Few fairy tales have been retold as often as Cinderella, but few adaptations are as quietly revolutionary as Czech Tři oříšky pro Popelku (Three Wishes for Cinderella, 1973), directed by Václav Vorlíček and starring the luminous Libuše Šafránková. This beloved Czech movie subverts the traditional Cinderella narrative by offering a heroine who is not merely a victim of circumstance, but a young woman of agency, intellect, and playful defiance. Beneath its snow-dusted fairy-tale setting lies a compelling exploration of psychology, gender identity, and reimagined sexuality—making it a rich subject for deeper analysis.
Cinderella's psychology and Inner Strength
From the outset, Popelka is portrayed not as a passive sufferer but as an emotionally resilient and mentally agile young woman. Orphaned and grieving, she lives under the control of a stepmother who alternates between icy cruelty and simmering resentment. Her stepsister is petty and mocking. There are undertones of domestic violence and psychological neglect in their interactions—scenes of shouting, emotional degradation, and silencing serve as unsettling reminders that this is more than just a fairy-tale inconvenience.
But Popelka, far from broken, develops a kind of covert resilience. Her survival is psychological as much as physical. Her true allies are not other people in power, but the animals she tends and a loyal helper (Vladimir who remember her parents and see her true self. These companions are not mere talking sidekicks but symbols of a world where empathy and memory persist—where love outlives loss.
Unlike the romanticized, sanitized heroines of Disney’s golden era, Šafránková’s Popelka is psychologically complex. She neither seeks salvation nor pities herself. Her choices—whether it’s donning a hunter’s cloak, speaking in riddles, or challenging the prince to a duel—reflect a layered character who processes her reality with cunning and courage. The psychology of this Cinderella is not rooted in escapism, but in self-determination and creative resistance.
Challenging Gender Norms
Perhaps the most striking element of Three Wishes for Cinderella is its dismantling of traditional gender roles. Popelka is no passive princess-in-waiting. She rides horses, shoots arrows, and outwits the male characters around her—not by magic or seduction, but by skill and intellect. Her feminine identity is never diminished by her masculine-coded actions; instead, the film suggests that strength and softness can coexist within a single character.
Her relationship with the prince—played by the fabulously vain (and fun) Pavel Trávníček, who much later in his career would fantastically dub John Travolta in Pulp Fiction for Czech audiences—is also a departure from the archetypal fairy-tale script. Their romance is not one of immediate infatuation, but of curiosity and mutual admiration. Popelka is not “chosen” by the prince for her beauty alone—she earns his attention through acts of wit, independence, and physical prowess. In this way, the film proposes a model of partnership based on equality and playful rivalry rather than hierarchy or rescue.
Sexuality and Performance
In contrast to the dreamlike haze of Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, where the adolescent Valerie stumbles through a surreal landscape of desire, fear, and fragmented sexuality, Three Wishes for Cinderella offers a subtler, more self-assured portrayal of femininity. Valerie’s world is drenched in symbolism and threat, her sexuality something mysterious and still forming—curious, unprotected, and often manipulated by others.
Popelka, on the other hand, though technically in a children’s fairytale, feels more mature in her embodiment. Her sexuality is never the central theme, yet it’s impossible to ignore the quiet confidence with which she moves through the world. She plays with performance—arriving veiled at the ball, dressed in hunting gear, or covered in ashes—not to invite desire, but to control perception. It’s not seduction; it’s strategy.
While Valerie’s experience is one of initiation and vulnerability, Popelka’s is one of command. She’s aware of how she’s seen, and she uses that awareness with intent. There is something deeply empowering in the way she transforms—not into an idealized princess, but into different versions of herself, each serving her purpose. Her body, unlike Valerie’s, is never up for negotiation—it’s hers, entirely.
This layered presentation of gender also complicates the viewer’s perception of romance. The prince falls in love not with an idealized maiden, but with someone who repeatedly confounds and challenges him. In doing so, the film subtly reorients fairy-tale sexuality away from objectification and toward connection, curiosity, and the destabilization of norms.
But... That Prince?
And yet—let’s talk about the prince.
For all his royal cheekbones and charming bewilderment, Pavel Trávníček’s prince is, frankly, a bit of a walking peacock. He's spoiled, vain, and so absorbed in his own boredom that hunting is his only real hobby. He throws tantrums, teases his friends, and takes an awfully long time to realize that the mysterious “boy” besting him in the forest is actually his equal—Popelka herself. So one can't help but wonder: why HIM?
Is it a case of opposites attracting? Is she charmed by the idea of transforming not pumpkins but princes—turning this shallow flirt into a decent human being? Or maybe, just maybe, Popelka isn’t after some perfect partner but a bit of fun. After all, she's had a pretty bleak domestic situation. Perhaps a lighthearted flirtation with a handsome, trainable royal was exactly what she needed.
Or—more provocatively—maybe she knows exactly who he is, and she’s choosing him not for who he is now, but for who he might become with a woman like her by his side. A feminist reimagining of the old trope: not the woman who needs saving, but the man.
Either way, it adds a curious kink to the otherwise flawless snow globe the fairy tale. Her choice isn’t without contradiction, and maybe that’s the point: love, like people, is messy, imperfect, and sometimes chosen for reasons that logic doesn’t quite explain.
Three Wishes for Cinderella endures not merely because it is charming, but because it is quietly radical. It transforms a well-worn tale into a story of psychological resilience, gender fluidity, and emotional intelligence. In Libuše Šafránková’s unforgettable performance, we see a Cinderella who is not rescued by a prince but meets him as an equal—flaws and all. This adaptation encourages viewers—young and old alike—to reimagine what it means to grow, to love, and to belong, far beyond the confines of traditional fairy-tale femininity. In its gentle, snow-covered way, Three Wishes for Cinderella is one of the most progressive and psychologically insightful retellings of the story ever made.
Original Czech movie poster for Three Wishes for Cibnderella.