Growing and Glowing Up with the Screen: Short Essays on Children's Film

Cinderella (1950 and 1997)

I don’t remember the first time I watched Disney’s original Cinderella. In fact, I don’t remember watching the film as a child at all, though I know I did. My main memory of Cinderella comes from hitting a certain age and seeing friends rebel against their former love of princesses. At first, there was a collective decision that we would all be “tomboys” now and princesses fell under the “too girly” category. Soon, however, that point of view grew into its shoes and turned from “princesses are girly” to “princesses are sexist.” The main argument was a rejection of the classic maiden in distress narrative: Cinderella is helpless until her marriage to the prince miraculously saves her from her life of poverty. This viewpoint is exemplified in classic lyric from the renowned musical quartet, the Cheetah Girls: “I don’t wanna be like Cinderella / sitting in a dark old dusty cellar / waiting for somebody / to come and set me free.” This, as well as the opinion that Beauty and the Beast is about Stockholm Syndrome, was one of the first instances in which I witnessed girls around me rebelling against patriarchal structures and— though my opinion has definitely changed— those young girls project back to me now through a lens of nostalgic pride.

When I watch Cinderella now, I see a stunning film about survival in abusive environments and finding happiness despite abuse. I am a sucker for traditional 2D animation and the combination of fairy tale aesthetics and 50s sensibilities all makes for an absolutely lovely visual experience. When I think about what exactly pulls me to this film, my question of why a younger version of me would reject it becomes clearer. First of all, the tenor of this film is unquestionably set within a white American ideal. The 1950s comes to us today through glass tinted by American Dream aesthetics and peacetime prosperity. Of course, that dream was far from universal as exemplified through the now immortal activist movements which gained national attention during that time. Not only was the idealism of the decade based in a strong sense of nationalism after the war, it was also directly connected to whiteness. Cinderella in no way lies outside that cultural moment and the attitudes of the 50s (both good and bad) translate easily to a modern audience— even to a child.

Whitney Houston’s production of Cinderella premiered on ABC the year I was born. Like the 1950s film, I have no recollection of when I first saw it. In fact, assuming it was a blockbuster hit, I had no idea it was a TV movie until late into my adolescence. However, when I think back on my childhood, the presence of this film is unquestionably there. The clearest memory I have of the film is being eleven years old, living in Arizona, and getting my hair braided by the mother of the only other black girl in my grade. The image of sitting in the wooden dining table chair getting my hair pulled at while Brandy danced across the 2007 era television— her own box braids laying beautifully over her shoulders— is one of my clearest memories of the beginning of my second decade of life.

This version of the classic tale was made in an entirely different era— and it shows. Actually based on the 1957 television musical starring Julie Andrews, the film takes Richard Roger’s music into the turn of the century with the help of Whitney Houston — who co-produced and stars in the film as the fairy godmother. The remake is an “updated” version, changing various details and plot points; however, hearing songs such as “Impossible” sung by Whitney Houston and Brandy’s is a statement in itself. This was not a decision made in a vacuum, and the desire to appeal to a wide audience reflects the attitudes of the 90s just as much as Disney’s version reflects the 50s. Just like the Disney version, those cultural signifiers similarly embed themselves subtly within the minds of children. As a young black girl growing up in a predominantly white community, when I watched Cinderella (1997) I no longer saw a film about a helpless damsel simply waiting for a man to come save her. I saw a black girl, like me, finding love and happiness despite her circumstances.

So, what can we learn from these two films?

The changing emotions we feel for Disney’s Cinderella could never occur for a film without the complexities and slow-burning layers that emerge from it through time. Our opinions on film— and on culture as a whole— are allowed to change and, to me, that potential for change indicates an exciting space for growth, both personally and cinematically.

Cinderella (1997) is a product of that growth. In the pursuit of un-fogging the glass of the 1950s white ideal, the film allows the viewer to delve into the story of Cinderella from a new and illuminating angle. And, furthermore, this film proves the benefit of having fun with it. If you want to disrupt white supremacy in the film industry, why not do that through a world in which mice and birds talk and Whoopi Goldberg and Victor Garber marry their Filipino son to a black girl with box braids.

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)

In the same year I watched Whitney Houston and Brandy sing about what’s possible while getting my hair braided, my fifth grade teachers gave my grade the afternoon off grammar and social studies to celebrate Halloween through story telling and a movie. The story was Poe’s “A Tell Tale Heart” and the movie was The Nightmare Before Christmas. “A Tell Tale Heart” terrified us all, but the consensus for Nightmare was a much simpler verdict — “weird.”

My friend once told me that she didn’t like The Nightmare Before Christmas. Well past my Tim Burton awakening, this fact came as a total shock to me. Her reasoning was similar to those of my fifth grade classmates and I — that she had never liked “weird” movies. Eventually, that reasoning made sense to me. Maybe it was due to some suppressed memory of that day in fifth grade that I did not stick to the typical knee-jerk reaction film lovers tend to display when someone dislikes a movie they love. Or maybe in the moment it really did just make sense. I thought about the childhood films that my friend loved and how I mentally connected them to her personality. Her mixture of femininity, sometimes dark sense of humor, and intelligence all seemed to fall in line with the movies she liked. My friend’s statement that she never liked weird movies was not one of judgement or insult. She genuinely gets freaked out by films like Nightmare; but our different relationships to the film and what it represents to us got me thinking. Of course, there are many children who like Nightmare when they first watch it— and apparently some who never grow to love it at all. But I think the fact that many like me grow to love the film with age point to not only how we connect the films we watched to our personality but also about the indefinite line between “children’s content” and “adult content.”

In reflecting on movies I like now, the distribution of “weird” and not weird seems pretty balanced. I liked Marvel’s Black Panther just as much as I like Věra Chytilová’s Daisies. (Let me just clarify here that I’m using the word “weird” in a very generalized and subjective way. I am in no way making a decisive statement when I use the word. It is more a way to express a kind of cultural implication— a way for me to communicate the subjective succinctly.) In my little film nerd brain, I like to think that I am open to all kinds of films. As my initial reaction to Nightmare shows, that was not always the case. So what changed?

Let’s backtrack a bit. What exactly makes The Nightmare Before Christmas fit into the categorization of “weird.” Is it the stop motion animation? Is it the film’s playful fascination with the grotesque and ugly? Is it the fact that the primary antagonist is just a large sack of mealworms? I’m going to venture to say one think decisively: it is not the story itself. In terms of narrative structure, A Nightmare Before Christmas tells a relatively straightforward tale. Jack, our protagonist, is becoming apathetic to the world he inhabits. When confronted with a new and exciting perspective, Jack attempts to rearrange the lives of himself and those around him in order to regain the zealousness he once possessed.

Like most films targeted towards children, the structure of the film presents itself in a way that could easily be understood by a younger audience. But, of course, this film is in no way simplistic. This is where that line between “children’s content” and “adult content” that I mentioned before comes into play. The best children’s content acknowledges its young audience but never underestimates that audience’s intelligence or ability to consume complex themes. A lot of the time, these films are the ones where, as you grow up, you begin to understand the nuances of the film more fully (think “Oh my god, THAT’S what this movie is about??). This is not to say that complex films cannot be understood by children. Rather, that it may be understood by children differently. Have you ever had a long conversation about a children’s film with an actual child? Well, let me tell you, as someone who often gets trapped in 40 minute conversations with my young cousins, it is a wild experience that makes it entirely clear how differently children see the world.

Ten-year-old me understood Nightmare’s depiction of cultural differences through ugliness and holidays as simply “weird.” And I wasn’t wrong. It’s a weird film. But that weirdness in no way makes the film bad. In fact, the way the film uses eccentricity as a tool only adds to its merit as a cultural landmark. That’s the magic of great children’s content: it offers its brilliancy both simply and intricately. As you change, it changes alongside you— not necessarily getting better or worse, but expanded, filled with the new understandings that come with age.

Moana (2016) and Coco (2017)

There’s nothing like watching movies as a child. No matter how much you enjoy or appreciate a film targeted towards children as an adult; no matter how great the filmmaking is; no matter how clever the writing is— it will never top the absolute wonder of watching a great film as a child. We all have those films through which we would annoy our parents to death by insisting on watching them at least three times a day. Mine were The Little Mermaid and Barbie in the Nutcracker. They imprint themselves into the the outlines of our brain and nostalgia breeds a thick pink cloud of prestige that only slightly thins with time. In other words, Barbie in the Nutcracker holds up.

Children’s films do not cease production when the personal horrors of preadolescence hit. So, what about the films that come after us? What about the films that we miss? For me, the films that come out after we pass the threshold of unquestioned childhood curiosity (especially the good ones) always hold a “what if”? What if I were a child when this film came out? Would it affect me like the films I knew better than the back of my hand? Would it appeal to a part of me that often felt unappreciated or underrepresented? Would I be a different person?

In 2006, Disney announced that they were producing a film based on E.D. Baker’s A Frog Princess which would center a black protagonist named Maddy living in New Orleans. Three years later, the renamed film, The Princess and the Frog, introducing the world to the first black Disney princess— Tiana. Though The Princess and the Frog has its issues and is generally not seen as one of Disney’s more successful films, it showed that studios and networks were beginning to acknowledge the need for a more diverse set of protagonists and stories. Though Disney had attempted to incorporate non-white stories in their cinematic canon various time before, this seemed different: more akin to acknowledgement than voyeurism. I was twelve when The Princess and the Frog came out in theaters. Still on the cusp of childhood and adolescence, I was excited to see the film but was ultimately disappointed. My main concern: In a film supposedly about a black princess, why is that princess green for three quarters of the film?

The Princess and the Frog is a film that I have grown to love and appreciate as my hair grows long and a I creep into adulthood. The animation is gorgeous, the music is fantastical and Tiana is unquestionably black. But do I wish I had a film like The Princess and the Frog as a child? Maybe. But, based on my twelve-year-old reaction, I think I would have found it a bit boring.

Five years after the release of The Princess and the Frog, Disney announced a project entitled Moana. Moana would follow the daughter of a Polynesian chief who is hungry to see the world. Just like five years prior, people were excited. The princess pool was getting a bit more colorful. Moana is a lovely film. Though the plot itself is not exactly new, the characterization of Moana and her community feels fresh and exciting.

Now, I felt a bit jealous.

One year after Moana’s release, Pixar released Coco. Unlike any movie I’ve seen, Coco made me feel like the remnants of childhood wonder were still there— they’ve just been lying dormant for a while. I laughed, I cried, I wanted to sing (but refrained for the sake of everyone in the theater). Something about the cultural specificity (even one far from my own cultural context), the focus on family, and the attention to heart makes me feel seen. But through all that emotion and love for Coco, I still wish I got to see that film as a child. One of the reasons Coco made such an impact is that, adult or child or anything in between, it makes us all feel the same way. Unlike Cinderella, The Nightmare Before Christmas, or even The Princess and the Frog, the aspects of Coco that hit you where it hurts are consistent despite age. Everyone will get a little flutter in their heart at a few bars of “Remember Me” or a mention of Mama Coco. The hits may come from different angles, but the flutters stay exactly the same.

And yet… the jealously stings more.

I still love both The Little Mermaid and Barbie in the Nutcracker (the latter probably more for nostalgic reasons than cinematic excellence, but still). I love them not only for their content, but for the specific context in which I experienced that content. It may be a bit romantic, but I honestly do believe that these films and many others I watched as a child shaped who I am today. The reason I feel that tang of jealousy when watching a particularly good children’s film is probably a bit overdramatic. However, I think it represents an ideal of moviegoing. We want to leave the theater or close the browser window feeling like what we just added something to our point of view, changed something. As a child, that feeling comes easily— everything is new and exciting and life changing. But as we grow those moments become fewer and far between and we long for what we had. Moana and, even more so, Coco elicit that tang of jealousy because they give us a taste of what that was like— to be awed by the complexities of a simple story.

See you soon,

Sofia