Down The Rabbit Hole | By Shritika Rao
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| Illustration by @ikeasharkfan37 |
As a child, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be magically transported to a nonsensical and surreal alternate world, where things are just the same and different all at the same time. Due to this fascination, I have always found myself captivated by the unique genre of stories that centre an often bored and dissatisfied little girl as she is transported to a completely unfamiliar world that mirrors her own.
For instance, take a look at Alice’s journey in Wonderland, Coraline’s escape from the pocket dimension and Dorothy’s trip through Oz. All three of these tales centre a little girl that is out of place in her own reality, following her as she navigates a completely different yet intriguing parallel universe. Looking back on it, I realised my fixation wasn’t solely born from boredom or a desire for simple escapism, but rather the understanding that these worlds are a landscape for us to explore our deepest, most unspoken anxieties.
Besides, there is so much excitement that comes with the spontaneity of a world that completely defies what we know. There is comfort in the unknown.
We’re All Mad Here
When we look closer at Alice’s descent into Wonderland, her journey perfectly encapsulates the psychological disorientation of a child trying to make sense of an inherently chaotic world. In her ordinary life, Alice is bored by the rigid and stifling expectations and rules of Victorian society. Yet, the alternate reality she tumbles into doesn’t offer much reprieve, either. Instead, it holds up a mirror to structures we find in the real world.
Wonderland takes the polite, arbitrary worlds of the real world and stretches them into absolute, maddening nonsense. Every authority figure Alice encounters is completely irrational and erratic. The Mad Hatter transforms a usually mannered tea party into a chaotic conversation while the Queen of Hearts dictates the land with her volatile emotions, shrieking “off with their heads!” before determining if a person is innocent or guilty. Then there is Absolem, the smoking blue caterpillar, who challenges Alice constantly by persistently reprimanding her in the original text. Still, he does teach her to cope with the difficulties she faces in Wonderland to some capacity such as when he directs her to eat the mushroom if she wishes to change size, thereby teaching her to adapt to her environment when needed.
Despite their stark differences, Lewis Carrol’s original text written in 1865 and Tim Burton’s 2010 film adaptation both uncover the plights and psychological trajectory of growing up. In the original text, Alice is merely a seven-year old girl trapped in the frustrating and controlling “world of adults” where authority figures rule through forcing manners and unfair rules. In the film, however, the theme pivots from enduring childhood absurdity to an active battle for personal autonomy, conquering her own internal anxieties by slaying the Jabberwocky dragon and freeing Wonderland from the Queen of Heart’s rule. Symbolically, her battle in Wonderland parallels her battle in the real world in rejecting societal expectations and perceptions as she boldly rejects a marriage proposal.
Personally, both of these adaptations tackle very necessary aspects of growing up that I, and most people, grapple with regularly. I see my younger self in book-Alice’s story, relating to her inability to understand the ways grown ups thought and ordered children to behave, often getting into trouble because of it. Similarly, now that I’m older, I am more connected to movie-Alice and find her revelation of not adhering to the norms set out for her, finding her ending immensely satisfying and uplifting. Either way, Alice’s story at its core sends the message of self discovery and questioning.
The Pink Palace
While Alice’s story is confusing and tumultuous, no narrative made my skin crawl or kept me as hooked quite like Coraline’s descent into the pocket dimension. As a child who spent countless, agonisingly quiet afternoons waiting for my own parents to finish working, the story unsettles me on a personal level.
The psychological horror of Coraline works so effectively because it turns an innocent childish wish for one’s parents to pay more attention to them into a predatory trap. The Other Kitchen looks identical to Coraline’s real one, but the colours are warmer, there’s a delicious feast instead of microwaved leftovers, and the parents are aggressively attentive. However, beneath this seemingly idyllic dinner is a parasitic nightmare designed by the Beldam to exploit a lonely girl’s isolation. The Other Mother represents the terrifying duality of what we crave when we feel neglected. She offers a tailored, superficial perfection, but it comes at the cost of Coraline’s soul and autonomy— as physically depicted by the Other Mother’s insistence to sew buttons onto Corlaine’s eyes.
Watching Coraline realise that the genuine love of her real parents, despite being distracted, was infinitely safer than the consuming and suffocating illusion of perfection. Still, even though Coraline manages to win and escape Beldam's control, the ending doesn’t feel complete. On the surface, Coraline saves her parents, thwarts the Beldam once and for all and learns to appreciate the mundane world. However, her parents do not remember their terrifying ordeal, leaving Coraline alone with the heavy, unshared weight of what she survived. Moreover, even if she did escape physically, the story reminds us that sometimes, a flawed and boring reality is all we get. There is a sense of melancholy in realising you have to return to a boring and gray world to avoid a monstrous substitute.
Although the ending is somewhat unsettling, Coraline’s story still captivates and comforts me, perhaps due to her growth as she gains a profound appreciation for her life exactly as it is, proving that she has the strength to change and handle her fears. Growing up requires realising that the universe does not revolve around you, and Coraline realises that true affection is not measured by instant gratification or material gifts, but by real, messy, commitment. She begins to understand that her parents are independent human beings with flaws and responsibilities outside of being caretakers, showing her emotional maturity culminates. For this, there is some warmth that comes with watching Coraline as a tale of coming of age and growth.
There’s No Place Like Home
In the glimmering land of Oz, things take a different turn. The real magic of The Wizard Of Oz isn’t in the grand yellow bricks or the shiny emerald towers; it’s in the comfort of the misfits Dorothy meets along the way and the lessons they learn along the way. What is most notable about Dorothy’s adventure is that the alternate world didn’t actually give her and her friends what they were missing, but rather forced them to realise they’ve had it all along.
The Scarecrow who thought he was stupid is the one who comes up with the brilliant plan to save them. The Tin Man who believed he was heartless often showed profound empathy for the group. The Cowardly Lion says he lacks courage, but repeatedly leaps into scary situations to protect Dorothy. They spend the entire journey begging a fraudulent wizard for qualities they already possessed. Watching them navigate Oz shows how we often feel loss and inadequate not because we are lacking, but because we haven’t been put in the situation that forces our true strengths to come to light, showing how perceived insecurities are just a lack of self-confidence.
While the Wizard of Oz is celebrated for these very lessons of growth and courage, what truly engaged and unsettled me as a child was the terrifying awareness of Oz as a land built on deceit and illusion. The centerpiece of this world’s uncaniness lies in the tension between appearance and reality. We watch Dorothy and her friends head into the glorious Emerald City, a place built as a monument of hope and safety. But when the curtain pulls back to reveal the Wizard not as an all-powerful sorcerer but as a fraudulent, ordinary old man pretending to be ruler, captures the haunting realisation that this strange but colourful world is governed by hidden agendas and fragile egos. Perhaps this is why I always found the Good Witch’s direction to defeat the Wicked Witch odd: if Glinda was truly all-powerful and purely good, why was she sending a terrified, lost little girl to go after her? The Wicked Witch is branded as the ultimate villain, but her anger is entirely rightful. Instead of offering her a proper apology for stealing her deceased sister’s shoes, Glinda hands the stolen ruby slippers to Dorothy and leads her onto her journey to eventually destroy her, making us question how “good" she really might be.
As a whole, The Wizard Of Oz is a tale that reinforces the theme of finding solace in your inner power, the value of home, especially when navigating a deceptive world.
All in all, by isolating Alice, Coraline and Dorothy in environments where the rules of reality are completely warped, they are forced to leave the safety of their familiar lives to truly understand who they are and the world around them— whether it’s through the nonsensical authority Wonderland, the eerie isolation of the Other World or the systemic illusions of Oz. These enthralling tales validate my feeling of displacement, reminding us that getting lost is the only way to find our way home again. In the end, their worlds don’t necessarily change, but the girls are infinitely evolved.
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