The Heart of Disney
Deep in the green, reedy Florida glades rises a world like none other. Singular in design. Astonishing in its vastness. It is a world of hope. It is a world of fear. It is a world of laughter. And it is also a world of tears. Many, many tears. This is the extraordinary world of Walter Disney.
Walter was a young man coming of age on America’s frontier, his head full of ideas and ambitions. Some called young Walter foolish, a dreamer; an unserious person who preferred to doodle little cartoon creatures in his notebooks rather than make a respectable life working in a shoe or paint or firework factory like other responsible adults of his generation. Those people were shortsighted; they were the foolish ones, unable to see Walter for the modern Prometheus he truly was: a real estate developer.
As a child I recalled hearing many stories of Walter Disney’s world. Some of these fables were sung around the campfire. I can still hear the lilting choruses about film franchises and licensing deals. Others were cautionary tales, told at the dinner table to our impressionable ears. Those were filled with lessons about Walter’s dangerous hubris; his near manic obsession with perfection and quality; his weird thing for dwarves.
Tragically Walter passed away before he could see the wild orchards of his tireless mind bear fruit. Fortunately, others of his lineage carried his legacy forward to realize what has become more than just a world, but an entire empire, lit from the tender spark of Walter Disney’s vision.
But what was the source of his genius? From what spring did Walter Disney’s inexhaustible creativity flow? What exactly was a “Goofy?” And so it was that I found myself drawn to seek out exactly what I could not precisely say, only that I felt compelled. I felt called into the heart of Disney, beckoned as if by an unseen hand; a hand that grasped a credit card with a high limit and many travel reward points.
DAY 1
One discovers quite quickly that there are realms within realms to Walter Disney’s world. From my modest lodgings, I boarded transport bound for a land marked on the map as Disney’s Hollywood Studios. I learned it was a metropolis built in homage to Walter Disney’s first love: the moving picture.
I arrive with fellow pilgrims. A quick glance shows that we are from all walks of life, from all corners of the globe: the dark and light skinned; the old, the young, and the recently born; the bachelorette and the friends of the bachelorette who really wish they were in Vegas instead. Together we trek across the blazing asphalt toward the city gates.
And what marvel greets us! Elegant corridors of streets lined with buildings nearly indistinguishable from their film counterparts. Here a hotel from that famous movie; over there the sweet shop from that other more famous movie–the one about the woman and the man and the evil corporation. I’m sure you know it well. Up and down the boulevard are restaurants, eateries, and shops plucked from the locations of films past and present. The city feels like a movie set and you, lucky visitor, are in the starring role of your time here in Walter Disney’s cinematic dreamscape!
I am overcome by the fantastical nature of it all. My mind races. Where does the screen story end and I begin? What is real? Is it the twelve dollar ice cream bar I hold in my hand? Is it the t-shirt bearing the likeness of a mouse wizard, one of the many deities of Walter Disney’s world, that I felt the sudden urge to purchase upon crossing the city’s threshold?
As I struggle to make sense of it, I notice visitors streaming en masse toward a section of the city that I had not yet explored. I follow. I find myself standing in a place unlike any I have ever been. It possesses all the qualities of a planet different from our own; a planet perhaps housed in a galaxy far, but maybe not too far, so, like, just far enough away.
This place is part desert, part Eastern bazaar, and part science fiction set piece. Towering rocky outcroppings rise around this strange village that seems to have a bustling populace of both human and non-human inhabitants. In the center of the village square rests an enormous spacecraft. It is pie-shaped, inert, a hulking bucket of bolts that perhaps waits for a crew. Or maybe it is decommissioned. Either way, definitely unable to make a Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs as anyone can plainly see.
The square buzzes with townsfolk. I take in their belted tunics and dusty boots. Some wear long, hooded robes, the kind worn by monks and teens going for a dramatic look, but not quite pulling it off. Though they seem peaceful they are carrying weapons: swords the likes I have never encountered. With the press of a button their translucent sheaf crackles and sparks with some kind of electromagnetic current that looks like it could, to use a technical military phrase, “cut a bitch.” I cannot help my innate curiosity.
I approach a resident in a black robe and inquire about his sword. His blade sears an acrimonious red in the harsh afternoon sun. He directs me to a shop where I might forge a blade of my own. There is a merchant outside the small store. I start to enter, but she stops me. I must have an appointment, the young woman informs me. There are others in the cue ahead of me. And then there is the matter of payment, the woman says. I inquire of the amount, preparing to bargain. She pauses and beckons me toward her. She puts her lips to my ear and whispers a number so astonishing, so profane, I feel a rushing in my head and a mist at my periphery. All turns to black.
When I regain my senses I am on a bench across from a house like the one in that famous movie. You know, the one about the kid and the dog that saves the world. I blink and try to collect my thoughts, but they skitter away like startled lizards. What dark arts are at work here, Walter Disney?
Day 2
Daybreak and the tropical sun beats its unrelenting fists upon my head as I approach the city limits of the Experimental Community of Tomorrow or EPCOT. An enormous white geodesic dome looms up from the horizon like a harvest moon. Like the Statue of Liberty, the sphere is a symbol of welcome as well as a representation of EPCOT’s primary ideals: technology, innovation, community, education, shopping, eating, spending, and consuming.
Today I decide to conduct my research by shadowing a typical visitor group: a family with two parents and two children.
The lands within Walter Disney’s worlds contain many exciting attractions, entertainments, and happenings to entrance travelers. These are easily discernible by the long, long, long, like, honestly where the hell does this thing even start, long, lines of people waiting entry. I discovered the process for securing a spot in line is complex and somewhat secretive, involving something called a “spreadsheet” and “access to your kid’s college fund.”
EPCOT may offer intellectual delights, but it is scarce on the kind of thrills that appeal to the children of this particular family. I see how the young ones drag their feet as they walk; watch their heads gently bob as they look down at the pavement that must seem to stretch on into eternity.
These are the tell-tale signs of listlessness, inattention. The condition dreaded by all parent visitors threatens to over take the young ones: boredom. There is nothing to do here, they whimper to the parents. They want to go back to the hotel, to swim in the pool that is so much better than their pool at home, no, like seriously it is! The mother frowns. As with so many other duties, the responsibility to entertain falls to her. A glance over to her partner watching a video on his phone confirms this. She channels the group onward.
We walk for some distance and arrive at a section that opens up like a fan. What’s this? An elegantly terraced pagoda greets us. In the near distance the steel neck of what appears to be the Eiffel Tower extends its latticed vertebrae. Further on I glimpse an Italian villa, a stately colonial-style town hall. Remarkable! Here we find ourselves traveling through entire countries–Germany, Canada, Mexico, Morocco–without leaving the EPCOT borders. I look around for the old geopolitical grudges, the international scuffles and find none. All is as it should be: nations joined together in a tapestry of goodwill woven with the harmonious threads of food, drink, and treasured tchotchkes of their native lands–a German beer stein, a tin of British tea–manufactured in China.
As we pass through each country, the mother makes frequent stops at various food stands. The children consume empanadas from Mexico, pizza from Italy, croissants from France. Their disinterest has been replaced with the same kind of lethargy experienced after a Thanksgiving dinner of turkey, stuffing, and pie. The children are docile, subdued. They demand nothing. The parents exchange a smile, a shared secret.
Once more I feel the presence of Walter Disney, a lulling sensation that massages a thought into my brain, “stay, go ahead, be our guest, be our guest, be our guest.” I shake this thought loose. I am suddenly afraid. The family is gone. I must get my wits about me! I drift into a store. I gather up several items: a large blue drinking mug decorated with a spray of fireworks; a blanket embroidered with an elephant holding a feather in his trunk; a pair of puffy yellow slippers that resemble fish–each one lashed with a grin that sends a chill dancing across my shoulders. Yet I feel soothed, calm, placated, though I know not why.
DAY 3
I am exhausted and no closer to the core of Walter Disney. Do I go on? I feel I must! I have points left on my credit card! And there is a realm I have not explored that may yield the insight into Walter Disney’s essence that I seek. It is called The Magic Kingdom.
Passing through the kingdom’s gates I am immediately overwhelmed by the spectacle that greets me. Chaos and beauty abound. There are people milling about as far as the eye can see. Many of them children–carried against their parent’s chest; transported about in strollers and buggies; skittering alongside adults. Music drifts over the main thoroughfare. Balloon sellers hock their wares. A vendor entices with the succulent roasted leg of an animal. Adults riding personal transportation scooters and other vehicles jockey for dominance on the avenue in what I guessed to be some kind of spontaneous chariot battle. I am uneasy in this atmosphere with its forced festiveness.
Suddenly a cheer ripples down the street. People hurriedly part. A parade!
As if plucked from the ether a parade makes its way through the center of the kingdom. It is a spirited, ritualistic affair paying homage to Walter Disney’s many gods: a mouse, a duck, a princess, a prince, a genie, a teacup, a mermaid, a talking car, a hairy, ape-like beast dressed in finery. Is there something sinister here? The childrens’ faces contort in surprise and glee and a state of rapture. They reach out their sticky hands, dropping toys and drinks; they are desperate for the touch of these sacred idols. They weep and shriek in pained ecstasy.
I tremble. The parade ends. The crowd closes in on itself and I am swept along deeper into the kingdom. I pass by a massive castle, spires and turrets sharpened like spear points. I struggle to catch my breath in the mele. I have lost all sense of direction.
At last we crest to a stop. I realize I am in one of those infamous cues. A child still in her buggy knocks her foot against my calves. She smiles around the thumb in her mouth. I see menace in her eyes as she squeezes the little mouse doll tighter. Panic races through me. Having little choice I inch forward with my compatriots. We move into a building painted in colorful shades of lollipop pink, robin’s egg blue, and gift bow gold. A series of little boats gently undulate in a narrow canal up ahead.
The boats look like they can barely hold six passengers. They appear to stretch on forever. Where do they come from? Where do they lead? Before I can puzzle this out I am helped into a red boat and borne aloft on a greasy river.
Music begins to play and we sail into a subterranean lair. A panoply of cheerful facades leer at us from the shore—houses, palaces, clock towers, mountain ranges, rolling hills. Here a hot air balloon ascends; over there are the clasped hands of jungle fronds. Above us a pale sky sprawls that is both night and day combined with white clouds and the yellow sickle of a moon dangling. My pulse hammers. How is this possible? How can we be spirited away like this? What have you done, Walter Disney?!
Then, as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I begin to see: we are not alone. Figures stand on the shore, dozens upon dozens, too many to count. They are a race of tiny people wearing many different types of costumes, headdresses, all manners of clothing; they come in all colors; some play instruments, some wave as we pass, their eyes fixed on us, unblinking, chamber after chamber they await us; their ranks double and triple. They perch on top of ledges, balconies, and cling to the sides of mountains. There is no escaping them.
On we sail. Chamber after chamber after chamber. I lose all sense of time. Is it day, still? Have the seasons shifted? Still we travel deeper and deeper. Wide-eyed, I gape. The music gets louder. Its melody marches on relentlessly; it repeats, looping around on itself so that just when you think it has come to an end it begins anew; a sonic snake eating its tail. No. Please, I whimper. Stop. And then out of the tune comes the thin, high voices of the strange little people, singing about suns and moons and friendship and smiles. They sing and sing and sing in unison, no bridge, no chord changes, no wailing sax solos, just the unyielding choral refrain that presses itself into my head, driving out the remains of any sense of self; it coils around my brain, chokes off all rational thought, but one I cry in a whisper: “Small……small!!”
I've never been, even to the one in California! But we religiously watched The Wonderful World of Disney every Sunday night. Tinker Bell RULES! lol.
Great read! Disney is a special kind of exhausting but I'm still desperate to pay a ridiculous amount of money to build my own lightsaber. :)