Movie Odyssey Retrospective
In the first few decades of Walt Disney Productions’ (now Walt Disney Animation Studios) existence, the studio veered perilously between periods of feast and famine. The success of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), Dumbo (1941), and the modestly-budgeted films of the package era kept the studio afloat despite Walt Disney’s occasionally disastrous business instincts and rotten luck due to World War II cutting off European audiences. With WWII concluded, Disney’s propaganda commitments to the federal government and tightened budgets were no more. With the exception of the aftermath from the release of The Black Cauldron (1985), the studio’s survival has not been seriously endangered since. That is in large part because of the gamble that is Cinderella, directed by Clyde Geronimi, Hamilton Luske, and Wilfred Jackson.
Any rebirth for Disney animated features depended on Cinderella’s success. Not since Dumbo had so much been riding on one of the studio’s movies – especially now as Walt was dividing his attention between animation, live-action features, television, a preliminary plan to build a small play park, and collaborating with the FBI to root out suspected communists at his own studio. More later on Cinderella’s legacy (I think you, the reader, have an idea about what happened to the Disney studios after this), but the film was the fifth highest-grossing movie in North American theaters that year, ahead of Born Yesterday and behind Cheaper by the Dozen and Annie Get Your Gun. In various ways, Cinderella is among the most important movies in the Disney animated canon, even if it does little to nothing to elevate animation in cinema and contains issues that have metastasized in subsequent Disney animated features.
Decades before the Disney name became synonymous with fairy tales and princesses, the writing team assigned to Cinderella used Snow White as their template on this film. The opening minutes of Cinderella share much of Snow White’s alchemy: the opening of an ornate storybook, an orphaned young woman whose lot in life is to be a rag-wearing scullery maid, that same woman singing about dreams to an audience of animals that instinctively know of her kindness. What starts off too similarly like the second coming of Snow White then descends into an overstretched sequence of the animals’ tomfoolery (half the film is dedicated to the animals’ hijinks!).
Cinderella’s animals, unlike those in Snow White, are fully anthropomorphic – they wear clothes, converse with Cinderella in their high-pitched squeak-talking, tiptoe around the obviously villainous cat named Lucifer, and make fools of themselves to entertain the youngest set. In the opening minutes, Cinderella squanders its serviceable musical opening for vapid hilarity as it unlearns the lessons that began with Snow White and reached its apotheosis with Bambi (1942). In works where animals live alongside humans, animal side characters serving as comic relief are most effective and timeless when they behave like animals, not humans. Disney’s animated canon has been hampered by this development – one codified by Cinderella and, in its foulest iterations in recent decades (e.g. 2005′s Chicken Little), originates from commercial, not artistic, decision-making. The excessive screentime for the animals in the film’s opening third and especially the heavily gender-coded dialogue and behavior by the mice – “Leave the sewing to the women!” – is enough to eject Cinderella from the upper echelons of the Disney animated canon.
In my review to Snow White, I wrote that the writing of female characters in Disney’s animated canon films reflects the writers’ understanding of gendered roles in their respective times. Cinderella expressly looked to Snow White for inspiration after two decades where the Great Depression and World War II upended traditional gender norms. In the 1930s and ‘40s, thousands of American women found themselves in traditionally male occupations, altering – if only for a time – popular beliefs about what might be considered masculine or feminine behavior. Over in Burbank at the Disney studios, its departments were segregated by gender (its ink and paint department was solely staffed by women, and there were no significant clusters of women elsewhere in the studio) – insulating it from this phenomenon.
As if foreshadowing the gender-conforming atmosphere of the 1950s, it should not be a surprise that Cinderella cannot envision women beyond a vessel for marriage or a homemaker. With an eye towards a prince to sweep her away from her stepmother and stepsisters, an interesting protagonist Cinderella does not make. And with Cinderella not showcasing as much of her personality as Snow White did, she feels far more inert as a character than her predecessor. However, comparable to Snow White, Cinderella’s life has been one of deprivation and a lack of healthy human interaction – one without quarter, love from others. Knowing little else about life beyond her scullery duties, it is easy to see why she holds such retrograde beliefs for her own salvation.
Cinderella’s rough beginning is nevertheless the prelude to its visual wonderment. The visuals in animated feature films are the collaborative work of hundreds – credited or otherwise – of animators, background artists, character designers, painters, inbetweeners, cinematographers, and more. Sometimes, one particular artist wields an influence that extends across an entire feature. In the correct set of circumstances, they set an aesthetic that alters the artistic direction of animated films for an entire national film industry or a single studio. For Cinderella, its visual beauty is set by its backgrounds. Tyrus Wong’s background art defined Bambi a decade earlier; here, it is Mary Blair’s work that defines Cinderella.
Blair, a modernist whose style fit the films at United Productions of America (UPA; a breakaway studio which was founded by striking Disney animators) better than Disney, had been working at the studio since 1940. She worked through the package films era and on two live-action/animation hybrids in Song of the South (1946) and So Dear to My Heart (1948). But it is Cinderella where Blair’s style – flat, graphic, abstract – is the dominant force of the film. Blair’s buildings and their arches shoot upwards, supported by architecturally impossible reed-thin columns, making rooms cavernous and façades larger than life. The sprawl of these interiors suggests not only the fantastical atmosphere that this fairy tale inhabits, but the grandiosity of Cinderella’s story. The vertical frames of Blair’s buildings are elegant and abstract, never intimidating, as if hailing from a children’s storybook. With the exception of when Cinderella is dancing with (and fleeing) Prince Charming, blues, whites, and sometimes muted greens dominate the scenes of her regal desires – as if shimmering in moonlight.
In character design, three men – all part of the “Nine Old Men” fraternity – served as supervising animators for Cinderella. I find Cinderella’s character design plainly uninteresting, but it is how she moves that will leave awestruck this film’s most vocal detractors. Marc Davis (the three principal animated characters in Song of the South, Alice in 1951’s Alice in Wonderland); Eric Larson (Peter Pan in 1953’s Peter Pan, Mowgli and Bagheera in 1967’s The Jungle Book); and Les Clark (1928’s Steamboat Willie, 1961’s One Hundred and One Dalmatians) made heavy use of rotoscoping in their attempts to animate Cinderella. Rotoscoping, developed by Max Fleischer (and made exclusive to Fleischer Studios by patent from 1915-1934), involves an animator tracing the movements over projected live-action footage as opposed to animating something from scratch or some other form of reference. As an animator traces over the footage, they may add a personal flourish – a delay or embellishment of movement – in the process. For animating humans, adhering completely to human movement via Rotoscope results in footage that looks stilted, as if hailing from a different universe than one created for an animated film. For Davis, Larson, and Clark, there hardly is a scene where Cinderella is not benefitting from rotoscoping. The rotoscoped animation allows Cinderella to move more fluidly than any human character drawn by the Disney animators at this point in the studio’s history. Whether she is scrubbing the floors, waltzing with her animal friends or Prince Charming, or making herself scarce before the stroke of midnight, there is a majestic grace to her movement – and yes, that includes the moment where she loses her glass slipper.
The less cartoonish a character acts in Cinderella, the more they are rotoscoped. So alongside Cinderella, Prince Charming and especially stepmother Lady Tremaine – the latter’s supervising character animator was Frank Thomas (an animator for the Seven Dwarfs on Snow White, supervising animator for Tod and Copper on 1981’s The Fox and the Hound) – are the two other characters heavily rotoscoped in the film. Lady Tremaine’s imposing posture and manner of dress gifts her a wordless authority over everyone residing in the Tremaine château. In contrast to Cinderella’s stepsisters – characters who act and look in ways that one might expect in a bawdy animated short film – her stern demeanor, realistically angled long face, and deliberate movements effuse opportunism, menace, spite. Lady Tremaine’s appearance, in respect to how much it contributes to the film, is a pronounced upgrade from the Queen in Snow White. She relates a spectacular amount of characterization in just a glance, a scowl. Yet, Lady Tremaine’s darkly charismatic character design would only be the appetizer to even more iconic villainous designs to appear later that decade.
The incidental score by Oliver Wallace and Paul J. Smith is dominated by quotations from the songs, and is not nearly as independent from the soundtrack as previous Disney animated canon scores. For the first time in a Disney animated feature, the studio looked outside its Burbank campus for its songwriters. Looking towards Tin Pan Alley, Disney hired Mack David (the title songs to 1959’s The Hanging Tree, 1963’s It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World); Al Hoffman (“Papa Loves Mambo”, “A Whale of a Tale” from 1954’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea); and Jerry Livingston (the title songs to The Hanging Tree, 1965’s Cat Ballou). Cinderella possesses a wonderful musical score, headlined by “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes”, “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo”, and “So This is Love” – ignoring “The Work Song” (squeak-sung by the mice in something that set a precedent for Alvin and the Chipmunks), of course.
One of these, obviously, is unlike the others. “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo”, sung by the Fairy Godmother (voiced by Verna Felton, who voiced the Elephant Matriarch and Mrs. Jumbo in Dumbo and, over the 1950s, became a Disney voice cast regular), is an exuberant frolic, and easily one of the best songs with nonsense lyrics in film history. Nonsense and novelty songs in Hollywood typically wear out their welcome, running a minute or more longer than they should. Clocking in at roughly one minute, the Fairy Godmother performs her magic, and promptly whisks Cinderella away to Prince Charming’s ball by song – a musical exemplar in narrative brevity.
Thirteen years following Snow White, Cinderella benefits from advances in recording technology and a richer – if not necessarily fuller – orchestral sound. Ilene Woods was primarily a radio singer, and her voice’s timbre is suited to play Cinderella. “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” parallels Snow White’s “I’m Wishing” in its exceptionally early placement and nowadays-formulaic function. But it is a serviceable introduction to Cinderella as a character, even with no specific dream mentioned in the lyrics. Sung with Mike Douglas (as Prince Charming), “So This is Love” is a dreamy duet, a waltz that musically defies a typical waltz. Waltzes, in ¾ time, usually have a pulse that even those not versed in music can “feel”. That pulse is usually on the downbeat, the “1”. Yet “So This is Love” generally begins its phrases and pulses on the “and” of the second beat (as one would count a measure as: “1 and 2 and 3 and”). The song’s frequent use of slurred notes, even fermatas, gives it its romantic flow and dramatic ebbs. This is an unconventional waltz, one that resists categorization and a song that would have been quite difficult to compose – despite its outwards simplicity.
Walt Disney appreciated the financial cushion that Cinderella provided (funding for the project met fierce resistance from his brother and the company’s CEO, Roy), and never truly worried about funding issues after the film’s release. The funds from Cinderella were injected across the company: for feature animation, live-action narrative features, the True-Life Adventures nature documentary series, Disney’s eventual television presence, and into purchasing a tract of orange groves in Anaheim. As for Cinderella itself, Walt could see the artistic shortcuts (rotoscoping included) in most every frame. It was no Snow White, he thought to himself. And though this 1950 adaptation was technologically superior in every way from the 1922 silent Laugh-O-Gram* short based on the same story, there seemed to be no artistic fulfillment for Walt in this Cinderella’s success.
Cinderella heralds the start of the Disney studios’ “Silver Age” – the second half of Walt Disney’s tenure as the creative ringleader at his namesake studio. Various film writers will provide conflicting definitions for these periods in Disney animation history. According to this blog, the Silver Age (1950-1967) is named as such due to the cessation of the package films and the return of more traditional animated features, Walt retreating from his once-omnipresent role in the artistic decision-making for those animated features, and the limited animation of the 1960s. However, the Silver Age is also the beginning of the studio consciously crafting large portions of these movies (if not the entire movie) explicitly for children. This is not to say films specifically for children are not worthwhile – Dumbo being a prime example. But to introduce characters, plot devices, and humor geared for children at the expense of the film’s storytelling or thematic resonance to viewers of all ages is the Disney studios at its most cynical and business-minded. These trends – that are not solely the fault of any single film – have persisted into modern animation, and are artistically incompatible with Disney’s Golden Age animated features. Those cynical trends are absent in the next Disney animated feature – an adaptation of a Lewis Carroll work that embraces a tsunami of colors and its own looniness.
To audiences in North America who had not seen a non-package animated feature in almost a decade and to war-weary audiences abroad reintroducing themselves to Disney films, Cinderella must have been an astonishing work after episodically-structured movies without a natural through line. In this Silver Age, Walt Disney and his animators would define the studio’s hallmarks – princesses, fairy tales, comic relief intended for children inserted for non-artistic reasons, and the distinctive visual style of artists like Mary Blair. Cinderella is the genesis for these developments. The Silver Age’s most innovative, accomplished work would still be several years away.
^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).
* Founded in 1921 by Walt Disney, The Laugh-O-Gram studio was located in Kansas City, Missouri, and was the short-lived predecessor of the modern-day Walt Disney Animation Studios. Alongside future animation industry stalwarts Ub Iwerks, Hugh Harman, Rudolf Ising, and Friz Freleng, the Laugh-O-Gram studios made short animated silent films. Many of these films were based on fairy tales – including Cinderella (1922).
For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.
This is the twentieth Movie Odyssey Retrospective. Movie Odyssey Retrospectives are reviews on films I had seen in their entirety before this blog’s creation or films I failed to give a full-length write-up to following the blog’s creation. Previous Retrospectives include 12 Angry Men (1957), Oliver! (1968), and Jingle All the Way (1996).
