Review: ‘Bad Cinderella’
Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman
She’s not like the other girls. In a revamped production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cinderella, which premiered on London’s West End in 2021, Broadway has welcomed the renamed, rewritten, and redesigned Bad Cinderella opening Thursday night at the Imperial Theatre. Every critic will take their aim at crafting the perfect snappy headline referencing the show’s title, so I’ll keep things simple: Bad Cinderella is appropriately named.
Using the framework of the Grimm fairytale popularized by Disney, many cooks have waltzed into the kitchen attempting to spin modern themes into a classic fable. What’s been brewed is the town of Belleville, Paris whose villagers celebrate plastic surgery, body enhancements, and an overall superficiality. “Scullery wench” Cinderella (newcomer Linedy Genao) is a traitor against these beauty standards, protesting the status quo and refusing to fix her perceived ugliness. Labeled an outcast and neglected by her stepfamily (led by matriarch Carolee Carmello), Cinderella has grown up as a rebellious lone-wolf finding companionship in only her lifelong and equally awkward best friend, Prince Sebastian (a fragile Jordan Dobson), who’s become next-in-line for the throne. Prince Charming, the rightful heir, has apparently died in battle.
Pressured by the Queen (a campy Grace McLean), his beefcake-loving mother who may or not be attracted to her own sons known as “the Hunks”, Prince Sebastian is forced to select a bride the night before their wedding day. Sebastian begs Cinderella to attend the Queen’s ball where he will peruse his options and make his choice. Begrudgingly willing to support her friend (and crush?), Cinderella visits the Godmother (Aléna Watters at my performance), a glamorous witch who specializes in cosmetology and rhinoplasty, to conjure up a disguise suitable for entry into the ball. She trades her deceased mother’s cherished locket for a makeover with a 24-hour expiration. Hey, pretty hurts. In very “Let It Go” fashion, Cinderella is transformed into a platinum blonde as she reveals into a sparkly, beaded slim-fit dress (which appears to also have been borrowed from Frozen). It’s admittedly a very impressive moment of stage magic that concludes Act One. I’ll end my synopsis there as the writers did the same.
Sara Krulwich
Going back to when we first see Cinderella belting the hummable title song upon a commemorative statue of M.I.A. Prince Charming, there’s a disconnect. Perched in protest is a young, thin, conventionally attractive woman in a well-tailored outfit. (Wearing pants? How grotesque!) The townspeople, in nose-job bandages or admiring their reflections in handheld mirrors, make Cinderella out to be almost barbaric. Yet Cinderella’s ugliness is displayed by a spiky, twisty ‘90s up-do and some dirt on her forearms… And how do peasants revolt against a villain? They, of course, take to the streets with pitchforks and torches. Bad Cinderella is smothered in cliché.
Let me be clear that Linedy Genao as the titular role is a strong performer who sounds wonderful. Though miscast here, it’s worth celebrating that Genao is the first Latina to originate a role in an Andrew Llyod Webber musical! But I can’t help feeling disappointed over this missed opportunity for body and beauty diversity on a Broadway stage. Across most of the recent productions arriving in New York, we are watching stages grow diverse as untold stories and misrepresented actors are finally placed in a spotlight (we hope these same strides are made offstage). It’s a shame that, for example, a plus-sized actor was not considered for a character who’s alienated because of their appearance. While I was certainly not anticipating a Lloyd Webber musical to be grounded in any form of realism, I was never once convinced that this textbook beautiful woman would be ostracized from her community. A friend of mine compared Cinderella’s transformation to the She’s All That makeover: the nerdy girl takes off her glasses and suddenly she’s the talk of the town. Bad Cinderella could’ve been the show to redefine how a leading lady looks. Isn’t the whole point of fairytales just a lesson in the suspension our disbelief? Call me heartless, but it’s difficult to feel sympathy for a character that you don’t see suffering.
The dilemma with Bad Cinderella is that it doesn’t know how, or even if, to talk about society’s understanding of beauty. In the twenty-first century, I hoped that yet another Cinderella story would try to examine the double-standards placed on women both young and old, taking a more feminist spin on the classic narrative. In the wake of Six, & Juliet, and the upcoming Once Upon A One More Time (which I have not seen), there is an evident trend of flipping history on its head in favor of women and non-binary characters. Bad Cinderella wants to be a part of this club, but like its protagonist, it doesn't have the stuff.
What stumps me even further is the presence of book-writer Emerald Fennell, winner of the 2020 Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for her Promising Young Woman. Fennell clearly knows how to explore feminist politics with equal parts nuance and theatricality. Where was that energy this time around? Fennell’s script, with additional book material for the Broadway transfer by Alexis Scheer, lacks the dimension needed for us to believe that Cinderella is some philosophical free-thinker that constantly speaks out against systems of oppression. Instead, we have no choice but to think: so they hate her because she’s… angsty?
90% of the plot is fluff, including the Stepsisters speaking in TikTok vernacular and most of the men onstage objectified as mere eye-candy. A couple performers as well as the hardworking ensemble do deliver some entertaining moments. Carolee Carmello as the Stepmother, fresh off her run in last fall's 1776 revival, and Grace McLean as the Queen are joyous to watch gnaw the scenery to bits in their neon bustles, co-teaching a masterclass on how to elevate deficient material.
Sara Krulwich
Act Two begins with a mostly underwhelming ball enhanced by Gabriela Tylesova’s lavish gowns which are almost as colorful as the criss-crossed spike tape marking up the deck of the stage and choreographer JoAnn M. Hunter’s amusing waltz. For those unfamiliar with the infamous West End production, during the ballroom sequence, a portion of the front orchestra (or “stalls”) rotated 180 degrees alongside the stage creating a circular playspace in the middle of the audience. This spectacle is credited to the stage’s unique design at London's Gillian Lynne Theatre, which recreating was simply not feasible at the Imperial Theatre. I wish some creativity had been pumped into this sequence to differentiate this ball from every other Rodgers and Hammerstein ball from the past century.
After her dramatic exit, Cinderella reappears on an empty stage and without any segue delivers, “I Know I Have a Heart (Because You Broke It)”. Without motivation that’s grounded in text (or even staging), the stakes flatline. I can almost hear director Laurence Connor thinking ‘let’s just get her downstage center as soon as possible’. It’s the usual Llyod Webber eleven o’clock number, although this one sits awkwardly about an hour too early. The number has the oomph to act as the show’s pinnacle, but then you remember intermission just ended. Though lyrically generic, it’s a powerful ballad that smartly references a snide remark Cinderella makes in early Act One about not having a heart. Three scenes later, Cinderella is back downstage center for another park-and-bark, “Far Too Late,” that serves the same purpose. Despite the change in melody, I still wondered: didn’t we just hear this one? The resolution of the plot is about as predictable as they come, though I’ll avoid spoiling a cheap left-field reveal that relies more on gimmick than it does justified, nuanced inclusion.
The entire orchestra and sound team, led by designer Gareth Owen (who’s anthemic landscapes can also be heard in & Juliet and MJ) join forces to create an energetic, bellowing atmosphere that audiences would expect from a Lloyd Webber composition. I enjoy the epicness of the brassy instrumentation, but I can imagine how some would swiftly cover their ears to shield the memory of ‘80s mega-musicals. If only David Zippel’s lyrics had been equally as strong. Tylesova’s cardboard cutout-like setpieces were shockingly cheap, swaying about as masked stagehands in black walked onstage to move them. It triggers déjà vu for us former underfunded high school theatre kids, but I cannot fathom that’s an intentional response this team wants from their audience. It would be a different story if a low-budget campiness was embraced by the aesthetic (a la Titanique or Shucked), but Bad Cinderella wants to be a commercial Broadway blockbuster instead. I don’t think we’ll need to wait until midnight to see if that wish comes true.