Trust
Falling in love with love
Is falling for make believe
Falling in love with love
Is playing the fool
Caring too much
Is such a juvenile fancy
Learning to trust
Is just for children in school
I fell in love with love
One night when the moon was full
I was unwise with eyes unable to see
I fell in love with love
With love everlasting
But love fell out with me!
She liked the wicked Stepmother much better than Cinderella, and not just because it was Bernadette Peters and Anya liked her. She had nothing against Brandy, after all, though the multi-culturalism of the production sometimes seemed a bow to political correctness than any coherency in casting. But there was something in her eyes that spoke to Anya. More depth than she seemed to have in some versions. A backstory, as it were, that intrigued Anya and made the character more interesting.
It was a fluffy musical version of a fluffy Disney-fied fairy tale. The cutting off of toes and heels was left off. The dresses coming from her mother's grave replaced with Whitney Houston. But Anya watched it over and over for the stepmother. She wanted to know her story. The song wasn't even in the original. She'd checked. The Supremes had sung it at one point. It intrigued her and she was dying to know.
The Stepmother had been hurt. She'd been left. Her trust had been betrayed and she'd closed herself off. Was it taking the place of a woman who was dead, hoping for her husband's love, and finding she was never good enough in his eyes or those of his daughter? Could she not compete with the memory of his first wife? Or was it a prior romance, damaging her trust to the extent that when Cinderella's father came along she couldn't love again? Had her daughters' father hurt her? Cheated on her? She'd been young once, beautiful. She'd had dreams and hopes and fears and had loved.
And now her echoing cry of pain flew through the digitization of television and stereo to pierce Anya's heart.
Caring too much
Is such a juvenile fancy
Learning to trust
Is just for children in school
You only felt that way when you'd cared and been rejected. You only felt that way when you'd trusted and been betrayed. Only someone who'd been hurt beyond bearing could harden that much, could close off that completely, could embrace that cynicism.
Anya liked the Stepmother. She knew what she was talking about.
Is falling for make believe
Falling in love with love
Is playing the fool
Caring too much
Is such a juvenile fancy
Learning to trust
Is just for children in school
I fell in love with love
One night when the moon was full
I was unwise with eyes unable to see
I fell in love with love
With love everlasting
But love fell out with me!
She liked the wicked Stepmother much better than Cinderella, and not just because it was Bernadette Peters and Anya liked her. She had nothing against Brandy, after all, though the multi-culturalism of the production sometimes seemed a bow to political correctness than any coherency in casting. But there was something in her eyes that spoke to Anya. More depth than she seemed to have in some versions. A backstory, as it were, that intrigued Anya and made the character more interesting.
It was a fluffy musical version of a fluffy Disney-fied fairy tale. The cutting off of toes and heels was left off. The dresses coming from her mother's grave replaced with Whitney Houston. But Anya watched it over and over for the stepmother. She wanted to know her story. The song wasn't even in the original. She'd checked. The Supremes had sung it at one point. It intrigued her and she was dying to know.
The Stepmother had been hurt. She'd been left. Her trust had been betrayed and she'd closed herself off. Was it taking the place of a woman who was dead, hoping for her husband's love, and finding she was never good enough in his eyes or those of his daughter? Could she not compete with the memory of his first wife? Or was it a prior romance, damaging her trust to the extent that when Cinderella's father came along she couldn't love again? Had her daughters' father hurt her? Cheated on her? She'd been young once, beautiful. She'd had dreams and hopes and fears and had loved.
And now her echoing cry of pain flew through the digitization of television and stereo to pierce Anya's heart.
Caring too much
Is such a juvenile fancy
Learning to trust
Is just for children in school
You only felt that way when you'd cared and been rejected. You only felt that way when you'd trusted and been betrayed. Only someone who'd been hurt beyond bearing could harden that much, could close off that completely, could embrace that cynicism.
Anya liked the Stepmother. She knew what she was talking about.