We know the ingredients: a royal family divided, competing versions of the past, disputed loyalties and a clash over who gets to define the family story. It is a scandal packed with accusations, grievances and ancient resentments. Entwined is a struggle over status, authority and influence, and questions about who belongs and who gets to decide. And at its heart are allegations that one side is tightening its grip while the others are fighting for their rights. Yes, it is the Princely House of Liechtenstein.

Princely sum

Sandwiched between Switzerland and Austria, the independent principality of Liechtenstein is, at 62 square miles, almost exactly the size of Washington, DC. Its population is just over 40,000 — that’s smaller than Woonsocket, Rhode Island. Its capital, Vaduz, has only about 5,000. But this is a mouse that roars, so to speak. Unfolding in this tiny nation is a major controversy that may not have the shock potential of the House of Windsor versus Charles Spencer, but thrums with intrigue just the same.

The Liechtenstein family acquired Vaduz and Schellenberg in the early 18th century. The territory became an imperial principality — a state ruled by a prince — in 1719 and eventually a sovereign state (ie, not dependent on other powers). Liechtenstein was not a monarchy created by a modern nation-state and subsequently democratized; the dynasty and the territory have been historically intertwined from the beginning. In a sense, it more closely resembles a 17th-century feudal state than a modern industrial power.

Or, at least, it did until 1921, when the country adopted a constitution and established a constitutional hereditary monarchy. The constitutional settlement preserved an unusual space for the Princely House itself, which exists as a formal institution parallel to the state. As a result, the Prince retains substantial political power.

The Princely House has its own House Law governing matters of membership, titles, succession, inheritance and family affairs. And those rules have now become the subject of a bloodless family rebellion.

Monogamous call girl

In August, Hereditary Prince Alois introduced measures that sound almost aggressively modern. Women now have succession rights and equal participation rights in matters governed by the House Law. Yet the reforms also give Alois greater authority over titles, coats of arms and membership of the Princely House, according to family members who oppose them. They say the changes weaken the checks previously exercised by other relatives, and they are considering legal action.

There is also, inevitably, the issue of money. The dissenting princes state that dynasty membership can have financial consequences because allowances are connected to princely status. The family’s fortune runs into the billions and much of it is tied up in LGT, a private bank the Princely House owns. Prince Max, Alois’s brother, oversees the bank. In 2025, it distributed roughly $878 million to the family.

The dissenting royals insist that money is not the problem. They want equal rights amongst the members of the Princely House. As one put it, presumably with a straight face, “Just because we’re princes, it doesn’t mean we don’t have basic rights.” I’m reminded of actor Patricia Arquette’s line at the end of the 1993 movie, True Romance: She owns up to being a “call girl,” but says, “When it comes to relationships, I’m 100% monogamous.” Self-contradictory to some, but perfectly consistent for others.

The apparent contradiction points us toward a serious question: What exactly does equality mean inside a hereditary institution whose existence actually depends on distinctions between people?

This is where Liechtenstein becomes more interesting than its size suggests. The country is thoroughly modern in almost every conventional sense: prosperous, industrialized, technologically advanced and culturally connected to the rest of Europe. Yet at the core of its political and social order lies a hereditary institution whose members inherit status rather than acquire it through democratic choice. It is, in effect, an antonym of meritocracy.

The contradiction is not necessarily a problem. After all, modern societies are full of them. We can believe in equality while admiring hierarchy, consume celebrity while professing indifference to fame and reject inherited privilege while remaining fascinated by those who possess it. Liechtenstein just makes the contradiction unusually conspicuous.

Cultural capital

The conflict we see in Liechtenstein is about what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu called cultural capital. An abundance of valuable possessions or money — wealth —  is only one form of capital. Status, recognition, pedigree and the authority to define what counts as legitimate can be and often are valuable in their own right. This royal dispute is partly about the distribution of these things: who possesses them, who can confer them and, most importantly, who has the authority to decide who is or isn’t entitled to them.

Elsewhere in Europe, the relationship between hereditary status and political power has been transformed, taking a largely symbolic role. In Great Britain, for example, the House of Windsor has little direct political authority compared with the monarchy of earlier centuries. Yet its cultural capital remains prodigious, as it can still make the front page of tabloids worldwide.

That brings us to a self-reflective question: Why do we care?

Divine right of celebrities

For all our democratic and federalist constitutions, our 21st-century skepticism about hereditary privilege and, in some countries, outright republicanism, we still turn our heads when a royal family starts fighting. A bust-up among people who inherited their status rather than earned it should, rationally enough, be of little interest to the rest of us.

The Liechtenstein dispute may have consequences for Liechtensteiners and nobody else beyond. The Windsor disputes are unlikely to alter Britain’s constitutional arrangements. Yet we read about them, watch them, discuss them, speculate about them and, above all, pass judgment on the people involved. I am doing it myself.

This is one of the peculiarities of celebrity culture. Institutions can lose political power without losing cultural power. Royal families become more important as sources of stories, personalities, rivalries, scandals and symbols. The people at the center of these dramas may inhabit archaic institutions, but they have acquired something that modern democracy can’t abolish: our attention.

Perhaps this is why royal scandal has such longevity. The monarchy may be past its expiration date as a form of political organization, but as a form of cultural entertainment it remains fresh. 

The divine right of kings is history. But we have absolutely not lost our appetite for something juicy about those kings, their families and the princes, princesses, Harrys, Meghans, Spencers and Aloises who come with them.

[Ellis Cashmore is the author of Celebrity Culture.]

[Lee Thompson-Kolar edited this piece.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.