As audiences watch the latest rendition of Peter Pan & Wendy, directed by David Lowery, now streaming on Disney+, a question resurfaces that has echoed for over a century: what is it about Peter Pan that continues to captivate us? Despite numerous cinematic adaptations over the past few decades often resulting in critical and commercial failures, we persistently revisit J.M. Barrie’s classic children’s tale. What is the deeper meaning behind this character, and why does he hold such a tenacious grip on our collective imagination?
While Lowery’s recent adaptation might tread familiar ground, adding little novelty to the existing interpretations of Peter Pan, it inadvertently sheds light on a long-standing puzzle surrounding the character. Despite Lowery’s directorial finesse, reminiscent of his previous works like The Green Knight and The Old Man & the Gun, and despite some visually arresting scenes, the film struggles to establish a sense of reality, largely due to its heavy reliance on CGI and green screens, particularly in depicting Neverland, a realm that should be inherently enchanting.
However, the film’s shortcomings are not the primary focus here. Instead, it’s the enduring allure of Peter Pan for filmmakers like Lowery, Joe Wright, Steven Spielberg, and Benh Zeitlin that warrants exploration. Beneath the seemingly innocent façade of the story lie profound and often darker truths that challenge the character’s purported message. But what exactly is that message? What Is The Meaning Of Peter Pan? And how has this meaning evolved through different eras and countless adaptations? In essence, why do we consistently create new iterations of the Boy Who Refuses to Grow Up?
He May Not Age, But He Was Born from Sorrow
Peter Pan, regardless of interpretation, is fundamentally a melancholic figure. It’s almost perplexing how this boastful and arrogant character has maintained such a prominent place in our culture. Delving into the origins of Peter Pan, Wendy, the Lost Boys, and Neverland reveals a narrative that, contrary to its marketing as an uplifting story of innocence and imagination, serves as a poignant reminder of inevitable loss, decay, and mortality.
Let’s begin with the real-life inspirations behind Peter Pan. First and foremost, there’s J.M. Barrie’s elder brother, David, who was the family’s golden child, tragically killed in an accident just before his fourteenth birthday. Barrie’s mother was irrevocably devastated by this loss, leaving a six-year-old James with the daunting task of “trying to make her forget him,” a goal he never achieved. Barrie later wrote, “When I became a man… he was still a boy of 13.” This background casts a deeply tragic shadow over the famous opening line of Barrie’s novel Peter and Wendy: “All children, except one, grow up.” In reality, this is not achieved through fairy dust; the only children who truly never grow up are those who die young.
Barrie also famously befriended the five sons of the Llewelyn Davies family, whom he first encountered in Kensington Gardens, London—the very setting for the initial Peter Pan stories. These boys, individually and collectively, became the blueprint for Peter’s personality, as well as the Darling family and the Lost Boys of Neverland (over time, the article “the” was dropped from “the Neverland”). Much of Peter Pan’s mythology was developed in collaboration with the two eldest boys, George and John (nicknamed Jack). Peter Llewelyn Davies, the middle son, was an infant when Barrie met the family, nestled in a pram; Peter Pan’s origin story begins with him in a pram.
Image alt text: J.M. Barrie with young Peter Llewelyn Davies, circa 1900, illustrating the real-life inspiration behind the Peter Pan character and story.
Peter Davies grew up to be a distinguished publisher, yet the shadow of Peter Pan relentlessly followed him and his brothers in media reports. A 1926 Daily Express headline read, “PETER PAN BECOMES PUBLISHER,” accompanied by an article that noted, “He would speak about his first book, but not a word would he utter about Peter Pan. ‘Please forget that,’ he said, and his lips seemed to say, ‘I’m grown up now, you know.’” Peter detested the media’s constant reminders of Barrie’s iconic character, but they were inescapable. Tragically, in April 1960, headlines across England screamed “THE BOY WHO NEVER GREW UP IS DEAD,” “PETER PAN’S DEATH LEAP,” and “PETER PAN COMMITS SUICIDE.” Peter Llewelyn Davies had jumped in front of a train in London.
The final, crucial inspiration for Peter Pan was Barrie himself. He seemed most at ease and thrived in the company of children, as if perpetually resisting adulthood. Although he married actress Mary Ansell in 1894, their marriage was reportedly devoid of intimacy; they remained childless despite Mary’s desire for children, and rumors circulated about Barrie’s impotence and a never-consummated marriage.
It’s plausible that Barrie identified as asexual, which might explain his profound fascination with children and his disinterest in having his own. He and Mary eventually divorced. (Importantly, there’s no credible evidence of Barrie ever behaving inappropriately or criminally towards the many children he befriended throughout his life; in fact, testimonies largely suggest the opposite.)
The concept of Peter Pan as a metaphor for Barrie’s deceased brother David—a lost boy guiding other lost boys to solace in an idyllic realm—is profoundly poignant. However, Peter as a representation of Barrie himself is even more tragic. Barrie’s most formative childhood experience involving an adult was witnessing his mother’s deep grief over her lost son. It’s conceivable that such an experience could deter a young boy from embracing adulthood. Why navigate the pain and sorrow of adulthood when one could remain eternally young and embark on endless adventures?
While the earliest iteration of Peter Pan was unable to grow up (in the original mythology, babies are initially “birds before they [are] human,” losing their wings shortly after birth; Peter, escaping before this, is described as neither human nor bird), the Peter Pan we recognize chooses not to. Peter might have originated as an elegy for Barrie’s brother, but he evolved into a self-portrait of an artist adrift in adulthood, seeking kindred spirits—children—to revel in a fantastical world free from death (like David) and the burdens of maturity (like Barrie). The meaning of Peter, therefore, is deeply intertwined with loss, longing for a lost innocence, and a complex relationship with the very concept of growing up.
Peter Pan Doesn’t Grow Up, But His Meaning Evolves
Peter Pan first emerged in the novel The Little White Bird (1902) as an infant—“His age is one week”—because “he escaped from being a human when he was seven days old.” A narrator guides a boy (named David, notably) through Kensington Gardens with somewhat convoluted prose. The narrator, an ambiguous “I,” refers to David both as “you”—directly addressing David—and as “he” or “David”—speaking to us, the readers, about David—as in this confusing passage: “There are more gates to the Gardens than one gate, but that is the one you go in at, and before you go in you speak to the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside.” Followed shortly by, “Once she was a new one, because the old one had let go, and David was very sorry for the old one.” It makes for a disjointed reading experience.
This was followed by the play Peter Pan; or, The Boy Who Would Not Grow Up in 1904, which achieved such success that Barrie adapted it into the novel Peter and Wendy (1911). These versions contain the elements we all remember—the Darling family, Peter’s lost shadow, Tinker Bell, Captain Hook, Neverland—but also some less familiar aspects—the Neverbird, Neverland’s inherent violence, and, crucially, Peter’s casual sociopathy. (When Wendy revisits Neverland a year after the novel’s conclusion, Peter has forgotten almost everything and everyone, explaining his amnesia about Hook, his former “arch enemy,” with “I forget them after I kill them.”) And some elements we’d rather forget—Tiger Lily and the Piccaninny tribe, the racist caricatures of “redskins” and “noble savage[s]” massacred by pirates.
Image alt text: Dustin Hoffman as Captain Hook and Robin Williams as Peter Pan in the movie “Hook” (1991), illustrating a later, more mature interpretation of the Peter Pan narrative.
Despite Peter’s nonchalant murderousness and the problematic depictions of Native Americans, the underlying message of Barrie’s play and novel is relatively clear: childhood is a Neverland accessible only to children, forgotten by adults. We should allow children their adventures there and strive, as we inevitably mature, to recall our own time in that magical realm. However, Peter, while symbolizing eternal innocence, also embodies the consequences of arrested development. He is forgetful and insensitive to the impact of his words; he is selfish and arrogant; and despite his proclaimed independence, he constantly requires care.
In the novel’s epilogue, Wendy, breaking her promise to Peter, becomes a wife and mother. Peter is briefly saddened, then encounters Wendy’s daughter Jane and decides to take her to Neverland to replace Wendy as his mother figure. Or, as Jane explains to Wendy, “he wants me always to do his spring cleaning.” The concluding passage describes how this lineage of women—first Wendy’s mother, then Wendy, then Jane, then Jane’s daughter Margaret, and so on indefinitely—become a maternal supply chain for Pan. He’s akin to a perpetual adolescent, eternally seeking a mother figure.
Even more unsettling is Wendy’s developing affection for Peter and her inquiry about his feelings for her, to which he responds, “Those of a devoted son, Wendy.” Peter is utterly incapable of reciprocating romantic feelings, prioritizing a caretaker over a companion. This not only reflects Barrie’s potential personal inclinations but also serves as a cautionary tale against perpetual adolescence. Peter Pan cannot fulfill anyone’s needs; he can only extract what he requires from others.
He aims to convince us that youth is life’s hero and aging its villain. Ironically, this aligns with a common Hollywood narrative. Disney’s 1953 animated version omits this ending—which, admittedly, was not part of Barrie’s original play but added later—leaving Peter and the Lost Boys in Neverland, concluding after Wendy and her brothers return home. The Mary Martin adaptations of the 1950s and 60s adhere more closely to the source material, retaining the epilogue, yet it’s often presented triumphantly, as if we should be pleased that Wendy has passed down her relationship with Peter to her daughter. This is despite Wendy’s pleas for Peter not to forget to return to her, which he inevitably does. Why is Wendy so forgiving of Peter’s self-absorption? And why are we expected to forgive him as well? The meaning of Peter here becomes blurred, romanticized despite the underlying selfishness and emotional immaturity.
Spielberg’s 1991 film Hook is the sole adaptation that adequately addresses these themes. By portraying Peter as having grown up and forgotten Neverland, Spielberg situates the conflict between innocence and maturity within a single character, demonstrating how the lessons of Peter Pan—to retain some innocence in adulthood—can enrich our adult lives.
Furthermore, Robin Williams’s Peter is a far more compelling protagonist than Barrie’s, undergoing genuine character development. He must rediscover his past self to become a better version of his present self. While the film has its flaws—notably the heightened sexual tension between Peter and Tinker Bell—it boasts strong performances (especially Dustin Hoffman’s Hook) and the most appealing depiction of Neverland, genuinely captivating to children.
Hook’s unique contribution is exploring what might transpire after Barrie’s story concludes, while subsequent remakes often fixate on prequels. Joe Wright’s Pan (2015) attempts to deepen the mythology by crafting origin stories for both Peter and Hook, depicting them as early friends and partners in piracy. In Wright’s rendition, Peter’s father is the Fairy Prince, explaining Peter’s flight ability as genetic and positioning him as a chosen one figure for Neverland’s natives.
This approach often feels reductive. Hollywood tends to take beloved characters (or, in their view, established Intellectual Property) and offer simplistic, unnecessary explanations for their appeal, thereby stripping away their inherent mystery. The Grinch’s meanness is attributed to childhood bullying; Willy Wonka’s eccentric chocolate empire stems from a dentist father forbidding candy. As Patton Oswalt aptly put it regarding his dislike for the Star Wars prequels, “I don’t care where the stuff I love comes from. I just love the stuff I love.”
Peter Never Dies, But Perhaps He Should for the Sake of Meaningful Growth
Lowery’s Peter Pan and Wendy, while largely faithful to the novel, follows a similar path by explaining that Hook (played by Jude Law) was once a boy named James, “the very first Lost Boy,” and Peter’s closest friend.
This friendship ends when Peter banishes James for missing his mother. James attempts to return home but gets lost at sea and is rescued by pirates, transforming into Captain Hook. In this version, Peter is somewhat villainous, not only in his treatment of Hook but in a general stalker-like demeanor. Describing James’s departure from Neverland and subsequent transformation into “cruel” and “evil” (omitting his own role in exiling James), Wendy asks, “Was he though? Or had he just grown up?” Peter, angered, retorts, “What’s the difference?” before moving closer to her and declaring, “That’s why you must never leave. Who knows what you’ll become.”
Image alt text: Jude Law portraying Captain Hook in Disney’s “Peter Pan & Wendy” (2023), a recent adaptation exploring the backstory and motivations of Captain Hook.
This exhibits a classic possessive and controlling dynamic. While the Hook backstory might be cliché, viewing Peter as a flawed character might be the key insight in this adaptation, highlighting a long-standing unease about the Peter Pan narrative. The meaning of Peter here shifts from a symbol of innocent joy to a figure embodying arrested development and emotional manipulation.
Even if Peter were correct—that growing up is detrimental and eternal childhood is ideal—it’s an unhelpful message because aging is inevitable. The platitude to “remain a kid at heart” is pleasant but insufficient. Peter, in his perpetual innocence, is incapable of forming deep emotional bonds or remembering those he has spent years with. These experiences shape us, mold us, and drive our growth, leading to what we call wisdom.
Peter cannot attain wisdom because the experiences that foster it necessitate growth. Peter cannot reciprocate Wendy’s love or feel remorse or guilt for those he has harmed. He may not be a villain in the traditional sense, but Peter represents a tempting yet ultimately flawed idealization of innocence and a lament for its loss. Innocence, like virginity, nobility, or eternal life, is an illusion—a label for an absence that needs to be filled for life to truly commence. This void is filled by interactions, conflicts, and relationships with others, as these encounters are primary drivers of our maturation.
Innocence, therefore, is inherently solitary, most acutely felt in isolation. Peter embodies who we are before we become part of a community. He is not an aspirational figure but someone to actively reject in the pursuit of comprehensive human experience. He wants us to believe that youth is life’s hero and aging its villain. This perspective, coincidentally, is often echoed by Hollywood. Thus, Peter Pan serves as a fitting emblem for Hollywood itself, perhaps explaining why they continually revisit his story, year after year, expecting different outcomes. Ultimately, the meaning of Peter Pan is not just about eternal youth, but about the necessary journey of growing up, embracing complexity, and finding meaning in connection and maturity, even with its inevitable pains.
