We Ranked the Democratic Standards of Fictional Netflix Nations

Have you seen Netflix’s latest political drama, The Princess Switch 3: Romancing the Star? In it, Queen Margaret of Montenaro and Princess Stacy of Belgravia (Vanessa Hudgens and Vanessa Hudgens, respectively) must prevent an intentional incident after they lose a priceless relic that is on loan from the Vatican. The film is the latest offering in the fiercely rendered Princess Switch series, which has previously tackled abdications, coronations, and the gritty rivalries of royal life.

Some say the Princess Switch films—and other royalty-based Christmas movies peddled by Netflix—are silly, lighthearted comedies designed to inspire goodwill and cheer, not overzealous analysis. “Some” are wrong. Netflix has now conjured up so many monarchies that it is about time they were properly indexed: How democratic are these nations? How fascistic are their royal families? How wedded are they to the idea of human rights? Below is a ranking of all of the fictional principalities thus far created by Netflix, listed in order of just how much their citizens need to invest in a guillotine (or to put it another way, ranked from least to most democratic).

Aldovia is a mountainous central European nation situated to the south of Belgravia; its main export is wooden Christmas decorations. The kingdom is most prominently featured in Netflix’s Christmas Prince trilogy, which follows the interpersonal drama of the royal family, the Charltons.

While at first glance a free press flourishes in Aldovia—with journalists vocally critical of the monarchy during a media conference in the first film—we later see the color drain from a reporter’s face as Princess Emily Charlton threatens to throw him in the palace dungeons if he doesn’t leave the country immediately. At the end of the second film, elderly palace adviser Lord Leopold Plumtree is detained in these very same dungeons after he is accused of corruption—he is never granted a trial.

In the third film, viewers see that Leopold was incarcerated long enough to scratch “Leopold was here” in his cell’s mossy, dripping rock. The Aldovian palace’s dungeons have no natural light, electricity, or central heating, and they are visibly filthy; Leopold’s imprisonment is a clear violation of Section 1, Articles 3, 5, and 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights.

Thankfully, Aldovian citizens do have the right to protest—but boy, do they have a lot to protest about. While Aldovia initially appears not to be a principality, with the first film introducing us to a prime minister, the sequel reveals that this role is largely ceremonial (if not an outright sham). It is the King of Aldovia himself who dictates the country’s economic policy, and he does this so badly that the entire nation goes on strike over unpaid wages. Rather than figure out how to get the workers paid, the Charltons (or should that be charlatans?!) plan an elaborate play, go sledding, and bake. Let them eat gingerbread, indeed.

When one Aldovian worker sends a Christmas card to the queen, reading, in part, “I’ve lost my job, as the company I’ve worked for my whole life was put out of business by your ‘New Aldovia’ disaster,” the gathered royals do nothing about their failed policies, and simply hang the card with other festive well-wishes on the high cornices of their gilded hall.