Between dazzling spectacle and subtle reinterpretation, this revival reveals how even the most familiar fairy tales continue to evolve alongside the societies that keep retelling them.
By GUILHERME MELETTI YAZBEK
In 1994, Disney arrived on Broadway not merely by entering a new artistic language—live theatre—but by becoming one of the driving forces behind the theatre district’s renaissance and the transformation of Times Square into a zone of family-oriented entertainment (and, of course, consumption). If the original production was an enormous success—running for thirteen years and launching a global export model that reached more than thirty-seven countries—the new staging, after more than twenty-five years of absence, clearly aims not to fall short in scale or spectacle.
Rapid costume changes of dazzling craftsmanship (Ann Hould-Ward—brava!), ultra-high-definition projections (Darrel Maloney) forming the scenic backdrop, and, in some scenes, additional projections on a semi-translucent scrim at the proscenium create immersive layers of spatial depth. Combined with numerous scenic elements (Stanley A. Meyer) and illusionistic effects that provoke wide-eyed astonishment (Jim Steinmeyer), and supported by a large onstage and offstage crew, the production embodies the moment where Disney’s magic meets Broadway’s perfectionism at its most distilled. The cast performs with flawless integration of acting, singing, and dancing, all choreographed with millimetric precision by Matt West. If West originally signed the choreography in the 1994 production, he now assumes both choreography and overall direction. What emerges is not merely a dance of bodies, but a choreography of scenography and projection themselves, revealing a deep attentiveness to movement embedded throughout the mise-en-scène.
Yet West’s direction extends beyond technical mastery. Under this experienced artist’s guidance, the design team highlights atmospheric nuance, creating an environment in which performers can move fluidly between comedic timing and ravishing ensemble numbers. West refreshes not only the visual world but also incorporates new musical material, and offers a contemporary reading of the narrative itself—one that becomes evident through close attention to detail. To avoid turning this review into a lengthy essay, I will focus on the central trio to explain why this new version of Beauty and the Beast feels particularly attuned to contemporary debates around gender and race—discussions that, at last, are becoming increasingly visible not only in academic and activist spaces but across the broader cultural landscape.
Gaston (Stephan Mark Lucas), the story’s egocentric heartthrob, is an exaggerated caricature of normative masculinity: immense physical strength, a love of hunting, contempt for reading, and obsessive concern with appearance. While these traits were already present in the film and the original musical, this performance feels subtly updated. Gaston remains oblivious to his own absurdity, reinforced by his loyal companion Lefou (Harry Francis)—whose name in French literally means “the fool.” Like a court jester, Lefou never allows Gaston to praise himself alone; he validates, inflates, and theatrically amplifies this narcissism. Moreover, in several meticulously choreographed ensemble numbers, we see how Gaston’s power—and toxic masculinity itself—is not merely individual but sustained by a network of social complicity. Without Lefou and the village singing and dancing in admiration, Gaston would be merely ridiculous. With them, he becomes a collective threat.
(Photo by Matthew Murphy. (c) Disney.jpg)
Belle (Kyra Belle Johnson) occupies a paradoxical position within the village’s social choreography. In the opening scene, she moves seamlessly through its rhythms, greeting neighbors and participating in daily routines, yet she remains fundamentally out of sync with its values. A voracious reader, she is mocked by the townspeople as odd and peculiar for preferring books over marriage and domestic conformity. This displacement is mirrored in her father Maurice (Kevin Ligon), an inventor who is likewise ridiculed. Together they symbolically represent the alliance of culture (Belle and her books) and science (his inventions) against the village’s narrow-mindedness. In this staging, Belle’s defining quality is her confidence: she refuses male condescension, speaks her mind, and acts consistently according to her ethical convictions.
It is in the Beast, though, that the central trio reaches its fullest dramatic articulation—and here, in my view, the new production truly excels. If Gaston embodies cruelty displayed on the surface of self-admiring bravado, the Beast represents the inverse: a humanity revealed through interior transformation. The narrative structure remains characteristically Disney—dichotomous, melodramatic, and didactic—yet in this staging, that familiar moral architecture acquires renewed historical and cultural resonance. Unlike the animated film, in which the prince is portrayed as a white man with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes, the Beast is now portrayed by a Black actor, Fergie L. Philippe, whose performance is rich with emotional nuance and vulnerability. This casting choice inevitably engages with a long Western tradition that has, at various historical moments, associated Blackness with otherness, excess, or even animality. In this context, the Beast’s dramatic arc—from misrecognition to acknowledgment of humanity—gains additional symbolic weight. The production does not turn the fairy tale into a political manifesto, but it does allow the metaphor to breathe within a contemporary landscape where conversations about race, representation, and inherited stereotypes remain central. Rather than rewriting the story, the staging deepens it, inviting audiences to reconsider how prejudice and empathy shape not only the fairy tale’s world, but our own.
Returning to the material realization of the narrative, the castle’s spatial design deserves special mention. Large-scale baroque carvings that shift across scenes create dynamism and prevent scenic predictability. While exterior forest scenes rely heavily on projection to establish emotional atmosphere, the iconic “Be Our Guest” number stands out as a triumph of theatrical exuberance. Wooden panels illuminated from within frame the stage as the projection carries their perspectival lines forward, producing an illusion of depth that seems to recede ad infinitum. The entire scene unfolds as a continuous crescendo, eliciting laughter, gasps of excitement, and spontaneous applause. The choreography evokes classical Broadway musical vocabulary while introducing new tap sequences that amplify rhythmic spectacle. One can almost imagine Matt West’s voice during technical rehearsals calling from the darkened auditorium: “I need more!” More volume, more light, more motion, more perfection. And indeed—for Disney on Broadway—there is always more.
Watching the show yesterday at the majestic Benedum Center, one moment struck me deeply. There was a small mistake—and fortunately so. In one of Gaston’s self-aggrandizing scenes, we see an artist painting his portrait amid a larger choreography unfolding across the stage. At the end of this scene-within-a-scene, Gaston tosses a coin as payment to the artist—but the actor fails to catch it midair, as was clearly intended. Instead, we watch the coin roll toward center stage. What might be perceived as a minor choreographic slip—one that will likely generate notes for the cast the following day—felt, to me, powerful. It revealed the fundamentally human nature of theatre, and therefore its susceptibility to error. No matter how strongly entertainment powerhouses such as Disney and Broadway strive for perfection—by achieving a replicable, exportable model of theatrical spectacle—it is, ultimately, people who make the show happen, both onstage and off. The rolling coin became, for me, what Roland Barthes calls a punctum: a small detail that suddenly pierces the image and awakens an awareness that we are standing before a cultural construct, a phenomenon in the field of the arts.
Born in the late 1980s, I belong to a generation that learned to imagine love through the highly choreographed narratives of 1990s Disney musicals. We grew up with heroines who taught monsters to feel and villains whose brutality was always externalized and easily defeated. Returning to Beauty and the Beast today reveals how our generation inhabits an ambiguous space between these poles—educated by heteronormative models of romance while simultaneously attempting to question and dismantle them.
Ultimately, Beauty and the Beast remains what it has always been: a sweetened fable of interpersonal relationships, a moralizing narrative whose clarity makes it legible to both adults and children. Yet this new production succeeds precisely because it does not attempt to abandon that structure but rather subtly reframes it. Gaston’s toxicity is rendered more unmistakable, Belle is portrayed with greater agency and assertiveness, and the Beast’s casting opens interpretive space for contemporary conversations about race. At the same time, the show delivers what Disney has long perfected: spectacle, emotional warmth, technical brilliance, and a sense of collective wonder. It is, unmistakably, entertainment designed for broad appeal—yet it is entertainment that, in this staging, demonstrates an awareness that even the most familiar fairy tales can still evolve alongside the societies that continue to tell them.
TICKETS AND DETAILS:
Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, part of the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust PNC Broadway in Pittsburgh series is at the Benedum Center, now through March 1, 2026. Tickets at https://trustarts.org/production/100466/disneys-beauty-and-the-beast
Guilherme is a Brazilian theater practitioner and scholar, currently pursuing a PhD in Theatre and Performance Studies at the University of Pittsburgh. www.guilhermeyazbek.com
Categories: Arts and Ideas, Reviews
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