This Princess Kills Monsters: A Chaotic Fairytale Adventure
The moment I heard about This Princess Kills Monsters by Amanda Doering I couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension. I mean, who wouldn’t be intrigued by a title like that? It promised a twist on classic fairytale tropes, raw humor, and a dash of magic—elements that usually sing to this reader’s heart. But as I turned the pages, it became clear that while this book has a lot of potential, it also struggles under its own weight.
At its center is Princess Mellilot, a charmingly unremarkable heroine thrust into a world that expects her to be a beacon of strength, just like her powerful sisters. Instead, she finds herself in a rather humorously juxtaposed, mostly non-magical kingdom—and let me tell you, the contrast between her background and her new surroundings is one of the book’s highlights. The humor, while sometimes cringingly corny, manages to hit the mark more often than not, leading to some genuinely funny moments that had me chuckling out loud.
However, as the plot unfolds, the story begins to stumble. Doering tantalizingly sets up a love triangle with Melilot’s suitor—a rather unremarkable male character—and his alluring sister, but the execution leaves much to be desired. Melilot’s connection with Sam veers too far into traditional heteronormative territory, leaving the sapphic romance teased in the synopsis feeling frustratingly sidelined. When we finally get a peek into that possibility, it’s built on just a few flirty lines and quickly overshadowed. I found myself wishing for more depth and development around that relationship, especially given the themes of queer identity interspersed throughout the text.
One of the more jarring elements for me was the way gender dynamics are portrayed. The villainous sister—a character who could have served as a powerful commentary on women’s rights and the complexities of female relationships—ultimately devolves into a caricature of evil. Her characterization feels like a missed opportunity, reducing potentially poignant discussions about women’s power and autonomy to mere villainy. The casual misogyny that permeates the narrative only exacerbates this issue, leaving a sour taste that lingered long after I closed the book.
Additionally, the thematic threads of abuse and recovery are mishandled, offering a convoluted view that left me unsettled. I struggled to reconcile Melilot’s journey toward self-empowerment with the underlying implication that her stepmother’s actions were, in some twisted sense, “for her own good.” This sort of narrative could have been an impactful exploration of trauma and resilience but ultimately felt flat and poorly executed.
Despite these critiques, the whimsical elements and fairytale backdrop are undeniably enjoyable. The setting is rich with potential, and there are glimpses of what could have been—a stronger focus on the magical huntsmen, for instance. I appreciated the world-building, but I walked away wishing it had been allowed to shine without the structural constraints holding it back.
In conclusion, This Princess Kills Monsters has its moments—flashes of humor, a captivating premise, and a fascinating world. However, its missteps in character development and thematic handling left me wanting more. This book might resonate with readers who enjoy light-hearted fantasy mixed with traditional tropes, but those looking for a deeply nuanced exploration of identity and power dynamics may be left wanting. Personally, I appreciated the journey as a heartfelt yet chaotic ride, but I can’t help but feel that there’s a better story waiting to emerge from the fairy dust and tangled plots.
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