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With Cinderella now available on Disney+, ELLE.com is republishing this 2017 essay on the film’s indelible legacy.
On November 2, 1997, my life changed. Twenty years ago, The Wonderful World of Disney remake of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella first aired, and it was like nothing I’ve ever seen.
Featuring a wildly diverse cast telling an age-old story with classic musical theater songs, Cinderella was effortlessly, even unintentionally, progressive. It conjured a world that was vibrant and modern and multicultural, and it filled that world with magic. Rewatching the film on its twentieth anniversary, I was struck by how important it still seems. Cinderella is the product of a very specific, hugely important moment in the ’90s: It forecast a world with far more possibility; it’s a film made for the future.
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Cinderella arrived when the idea of the mainstream was being reshaped and expanded in pop culture. Waiting to Exhale and Toy Story had been convention-busting hits in 1995. Set It Off and The Birdcage told little-seen stories a year later, focusing on black women and gay men respectively, while Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet told a classic story in a new, aggressively modern way. On television, although The Cosby Show, Family Matters, and The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air had left the air earlier in the decade, the new network UPN and the WB were taking chances on talent like Steve Harvey, Tia and Tamera Mowry, and Cinderella star Brandy.
Disney’s musical remake stepped into this moment of possibility, with one glass slipper solidly grounded in the familiar musical-theater world and one poised to land somewhere wholly new. And, wonderfully, Cinderella never seemed to have to choose a side. Take the physical world of the film: Production designer Randy Ser set it in a old-timey village, the kind that Beauty and the Beast‘s Belle would be at home sauntering through. Costume designer Ellen Mirojnick gave its inhabitants clothes that ranged from nineteenth-century peasant chic to ’40s-esque brocade gowns with exploding collars, bustles, and ruffles.
Despite its variety of styles, the production design is beautifully cohesive. This is more than just aesthetically important; it undergirds the basic philosophy of the film.
After Cinderella came out, we talked about it at school. One conversation focused on the fact that people of different races coexisted without comment. In what world do a Whoopi Goldberg and a Victor Garber produce a Filipino son (played by Paolo Montalban)? What genome are they using in this fairytale land? But as with the design, the cast simply was. It wasn’t explained; it wasn’t treated as unusual or even remarkable. And that, to me, was revolutionary.
And what a cast it was. Goldberg, who played the queen, displayed her majestic comic timing. Her performance steals every scene without pulling focus. (Put Whoopi in more comedies, please!)
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Bernadette Peters, as the evil stepmother, is giving a little Miss Hannigan and a little Mama Rose. I was immediately smitten. Her portrayal undoubtedly birthed a thousand drag numbers, though all of them probably pale in comparison to the original. Plus, Peters is so iconic (in this movie and in life) that for this movie, they added a song, “Falling in Love With Love,” just for her. Obviously, she slays it.
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Jason Alexander, at the height of his Seinfeld fame, plays the royal footman. He sports a peculiar Agador Spartacus accent, and dances, prances, stumbles, and flounces with aplomb in a role that should not be as impressive as it is. Watching him, you know he wasn’t just cashing a hiatus check; the classically trained and Tony-winning actor is here for the show.
But for all the established talent on board, the title role was placed on the shoulders of a relative newcomer. Brandy’s self-titled debut had sold six million copies three years earlier, but her on-screen experience was limited. She’d had a supporting role on one season of the sitcom Thea and would debut as Moesha in the UPN series of the same name months before Cinderella‘s premiere. But green though she was, 18-year-old Brandy was ready. She’s wistful and determined in the way Cinderellas ought to be; she also holds her own opposite the film’s comic powerhouses. And, perhaps most impressively, she manages not to get blown away vocally by the one and only Whitney Houston.
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Rewatching the film, I realized I had forgotten how much of a teen icon Brandy was. At the time, she had been packaged as the R&B; diva next door. She was funny and hugely talented and totally accessible. She was us, but better. Her Cinderella solo, “In My Own Little Corner,” and “Sitting Up in My Room,” her contribution to the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack, became the dual anthems of grounded and/or lovesick teens everywhere. Some teens had Kurt Cobain to put their ennui into words, but others had Brandy’s brand of spunky yearning. Brandy spoke for all of us who couldn’t wait to be out from under this roof, living single, exhaling, and chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool.
Still, as good as Brandy is, this movie belongs to Whitney Houston.
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Whitney is the ultimate diva fairy godmother. From the moment she graces the screen, she is all confident gestures and spirited lines. She owns this part.
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She has the warmth and cheekiness of Clair Huxtable and the self-possession of Glinda. She is perfect.
Whitney even makes hokey ’90s special effects look positively KiraKira-esque.
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What is happening here? Whitney is happening here.
It’s easy to forget how effortlessly funny she was. After years of meme-ification, you may also have forgotten how classy she was. Whitney was regal. She was a queen. And never was it more apparent than in this performance. Hot off of the success of Waiting to Exhale and The Preacher’s Wife, Whitney had proven that her star power knew no limits. She was one of the executive producers of Cinderella and had originally signed on to play the title character herself. But she is so commanding as the fairy godmother, it’s almost impossible to think about her in rags. Instead, Whitney chose Brandy to take the role, cementing a mentorship that would last until the day of Whitney’s death.
Rewatching the film, I’m left with how much I miss Whitney. I miss her in every part of our entertainment landscape. I miss her voice and her spirit. Watching her on-screen with Brandy, I’m reminded that one of Whitney’s last acts was coaching Brandy and Monica for a performance at Clive Davis’ pre-Grammy party. I’m reminded of how singular she was, and yet how open she was to letting others share the spotlight.
No moment is more transcendent than Whitney’s centerpiece song, “Impossible/It’s Possible.” It’s the song that transports Cinderella from her house of misery to the prince’s castle. It’s the song that changes her world. But it’s also a song that reaches far beyond the limits of the film. It’s shorthand for this film’s legacy; its whole world was built on that same gleaming possibility. Even the pure fact of the film’s existence meant that something was achievable that hadn’t been before. I will never forget how stunning it was to watch these two performers, both women of color, sing the words “It’s possible” over and over and over again, until I believed it. It changed my life.
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Cinderella taught me something revolutionary about the limitless nature of storytelling. That in stories, there are no constraints; the only limit is your imagination. And once you learn that, you don’t unlearn it. If audiences can make sense of a fairy godmother turning mice into coachmen, they can figure out multiracial family trees or, really, anything else.
If you’re lucky, in the 20 years since Cinderella premiered, you’ve had one of those Brandy-in-the-carriage moments, where you’re speeding off to something you thought was impossible. In those moments, I imagine Whitney flying alongside me, accompanying me to a bigger, bolder, better world. As she told us all those years ago: It’s possible.
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