By Kelly Z. Conrad, October 13, 2023

Not long ago, I stumbled upon a movie on YouTube that I hadn’t seen since I was a little girl. The 1965 Rodgers and Hammerstein made-for-TV production of Cinderella, which aired once a year when I was in elementary school. A then-unknown 18-year-old Lesley Ann Warren played the title role, with Stuart Damon (the erstwhile Dr. Alan Quartermaine of General Hospital) as the Prince. Joining them was a cast of legendary actors who were Hollywood heavy-hitters in their day: Ginger Rogers, Walter Pigeon, Pat Carroll, Celeste Holm, among others.  

Much of the sets, dialogue, song lyrics, even costumes were so familiar to me, as if it hadn’t been more than 50 years since I’d last watched it. I was amazed at how much of it I remembered, and how enchanting it still was for me. It left an indelible mark on me as a young girl, showing me — and every other little girl who watched it — that I could achieve true happiness if I endured emotional and physical abuse at home, then cried hard enough to conjure a magical fairy godmother to transform me into a beautiful pseudo-princess. I could attend a big party where the best-looking guy in the room notices me, then focuses all his attention on me for the rest of the evening, ignoring every other woman there – but only if my face, hair, body, and outfit were perfect. This strong, powerful guy would eventually show up at my house with my lost shoe and rescue me from my horrible family situation, but only if my foot was small and delicate enough to fit into the shoe. Then he’d sweep me back to his castle to meet his welcoming parents, who are practically my in-laws at this point. 

As I watched, the adult version of me kept forcing reality checks. How does one dance in glass shoes? Talk about blisters. And on those buffed and slick palace floors? Also, the ball gown that Cinderella shows up in looks undeniably royal, with its ermine fur collar, her ensemble completed by a crown atop her head. Did anyone object to this lowly nobody from the village arriving at the castle looking like royalty when, in fact, she isn’t? Talk about cultural appropriation! And since this production was her first big role, I’m assuming that Ms. Warren couldn’t yet afford to have her teeth fixed prior to filming. I hadn’t remembered them from childhood, but now, I found them truly distracting.

Wow, adult me can be a nitpicking buzzkill.

Most of all, my inner feminist was warring with my inner child the whole time. I felt like I should be more outraged by this silly movie, a product of its time that so clearly reinforced patriarchal authority. There have been countless iterations of Cinderella since then, none of which I’ve seen, so I can only hope that someone somehow presented a more modern twist to the story, reassuring little girls everywhere that they do not have to wait for a “handsome prince” to come save them and make them happy. That they can and should be doing that for themselves.

Still, I have to admit, part of me enjoyed being transported back to a time when my age was measured in single digits and critical thinking was not yet my strong suit. I could be a little girl again, believing the fairy tale while (mostly) beating back my adult cynicism and questioning reservation. I could enjoy simple escapism, as I did before I even knew what that meant. I think sometimes you have to allow things to be what they are, within their original context, and take into account the state of the world when they were created.

As a little girl in the 60s, I bought into the fairy tale; reality hit hard as I grew up, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.