill the air during “I See the Light”—a scene reminiscent of the wonder of Christmas that calls to mind the aesthetic of holiday lights—the plot thickens as the movie’s mood grows dark and sinister. Disney promises a happy ending, yet clearly there is a ways to go.
Tangled is, quite literally, a “no cross, no crown” tale. Sacrificial love resolves the storyline in a manner that follows our faith. We experience the love of God delightfully at Christmastime, yet not long after we’ve stashed away our dreamy holiday lights, the Church leads us deeper into that love via the sacrifice and renunciation of the Lenten season. Just as the Tangled plot is quickly transposed into the intenser key of evil and rescue, the Cross follows a mere few weeks after the comfort and joy of Christmastide in our liturgical year (especially if you keep your lights up until the Presentation of the Lord on February 2).
Why may we not continue in the consoling salvation of Christmas? Well, as I suggested above, the Incarnation only began the promised redemption. Something else had to happen beyond Christ merely coming to earth, for God’s presence in our midst was hidden in Jesus’s human form (see Philippians 2:7; John 1:10) and mankind remained captive in a fallen state.
As Father Mike Schmitz shared at the 2024 National Eucharistic Congress, the Incarnation was simply not enough to fully redeem us. Rather, he explains, “there’s one moment [. . .] one action of Jesus that saved us [. . .] that restored us [. . .] that bridged the unbridgeable gap, and that action happened upon the Cross.” We were saved by One Who was pierced.
Wounds That Save
Analogously, salvation also comes about through woundings in Tangled.
Although Rapunzel already encounters the reality of her parents’ love through the magnificent lanterns they launched for her, these only begin to light her way back. Her existence remains concealed from the kingdom; she must be recognized and restored to her rightful home.
No cross, no crown. Flynn Rider is called to suffer so that Rapunzel might be saved.
First, his hand is pierced while they flee his pursuers, but to his surprise, Rapunzel’s glowing hair can heal his wound—a clue to her royalty. The second wound, a fatal stab in the side from Gothel, the witch who kidnapped Rapunzel as a baby, comes during Flynn’s post-jailbreak attempt to rescue Rapunzel. Between the options of his own healing or freeing Rapunzel from Gothel’s dependency, Flynn chooses the latter and chops off Rapunzel’s hair.
However, this possible tragedy turns to eucatastrophe. Rapunzel’s healing powers are not limited to her hair (again, her powers as a princess are similar to those of the true king in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Return of the King: “the hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known”). Flynn lives: the thief receives a second chance. And, thanks to this cross, Rapunzel can reclaim her crown.
Although Tangled is not a religious or allegorical tale, these subtle paschal themes (hmm, sound like Rapunzel’s chameleon?) mirror the story arc of Salvation History. What is at work in Rapunzel’s story is in ours too: redemptive suffering and self-gift can powerfully “save what has been lost” (to quote her magic song), especially if we die to ourselves and let love transform us.
The Story of How He Died
On that note, rewind to the beginning. Tangled starts in an unlikely manner, with Flynn recounting in a suave, melodramatic voice, “This is the story of how I died.” Naturally, he is kidding, for this is Rapunzel’s lively and heartwarming tale, yet these opening words remain oddly appropriate. Flynn Rider must die to his former egotistical, law-defying ways, subduing his vanity and dishonesty and trading it for a redeemed and generous new self.
Flynn’s identity, like Rapunzel's, is initially in crisis. He tells Rapunzel, “a fake reputation is all a man has.” Buried beneath his notorious bravado lies the bleak “sob story of poor orphan Eugene Fitzherbert.” Intrepid and bold as his alter ego may be, he maintains it dishonestly. Self-interest is his initial motive for taking Rapunzel to the lanterns during Gothel’s three days (a triduum) of absence from the tower: he needs his precious satchel back. Soon, however, his egotistical motives give way to an authentic, tender interest in serving, delighting, and protecting Rapunzel.
Flynn is not actually after Rapunzel’s hair—strange, given his propensity to approach the world as it relates to his own gain. When his life shifts from his selfish dreams towards willing another’s good for a couple of days, the outcome is transformative: Rapunzel’s charm magnificently complements Flynn’s masculine strength and her pure heart clarifies his life, helping him to see anew, as the lyrics of “I See the Light” convey.
By the end of the story, fame and riches are no longer Flynn’s priorities. Rapunzel becomes his new dream, one worth dying for.
Flynn’s process of spiritual mortification, of putting to death all that is villainous within him, proves a deeply effective remedy to his wronged identity. In giving of himself to help Rapunzel find herself, Flynn, too, discovers his truest self. What a compelling illustration of the Church’s teaching that “Man, who is the only creature on earth which God willed for itself, cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of himself” (Gaudium et Spes, 24:3).
At the story’s end, Flynn finds his place in a family: self-gift makes a person capable of entering a communion of love with others. Furthermore, he turns his life around and is called Eugene again. In renouncing himself, he discovers the joy and fulfillment that flow from being all about another person.
Christmas and Calvary: Restored to Light
Whether you have delighted in Tangled countless times before or might soon watch it for the first time, I invite you to savor how this story echoes the most profound movements of the drama of human existence—sacrifice and self-gift. As Calvary follows Christmas in the spiritual life, may Tangled’s theology of redemption remind you how Christ rejoices over you with a warm and luminous childlike love, then offers an outpouring of salvation by His suffering, wounded in His feet, hands, and side. But ultimately comes the resurrection glory so that, transformed and restored in our identities, we will be able at last to “see the light.”
Leila Joy Castillo calls Florida home but left her heart in hill country long ago. An alumna of Ave Maria University, she freelances in Catholic communications and is a published writer, primarily on Blessed is She and Ascension. When not dabbling in the multitudinous Google docs of her articles, Leila delights in music, personalist philosophy, quality time with her younger siblings, and her literary trifecta: Austen, Lewis, and Dante. You can find her on Instagram @leila_joyinthejourney or follow her personal site here.
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