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Of Mice & Men & Teens & Real Boys

by Andrew McDonald 8 years ago

An ill-timed trip to DISNEYLAND.

After watching the recent four-part PBS documentary detailing the life and incomparable achievements of one Walt Disney, I was susceptible to several, blissful pangs of nostalgia as to what the Disney name represented to my youth. Entranced by one familiar and momentous cartoon to the next coupled by one courageous career turn to the next, it occurred to me that I kind of take the stability of the Disney name and such achievements for granted. Meanwhile the memories came flooding back in tsunamis of enchantment from Steamboat Willy in the 1920s to Fantasia to Mary Poppins to the inception of a theme park and the unmentioned peaks and milestones that would come afterwards like the acquisition of Pixar all the way to Star Wars. Yet despite these happy jolts of an old faithful recognition and a bewilderment of an extraordinary life, I also couldn’t help but be reminded of a time when my personal Disney dream died. I’m not talking about some evil reign of Michael Eisener but the documentary forced me to dig deep into the recesses to unlock moments within my own childhood when it was suddenly no longer fashionable to wear the Disney badge (mouse ears?) of honour. It was a bleak adolescent period long before nostalgia would rear its head, but the death of Disney within my black teenage soul and heart challenged all that was beautifully wholesome and sparkly white in values, burying the magic that is Disney.

 

I can’t exactly pin point a precise moment when I discovered the wonderful world of Disney for it was always apparent and as cartoons and films all donning the same brand secured themselves within my consciousness its world opened up like a beautiful flower. Perhaps Mickey had been emblazoned on my underpants as a toddler as I drank milk from a Donald Duck tumbler and measured my growth with a Goofy height chart… who knows? But I do remember that The Wonderful World Of Disney was a weekend television event to behold and one that would keep me and countless other children worldwide desirably transfixed for its entire duration. My vague recollection is of Walt himself guiding you through his film Lot where he happened upon cartoons and latex monsters all casually interacting with their CEO as though it was the most natural thing in the world. An idea was hence sold in my impressionable young mind that with the exception of those cocky fucking pre-schoolers that got to rub shoulders and learn to read first hand with Big Bird, Oscar The Grouch and to a lesser extent Gordon and the late Mr. Hooper on Sesame Street, that Walt Disney had the single greatest job on the planet and as such a career path in this dream factory would surely be inevitable.

 

I do recall asking mum when I would be one of the kids on Sesame Street as though it was merely a matter of arriving on the street itself, to which she continually assured me would be someday soon. The only other request outside of becoming a Sesame regular however, was of a more pressing prospect – when would I ever get to see Disneyland? Again, I believe I was promised that this would happen soon. What obviously never occurred to me was the mammoth undertaking of simply jetting off with two kids from Melbourne to Disneyland. This desire was propagated by Walt himself, he knew how to make his theme park the most attractive location on the planet and his happiest-place-on-earth slogan was one I took very seriously. The Wonderful World Of Disney, Saturday (Sunday?) Disney or whichever version of 80s free-to-air Disney Programming happened to reach our living rooms in this era was for children: porn, propaganda and pressure for parents to secure a vacation in California. I was practically frothing at the mouth to up and leave week in, week out upon revisiting the programs introduction alone. The introduction featured a long panning shot that raced through Disneyland showcasing its endless attractions. From the haunted house with ghost holograms to a tee-cup ride to a Dumbo ride high in the sky and of course the iconic castle from Sleeping Beauty all capped off with that zany and delightful noir star Roger Rabbit stumbling through a stage door, Disneyland practically begged me to visit. As Walt intended it was a place where you could virtually step inside your favourite films and I desperately wanted in!

 

 

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Let me preface by saying outside of Walt’s waltz around the studio lot I don’t have a clue what the actual show contained, short cartoons perhaps? I had an affinity for a cartoon called Lambert The Sheepish Lion, a character who’s name of which I can’t say out loud without singing (at least internally when I hear his name) even to this day, but the ‘ah’ moment came somewhere around the seven year old mark when our school presented the class with the brand new VHS come some-anniversary edition of Pinocchio. It was the epitome of greatness. In fact for years I started to wonder if I was the only one that felt so strongly about this film until in 2011 when it topped Time’s list of “The ALL-TIME Best Animated Films”. Which is rather impressive considering it wasn’t a box office success upon its release, particularly in comparison to its enormous successor Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs, but it somehow elbowed its way into the top echelon of all-time animated features even if it only took close to three quarters of a century to do so.

 

I related the plot of Pinocchio to anyone that would listen. Sure the beer drinking jackass scenes were lost on me but this less-offensive version of the living puppet that was traditionally a smart-ass prior to becoming Disney-fied was the only version I would ever associate with the fairy tale and it’s creativity, songs, heroic escapades and melancholic undertones lingered. The same could be said for other Disney retellings such as Peter Pan, Alice In Wonderland and Robin Hood. Disney’s versions were my definitive understanding of these story book characters – Robin Hood was and always will be a fox (not even in tights, but without any pants at all). My uncle was playing close attention for that birthday he surprised me with my very own Pinocchio VHS, in fact family friends all blessed me with Disney VHSs that year, and they each rotated heavily in the VCR until each tape wore thin, ensuring the obsession would become ingrained into the psyche. Before long I could recite every line, sing every tune and mimic every one of Geppetto’s wooden ornaments that paraded around the cuckoo clocks, I snarled at the sly fox and his benefactor Stromboni, and somehow despite my anguish as our hero is trapped inside a whale, when he eventually escapes and his ‘real boy’ wish is granted, I was always left somewhat disappointed that the thrill had come to an end.

 

Sadly over time my love of Disney faded as within a year or two later I preferred more anarchistic entertainment in the form of the Marx Brothers and their musical numbers. My melodic tastes changed dramatically to thrash metal only a year after that and I wore band t-shirts and ripped jeans, coloured my hair and grew it down to my arse. Suddenly cartoons didn’t quite capture my imagination as they once had and the next time I would have a film revival with the aid of heavy metal was in discovering horror which eventually allowed me to stomach a cop having his ear cut off in Reservoir Dogs, neatly placing me back to where I perceived I belonged. Unfortunately Disney’s second coming, when that perfect storm of animators intertwined at the Disney studio which included names like Tim Burton (all captured in the fascinating documentary Waking Sleeping Beauty) went overlooked. Disney was on the verge of a creative and financial meltdown with countless flops including The Rescuers Down Under but the magic found its way back home once more thanks to the glorious run of monolithic hits which saw Beauty & The Beast receive Disney’s historical first nomination for Best Picture at the 1992 Academy Awards.

 

For me, I had no time for Mermaids, Lion Kings, Mulans, Aladdins or Pocahontai. And yet this was also the time that I was (in hindsight) fortunate enough to visit Disneyland. In fact as I recently watched Walt Disney’s story unfold on the documentary, at one point I actually thought to myself ‘I must see Disneyland’ almost forgetting that I already had. It was 1995 and I was in the midst of developing a healthy appetite for movies. That year Scorsese released Casino and I already knew his name from seeing Cape Fear a few years earlier which I practically saw back to back with The Silence Of the Lambs. Not only did such dark and menacing films excite and terrify me in ways where Jason Voorhees and Freddy Kruger were already failing, but they appealed to my teenage musical sensibility that had since upgraded from thrash metal to death metal. Not the most opportune time to visit Disneyland in terms of age, but I was lucky enough to be on a two week school trip to the West Coast of America and as a holiday destination Disneyland was still my primary association with America.

 

 

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Just shy of sixteen, I remember looking at the hotel alarm clock and noticing it was 4am and I had yet to fall asleep. This wasn’t pre-Disneyland jitters either, but a typical night of harassing other school kids and running between hotel rooms while oblivious teachers slept. I acknowledged a slight pang of guilt as I had waited all my life for this day to arrive which I had practically ruined by not preserving energy and failing to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. We arrived a few hours later in order to squeeze every last minute out of what would be a long but joyous day and this was years before I had discovered coffee so I’m unsure as to how I managed any staying power. In the ultimate act of Disney-defiance I wore a t-shirt of the mock-horror metal band GWAR to this kiddie-playground, which featured the monster-masked band members in a bloody battle all over the font of the white tee, with splattered blood being the dominant image. Truth be told this wasn’t even a conscious act of defiance as GWAR were one of my favourites and I’d have worn this even if I were meeting the president.

 

The first error on the schools planning-front was that the scheduled event took place on an American holiday, and not just any public holiday either, but one filled with radiant sunshine so naturally every man and his Pluto were there. It must have been like opening day after Walt cleverly promoted his wonderland through the TV series on the theme parks eve back in 1955 as people flocked in the millions. The newest attraction in the mid-90s however was the Indiana Jones ride, an impressive roller coaster / frolic with Indy but a ride, that although a must see, went about as long as it took Indy to shoot the sword wielding sheik in Raiders Of The Lost Ark. And the wait in line for this ride? Three fucking hours! And so it went, throughout all the rides all day, an hour and a half was a good wait, but typically the ride was less of a thrill than the ones that required a lengthier wait. It was an hour just to have your photo taken with a sweaty Mickey because heaven forbid they could replicate his suit and have an army of Mickeys patrol the region!

 

The “It’s-A-Small-World-After-All” boat ride literally and suspiciously had no wait, so we jumped at that one, but of course there was a catch to such ease. This was the most senselessly boring ride known to man, in what felt like an eternity and with precious Disney-time being eaten up it featured a small carriage moving at a snail’s pace through countless rooms, each representing a different country singing the same song in the assigned language. Boredom transitioned to delirium and I felt every bit like Lisa Simpson becoming the Lizard King minus the Duff Beer, The Simpsons episode is no exaggeration! The iconic tea cups got me a wee bit excited so I asked a friend to sit opposite and film me with my shoebox size video camera and yet the whole time I stressed that he might drop and destroy the it, distracting me from any enjoyment. The haunted house and holograms of ghosts were impressive, but again all too brief. The Star Wars ride was decidedly dated as it appeared as old as the films themselves but Star Wars in my mind could do no wrong and I venomously shut down the naysayers, hey at least the wait time wasn’t too long!

 

We managed to push in without being noticed or berated in the ‘log ride’ which from memory was riddled with characters from Song Of The South. The anticipated pinnacle drop and splash at the end of the ride seemed about as thrilling as the suggestions of slavery in the film itself. To add insult to injury as the log came to a climactic free fall through the water, rather than hold on tight as suggested, I raised both hands in the air and gave a duel-middle-finger salute to the camera. Each log then came to a stop so that they could review their photo for purchase upon a giant screen. Ours flashed for a millisecond and I merely caught a glimpse of my antics before the log continued to jolt ahead, much to the chagrin of the patrons in the back half of our log. It’s a wonder I wasn’t sent to Disney prison which rumour has it is not too hard to land in.

 

The most resounding highlight of the day came in what I now understand was originally named Adventureland. The famous Disney Safari ride. Our tour guide treated his job as one big sarcastic joke, introducing the ride – and I can remember this verbatim ‘I bet you all woke up this morning and thought Disneyland! Jungle Safari Ride’ he then proceeded to point out how shabby and clearly fake the aged African animals appeared and as the wild robotic creatures approached our boat with intent to shock (perhaps in the 50’s) our trusty guide mockingly made oo-ing sounds and half-heartedly urged us to seek caution. It was a wonderful take that raged against the entire nature and attitude of the day and I wondered if his nonchalance was authorised or whether this guy had already resigned and was fulfilling an obligated two-weeks-notice.

 

 

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By the end of the day I finally got in the spirit of the park, I think this was due to a sense of relief that I would finally get a chance to rest my head soon. I cheered on the Disney parade down a main street that I have no photographic memory of seeing even though I now know Walt had designed the street after his childhood place of residence. I purchased a Goofy hat then hunted the… whatever animal he is (did this get resolved in Stand By Me ?) and took a happy snap with him with an exaggerated grin, then after a solid twelve or so hours we made our way back to the hotel. I truly felt that despite waiting around for rides that I did manage to get to scour every corner of Disneyland and that the childhood mystique had been expelled from my system once and for good.

 

Older and more appreciative, grateful and with a yearning to make amends I desperately want to revisit Disneyland. This time I’ll be armed with a sense of magic as to how this wondrous slice of the American Dream was conceived in the mind of a great originator, pioneer and entrepreneur and how it was realised to fruition. I have just the catalyst to get me there. Her name is Luella and she’s my daughter and in the role of Walt Disney will be my good self. I have a lot of coaxing to do, a lot of ‘let’s watch Disney’ propaganda of my own to bestow upon her until she can utter the words ‘I want to go to Disneyland’ and I vow not to make the mistake of waiting until she’ a sarcastic, sleepless, bird-flipping teen to do so. Hell, last I heard they’re building a Star Wars Land – not just a bumpy ride with a simulated screen inside a scrappy cinema decked out to look like the Millennium Falcon, but an actual land, making Disneyland infinitely worth the second trip alone. I better leave now to get saving whilst a steady stream of Disney and Pixar feature films begins a new wave of heavy rotation on the Blu-ray player.

 

Even Facebook knows my plans.
Even Facebook knows my plans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Posted by: Andrew McDonald

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