Cinderella: “The sweetest story ever told” Makenzi Crouch In 1950, Walt Disney Productions released their first full-length animated film after the end of the war—a gamble, and one that, had it failed, might have meant the end of Disney (“Cinderella,” Disney Archives: “Cinderella” Movie History). Fortunately for the company, Cinderella was a success. Unlike Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, which was based on the Brothers Grimm variant, “Schneewittchen,” the Cinderella film was based on the variant produced by Charles Perrault in 1697: “Cinderella: or, The Little Glass Slipper” (Tatar 77). Like the slipper in Perrault’s title, these two Cinderella stories have much in common, despite the two hundred and fifty-three years that separate them; it is evident that it was Perrault’s tale that Disney had in front of them when they created their Cinderella. Because of this, it is this variant, with its fairy godmother, pumpkins, and midnight curfew, with which we are most familiar, rather than those variants with magical trees, fish, or golden slippers. And with these familiar elements come more: characters, whose presence is so constant and similar that we do not so much as think about them. Despite these similarities in plot structures and characters, Disney’s variant differs from the very beginning. Perrault presents us with a gentleman who marries for a second time, without explanation as to why, and whose only other appearance in the tale is when we are told that Cinderella cannot tell him that her stepmother is mistreating her, as he “would have only scolded her since he was totally under the control of his wife” (Zipes 450). While in Disney, Cinderella’s father is likewise given equally little visibility—he is allotted two frames of screen time and perhaps two and a half sentences of description—the narration at the beginning is careful to present his character, short-lived as it may be, as one with whom the viewer may sympathise. He is a “kind and devoted father” who gives “his beloved child every luxury and comfort”; he remarries because he feels that Cinderella is in need of a mother’s care (Cinderella). For two men who appear only briefly in their respective stories, we are given very different views of them. Perrault’s gentleman is a character for whom the reader must feel some degree of contempt, or at least pity. He exists, but as a non-entity; he is a man under his wife’s thumb, incapable of doing so much as stopping the mistreatment of his own flesh and blood—or of even seeing it. His own daughter recognises his impotence and does not even bother to go to him for help. The father in Disney’s Cinderella, on the other hand, is someone who we might imagine doing anything for his daughter. Unfortunately for Cinderella, he dies. It seems unlikely that Disney would have been comfortable with following Perrault’s lead on the absent, neglectful father; choosing to kill the father allows him to be absent without requiring him to be a negative light in Cinderella’s life. That negative role is sufficiently filled by the figures of Cinderella’s stepmother and two stepsisters. Perrault’s stepmother, like the father, plays a relatively minor role; she is described as the “haughtiest and proudest woman in the world,” but it is only after she is married to Cinderella’s father that her ire against her stepdaughter begins to show (Zipes 449). We know little other about her, other than that it is because of this stepmother that Cinderella is forced to work so hard. After this beginning introduction, the stepmother vanishes from the story. The stepsisters figure more prominently, which is unsurprising as it is more likely that they would have been close to Cinderella’s age, and therefore potential rivals, particularly as her beauty would have made them pale in comparison. Disney’s Lady Tremaine and her daughters Drizella and Anastasia, by the fact that they exist within the framework of a 72-minute film rather than a very short tale, are present throughout more of the story, and are depicted much more forcefully. The introductory narration characterises Lady Tremaine as “cold, cruel, and bitterly jealous of Cinderella’s charm and beauty,” a description that leaves little room for any redeeming qualities (Cinderella). Her one— possibly—positive attribute is her concern for her daughters’ interests, but even that is largely negated by her treatment of her stepdaughter. Film is, of course, a largely visual medium, and the depiction of Lady Tremaine contributes greatly to the viewer’s understanding of her as a character. She is a tall, thin woman, her face very angular; her colours are greys and purples, the colours of shadows, in which she often resides and from which her eyes often glow, very much like a cat’s. It is rare that she is not in control of herself; one of the few moments in which she is not occurs during a music lesson she gives her daughters, when they show their ineptitude at any musical ability whatsoever, and Cinderella chooses that moment to interrupt. Lady Tremaine’s violent reaction—bringing her hands crashing down on the piano keys and nearly shouting at Cinderella—for such a mild infraction suggests that she is upset less at Cinderella’s actions and more at her own daughters’ lack of ability by comparison, much as Perrault’s stepmother is unable to bear Cinderella because her proximity brings out the flaws in the stepdaughters. The stepdaughters in Perrault’s “Cinderella” are described as having “the same temperament and the exact same appearance” as their mother, which as far as the latter goes, tells us nothing (Zipes 449). As far as the former, it tells us that the stepdaughters are not particularly pleasant people, though we are told that the younger daughter is less cruel than her sister. This really means very little, however, as it does not keep her from treating her stepsister poorly. Their preoccupation with mirrors and clothing tells us that they are vain creatures, something that is mirrored in their animated film counterparts. Drizella and Anastasia are always dressed well, but Cinderella in her rags, like Perrault’s heroine, is always easily more beautiful than either without ever trying to be so. The stepsisters’ behaviour is vulgar and uncultured; clearly, whatever their mother has endeavoured to teach them about how to be ladies has not taken hold, whereas Cinderella seems to simply possess an inherent quality. It is this, perhaps, that the song that plays over the opening credits endeavours to express: Cinderella You’re a sunset in a frame Though you’re dressed in rags, You wear an air of queenly grace Anyone can see a throne would be your proper place. (Cinderella) Cinderella has a certain something about her, a lift to her chin, a set to her shoulders, that her stepsisters do not and never will possess. In Perrault, this suggests only beauty, that Cinderella is simply possessed of a more beautiful face, a more delicate ankle, a more slender waist, than her stepsisters. In Disney, however, the implication is that Drizella and Anastasia, though they may be from a good family and have apparently equal rank with Cinderella, they will never have her breeding, for her good breeding shows in the way she walks and the way she talks, and their lack of refinement shows every time they open their mouths and in the inelegant way they walk. Their galumphing about causes a great deal of amusement for the viewer, who cannot help but compare them unfavourably to Cinderella’s understated beauty and poise. The viewer (or reader) is not the only one who views Cinderella in a flattering light in comparison to her stepsisters—indeed, in comparison to any other young lady. The king’s son in Perrault’s variant chooses to hold a ball and “to invite all the people of quality,” including the two stepsisters (Zipes 450). When Cinderella arrives at the ball, the king’s son goes forward to meet her and lead her into the hall—it is uncertain if this is an unusual act for him, or if it is something that he would do for any visiting royalty. He thinks that Cinderella is a princess, and so it would be impolite for him not to extend all courtesies towards her, which seems to include being given the place of honour. At the same time, however, it is a deception; she is not, in fact, a princess, merely the daughter of a gentleman whose fairy godmother has outfitted her with trappings for a night that make it appear as though she might be nobility. It is with her that the prince is fascinated, and it is her whose identity he wishes to know. Was it considered an impropriety to ask for an introduction if one did not know someone? It would seem as though it would be more impolite to dance with someone without knowing their name, particularly when one encounters them for a second night in a row. The prince does not ask for an introduction, but neither does anyone else; it is as though no one wants to admit that they do not know who she is. They wonder, they murmur to each other about how lovely she is, but at least in Perrault’s tale, no one is bothered to find out, at least not until she flees on the second night and leaves a part of her apparel behind. The prince’s reaction to Cinderella’s disappearance is related through a third party in Perrault’s tale.