Dreamers and Deceivers (32 page)

If I could live for another fifteen years, I could surpass everything else I’d ever done.

—Walt Disney, 1966, days before his death

Anaheim, California

July 18, 1955

It was a disaster.

Horrified, Walt Disney read through review after awful review of the private opening of the Disneyland Theme Park in the morning papers. The complaints went on and on: Oppressive heat had caused women’s heels to become stuck in the newly poured asphalt; the roads around the park were gridlocked for hours; some newspapers even accused them of turning off the water fountains so that visitors would have to buy Pepsi, one of the park’s sponsors.

That last charge, in particular, infuriated Walt. The truth was that they’d run out of time to connect all the water lines. The engineers told him that he had to make a choice: the toilets or the fountains. “People can buy Pepsi Cola but they can’t pee in the street,” Walt muttered aloud as he read.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He had been so busy scurrying from one part of the park to the other that he hadn’t noticed any of the glitches the critics were now having so much fun with. He could barely stand to read any more.
Oh, how the board must be loving this
, he thought.
Lillian, too. Even Roy. They’ll all say “I told you so.”

But, of course, they would all be wrong. Walt knew that. Deep inside, he knew it. Yes, there were problems, but he had seen the wonderment in the eyes of the kids, and, more important, in the eyes of their parents.

So yes, some things needed to be fixed, but the park was inviting, friendly, and clean. No cigarette butt lasted thirty seconds on the ground before an employee swept it up. He saw to that. And the atmosphere of the place—magical, infused with a sense of optimism and idealism—was the embodiment of the American Dream itself.

No. He wasn’t going to let some two-bit critics get to him. It was easy to hide behind a printing press, but the only people that mattered were the families who would visit. This, after all, was for them. “Disneyland is
your
land,” he’d said to the crowd in his opening address. “Here, age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America, with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world.”

It wasn’t just a speech—he truly believed those words. Even after the previous day’s fiasco, he was more certain about Disneyland than he ever had been before.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, Walt knew that Disneyland, even once perfected, wouldn’t be quite enough. The park personified the dream of a utopia but, more and more, Walt Disney wanted to build a real one.

40 Years Earlier

A Farm near Kansas City, Missouri

1915

Farming did not come naturally to Walt. The imaginative teenager found the work to be monotonous and the isolation to be difficult.
Then there were the animals. He kept growing attached to the pigs and cows that were soon to be slaughtered.

But worst of all was his very own father, Elias. Sure, Walt wasn’t the best farmer. His mind was not always on the corn that needed plowing, or the cows that needed milking—but none of that justified his father’s bursts of violence against him.

The only thing that thirteen-year-old Walt looked forward to during his days on the farm was that he had plenty of time to think. And to dream. He used the long hours to imagine a place as different from the farm as possible.

Walt picked up the bucket of fresh milk and walked toward the barn door.

“Hey, brother.”

Lost in his own thoughts, the voice jolted him back to reality. Roy stood in the doorway, his features darkened by the bright sun behind him.

Although Roy Disney was nine years older than Walt, his features very much resembled his younger brother’s—both had long, narrow faces and eyes that almost hid in a squint. But, unlike Walt, Roy was reserved, always quiet and low-key. Though his devotion to his family home was questionable—Roy had run off to work at a bank in Kansas City as soon as he could—his love for his little brother was not. And now he had come home to pay him a visit.

“Roy!” Walt dropped the milk bucket and embraced his older brother. They spent the next hour sitting on hay bales in the barn reminiscing about better times as young kids, buying ice cream and soda pop on Main Street in their hometown of Marceline, Missouri.

“Walt!”

Both boys recognized the bellow of their father. It was clear from his tone that he was agitated. Probably drinking again.

“Oh, no,” Walt murmured.

“Walt, get your butt over here!”

Elias had found out that Walt, after reading in a magazine about a better way to cool milk, had packed the day’s haul with the wrong amount of ice. Elias wasn’t interested in trying anything new or novel. It was exactly this type of thing that set off his notorious temper.

The boys heard their father as he headed toward them in the barn. He was like a summer thunderstorm that formed quickly and without warning.

“Walt, go to the basement,” he called out as he entered the barn, his red cheeks standing in stark contrast to the dirty blue overalls he wore each day. “I’ll meet you down there. If you’re lucky, I’ll only use my belt.”

Roy stayed quiet as Elias erupted with rage, but once their father had left he offered his brother some advice. “He’s got no reason for hitting you,” Roy said. “You’re fourteen years old. Don’t take it anymore.”

Walt went down to the basement where his father was waiting. Elias Disney, still in a frenzy, impulsively grabbed a hammer. Walt’s eyes filled with fear. Elias clenched the hammer and swung it at his son.

The hammer closed in on its target with brutal force. But then something strange happened, something that had never happened before: Walt grabbed the hammer midswing.

His father looked at him with eyes full of surprise. Walt yanked the hammer free and tossed it aside. Elias reared back and lined up a fist aimed at the left side of Walt’s face. Walt grabbed it. And then he grabbed his father’s other fist.

He and his father stood there like that for what seemed like an eternity. A boy on the verge of manhood holding his father’s fists of fury. A father realizing for the first time that his boy was no longer a child.

Then Elias Disney started to cry.

That night, Walt fell asleep thinking about his hometown, Marceline, some 125 miles away, where he and Roy had been so happy. Leaving there after the failure of the family farm and the long stares from neighbors over their father’s embrace of socialism was painful for Walt. He remembered perfect streets, friendly people, and happy faces. He remembered the feeling of security, of possibility and of adventure.

What a world he had found in Marceline. What a world he might find again.

Walt Disney Estate

Los Angeles, California

December 4, 1952

It had been an exasperating year for Lillian Disney. Her husband’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. He was easily distracted. Of course, she was used to that after nearly thirty years of marriage. And in some ways it was a good thing. Lillian saw that Walt had a level of passion for his work that matched the days when he’d geared the whole studio up for
Snow White,
the world’s first feature animated film. But that was nearly twenty years ago. Disney was no longer just a start-up, but now a major movie studio. Walt told her that they’d fallen into a rut and he wanted to do something entirely different.

Lillian watched him become absorbed with all of his various projects—from
The Adventures of Pinocchio
to
Cinderella
and now
Peter Pan
, which was set to be released early the following year. She’d never had much patience or interest in her husband’s childish larks. In fact, despite her husband’s creation of iconic film characters, she only had allowed one piece of Disney art in the entire house—and it was tucked away in their girls’ bedroom.

Still, Walt’s preoccupation with his work wasn’t all bad. After all, it had made them wealthy and turned “Disney” into a household name. But his latest obsession—building a small town with a castle and an island and a lake—was driving Lillian crazy. She knew that if she didn’t rein him in, this would be Walt’s Waterloo: the end of his successful career, and the beginning of their financial ruin.

“But Lilly, dear, there’s nothing like it in the entire world,” Walt said as he sketched away on a notepad in bed.

Lillian rolled her eyes and kept brushing her hair in the mirror.

“It’s unique,” he continued. “I know, because I’ve looked everywhere for something like it! It’s a new concept in entertainment altogether. I think—I
know
—it would be a success!”

When Walt had first outlined his vision of a place where families could immerse themselves in the stories of Disney with life-size characters, rides, entertainment and—above all—a sense of community, Lillian struggled not to laugh. She thought the idea was just plain silly.
She ignored it, hoping it would find the discard pile along with so many of his other ideas. But that never happened. This utopian town had become more than a conversation topic; it had become an all-consuming obsession. Walt had spent the next decade or so dragging her and their two girls all over America and Europe, looking at fairs and amusement parks. Most were grimy and unwelcoming. He’d even visited zoos to see if perhaps they had cracked the code—but he found most of them filled with dirty, unkempt animals.

“Walt, if you are going to look at more zoos,” Lilly had warned, “I’m not going with you!”

He came away from all of their field trips realizing that there was no precedent for anything like what he envisioned anywhere in the world. The only place that had even come close to matching his dream was Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen—a wide-open space that boasted music, food, drink, entertainment, and unfailingly polite employees.

“This is what a park should be!” Walt had exclaimed to her, smiling the whole flight home.

Burbank, California

March 1953

“I believe the ayes have it.”

Roy Disney rubbed his dark horn-rimmed glasses with a handkerchief as the final tally was taken. The Disney board had heard the proposal many times, discussed it for months, and now Roy, as co-chairman of the board, was satisfied with the final vote. He watched the board members carefully. Polite. Stone-faced. Complacent.

Walt’s older brother had always been seen as the more serious of the Disney brothers—and certainly as the more practical. Even now, as he helped Walt realize his plans for a vast amusement park, he shared the board’s grave doubts. Many didn’t seem to have any idea what Walt was talking about, although they all smiled politely and indulged what they saw as another of their founder’s endless flights of fancy.

While his brother undoubtedly had a tendency to dream big, Roy
knew that these were never really just
dreams
. They were plans. And Walt was dead serious about them. As if right on script, he was now nearly dancing with delight.

No one had ever done anything on a scale as large as the one his brother now contemplated. Ever the pragmatic, numbers-based executive to his brother’s dreams, Roy calculated that millions of visitors would have to come to the park each year to keep it in the black, and then come back year after year, thereafter. It seemed impossible.

But Walt had surprised him before.

•  •  •

Later that day, a gleeful Walt Disney sat in his office at WED Enterprises, a new spinoff that Walt had total creative control over. Roy had negotiated that with the board, knowing that they would not want to cross the man who’d made them all a fortune. Board members knew how impossible it was to deal with Walt, especially when he was on one of his crusades. “If you give him this,” Roy had told them, “he’ll be out of your hair.” And, besides, Roy reminded them, Walt was going to find a way to do what he wanted anyway—so why not be supportive?

Walt’s office was tucked inside an old bungalow on the edge of the Disney lot, as far from the rest of the studio, and its shortsighted bureaucrats, as possible.

All around him were trappings of his past successes: stills of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy. But he knew there was much more yet to come.

He had the board out of his way. He had his team lined up. Now all he needed was one thing more: cash.

As usual, he had an unorthodox idea about how to get it.

Disney Studios

Burbank, California

September 23, 1953

Standing before the fledgling staff of WED Enterprises, Roy Disney was not happy.

“I need to
show
them something,” he told Walt. “It can’t just be talk anymore.”

His tone wasn’t exactly desperate, although it might well have been. The sad truth was that Roy’s attempt to fund Walt’s dream was creating a fiscal disaster. Walt had borrowed $50,000 from the bank. He had sold his house to raise additional cash and then corralled a few investors to scrape together more. To Lilly’s horror, Walt had even borrowed $100,000 from his life insurance policy.

But it still wasn’t enough. Not even close. A park like the one Walt envisioned would cost millions—as much as $5 million by some estimates—and there was no guarantee it would ever make money. In fact, the opposite was true: Roy increasingly feared it could be the biggest financial boondoggle in their history.

Walt, however, had a plan. He always had a plan.

“Television,” Walt said to the assembled staff. “Television is the answer.” He had never shared the traditional view of other studio heads that television was the natural enemy of motion pictures. He thought they could feed into each other. His attitude was simple: Go wherever the public is. Every chance you could find to emblazon the Disney brand on the public’s consciousness, do it. That’s how he’d made Mickey Mouse a household name in spite of others telling him it was a waste of time.