Walt Disney

by Bob Thomas

  Walt was certain Powers was wrong, and he arranged to show The Skeleton Dance one morning at a downtown Los Angeles theater. Walt sensed the small audience’s enjoyment of the cartoon, but the manager declared, “Can’t recommend it. Too gruesome.”

  Walt sought a film salesman of his acquaintance, locating him in a pool hall. Walt said he was convinced The Skeleton Dance could be booked at the prestigious Carthay Circle Theater, if the owner, Fred Miller, could be induced to look at it. “All right, leave the print; I’ll get in touch with you,” said the salesman, returning to his game.

  Miller saw The Skeleton Dance, liked it, and booked the cartoon into the Carthay Circle. The response was overwhelming, and Walt sent the reviews to Pat Powers with the suggestion that Samuel L. (Roxy) Rothafel, the famed Broadway showman, might be convinced to play the cartoon at his giant Roxy Theater. His hunch proved right, and the engagement at the Roxy provided the impetus to launch the Silly Symphonies.

  Mickey Mouse flourished into a national craze in 1929. Mickey Mouse Clubs sprang up all over the country, and the cry of the anguished moviegoer, “What—no Mickey Mouse?” became a catch phrase. (It originated in a cartoon in the old Life magazine.) The seeming prosperity of the Disney enterprise was illusory. Walt insisted on greater quality in the Mickeys and Symphonies, and the cost per cartoon climbed to $5,000. Walt expected the added expense to be balanced by receipts from Pat Powers. But weeks passed without any checks from New York. Roy Disney went to New York in an attempt to straighten out finances with Powers. Roy was treated to the Powers Irish charm and fiscal obfuscation, and he returned with his suspicions confirmed. “That guy’s a crook,” Roy told his brother. “Go back there and see for yourself.”

  The brothers agreed that they needed legal assistance, and they hired a colorful attorney named Gunther Lessing, who had advised Pancho Villa during the Mexican revolutionary’s heyday. Walt reasoned, “If he could help Pancho Villa, he’s just the man we need.”

  In January 1930, Walt, Lilly and Gunther Lessing departed for New York and the confrontation with Pat Powers. Walt went alone to the first meeting, which began with Powers’ insistence that he was still only interested in promoting Cinephone; the success of Mickey Mouse had been merely a happy side-effect. He was offhanded about the cartoon series, but in reality he was desperate to sign again with Disney when the one-year contract expired. Powers pressed for a continuation of the contract, but Walt insisted first on an accounting of Powers’ receipts from the cartoons. Shrugging off the demand, the Irishman said he had news that would convince the Disneys to sign again with Pat Powers. He handed over a telegram. It was a message from Powers’ henchman on the West Coast that Ub Iwerks had been signed to a contract with Powers to create a new cartoon series at a salary of $300 a week.

  Walt was stunned. Walt and Ub had grown up together in the animation business. They worked side by side for long nights to make successes of Alice, of Oswald and Mickey. Ub had invested part of his salary in the company, and Walt and Roy had made him a 20-percent owner and an officer of the firm.

  “I can’t believe it,” Walt muttered.

  “It’s true,” Powers said with a smile. “Pick up the phone and call your brother. He knows about it. Go ahead—call.” Walt was too shaken to telephone Roy.

  “Don’t get upset,” Powers continued. “You haven’t lost Ub Iwerks. You can still have him—if you sign with me.”

  Walt shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t want him. If he feels that way, I couldn’t work with him.”

  “Look,” Powers said, “you and your brother need money. I’ll make you a deal that will relieve you of the concern about money matters. I’ll pay you a weekly salary. I’m willing to go as high as twenty-five hundred dollars a week.”

  Powers was surprised that his munificent offer failed to impress the young cartoon maker—Walt was still trying to grasp the news that Ub had left him.

  Roy confirmed it by telephone when Walt returned to his room at the Algonquin Hotel. Ub had come to Roy that day and said he wanted to be released from the partnership. Ub said that artistic differences had developed between him and Walt. He made no mention of the Powers contract. Gunther Lessing later negotiated an agreement that dissolved Ub’s contract with Disney and paid him $2,920 for his one-fifth interest. (Hypothetically, if Iwerks had retained his share in the company, its market value would have reached $4,000,000,000.)

  Walt contemplated his situation. By January of 1930 he had delivered twelve Mickey Mouse cartoons of the first series, three of the second series, and six Silly Symphonies. The cost of the cartoons had been $116,500, or $5,500 per picture. He knew that Powers had been collecting big rentals for the cartoons—almost $17,000 apiece. But by the time Powers took his 35 percent as distributor, plus costs for prints, processing, advertising, censorship fees, licensing, insurance, music rights, recording fees, print royalties and foreign dubbing, there was little left for the Disneys. Walt remembered Roy’s instructions: “Don’t break with Powers until we get some dough.” When they met again, Walt told Powers that his brother had insisted that they needed more money at the studio. “Certainly,” said Powers magnanimously. “Will five thousand dollars be all right?” Walt agreed that it would, and he immediately dispatched the check to Roy in California.

  Walt and Gunther Lessing conferred about their next move. Both agreed that Walt should demand to see Powers’ accounts of receipts from the Disney films. Powers proposed his counter-offer: “Make a deal with me and I’ll show you the books.” The alternative, he indicated, was to take him to court, a process which would require time and money that the Disney brothers could ill afford.

  Walt and Roy discussed whether to provoke a fight with Powers and try to recover the revenue they deserved, or simply walk away from the shifty promoter and begin anew. They decided to walk away.

  Walt broke off the negotiations with Powers and began talking to other distributors about a release. Unlike his experience of a year before, he was now welcomed into the home offices of the major companies as father of the famous Mickey Mouse. Felix Feist, sales manager of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, strongly recommended a contract for the Mickey Mouse and Silly Symphony series, but after four days of deliberations the MGM attorneys decided against it. The ubiquitous Pat Powers had issued threats to sue any company that signed a contract for the Disney cartoons.

  Columbia Pictures was not so timid. The company’s belligerent founder, Harry Cohn, was then bulling his way into the ranks of important producers, and his director, Frank Capra, advised him to make a deal with the brilliant young cartoon maker. Cohn offered $7,000 advance for each cartoon. Importantly, Columbia established a war fund of $25,000 to combat Pat Powers if he tried to contest the new contract.

  Powers was enough of a realist to recognize his defeat. He suggested a settlement by which he would relinquish the twenty-one Disney cartoons in return for a cash settlement. The figure he mentioned was more than $100,000. Walt wanted to be rid of Powers and to regain control of his films. He agreed to pay Powers the tribute, even though he believed that the old pirate owed him much more. Walt arranged a $50,000 loan from Columbia to conclude the deal.

  Walt telegraphed the news to Roy on February 7, 1930:

  HAVE DEFINITELY BROKE WITH POWERS STOP WILL DELIVER NO MORE PICTURES STOP PLAN TO TEMPORARILY SUSPEND PRODUCTION MICKEYS AND CONCENTRATE ON SYMPHONIES WHICH WE WILL DELIVER TO COLUMBIA.

  Walt returned to California with the hope that a new distributorship would afford enough financial independence so he could devote full energies to improving the quality of the cartoons. But once more that independence was to prove elusive.

  Walt’s almost total immersion in his work contributed to his nervous breakdown in late 1931.

  He had been pushing himself and his animators hard, seeking greater quality in the cartoons instead of coasting on his already substantial reputation. There were inevitable disappointments. Some of his artists met the challenges he gave them; others did not. Each f
ailure was a personal defeat to Walt.

  The financial troubles returned. For all the euphoria that marked the beginning of the Columbia contract, Walt and Roy found themselves in the same fiscal squeeze that they had known with Pat Powers. With each new cartoon the brothers seemed to slip deeper in debt. Walt kept adding to his payroll, and he instructed his animators to take more care with their drawings. That always meant more expense.

  Animation was an anomaly in the motion-picture business. The normal movie could be made cheaply or expensively, according to the cost of the talent and the production values. A cartoon was handcrafted—fifteen thousand pictures drawn, inked and painted for each seven-minute film. A cartoon could not be made with less tedium, and any refinement of the technique inexorably pushed costs higher. Animation as practiced by Walt Disney would always be a perilous enterprise, with prosperous times when the product succeeded and the threat of insolvency when it didn’t.

  Money worries and the stress of leading a crew of volatile, talented artists through uncharted territory began to wear on Walt. He became more irritable with his employees, snapping at them for minor offenses. A sudden disappointment could plunge him into a crying spell. He spent sleepless hours in bed at night, staring at the ceiling as he reviewed the day’s events and planned the future. In story sessions his mind went blank and he couldn’t recall what was being discussed. He consulted a doctor, who advised him to leave the studio and seek a complete rest. Walt and Lilly decided to take their first non-business trip since their honeymoon, five years before. Roy took charge of the studio, and Walt and Lilly left to fulfill his ambition on his return from France: to voyage down the Mississippi River. But when they visited the St. Louis waterfront, they discovered that only barges floated down the Mississippi; the Depression had wiped out the passenger trade.

  The Disneys boarded a train for their first trip to Washington, D.C. When they registered at the Mayflower Hotel, the publicity man recognized the famous guest from Hollywood and asked if he could make any arrangements. “Yes, I’d like to meet General Pershing,” Walt replied. “When I was driving a canteen car in France, I drove his son, and I heard the general give his farewell speech in Paris on the back of a truck. He was my hero, and I’d sure like to meet him.”

  “Well, that’s pretty hard to arrange,” the publicity man said. “Would you like to see President Hoover instead?”

  “No, the President’s too busy,” Walt replied, “and I wouldn’t know what to talk to him about. But I would like to see General Pershing.” An appointment proved impossible, but Pershing sent an autographed copy of his memoirs. Walt took Lilly to see the Washington Monument, Mount Vernon, the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol.

  Then they traveled by train down the Atlantic Coast to Key West and boarded a ship for Cuba. They spent a week of sightseeing in Havana, then cruised through the Panama Canal and up the West Coast to Los Angeles. Walt and Lilly agreed that was the best part of the trip. He strolled around the deck, became acquainted with other passengers on the cruise, spent hours staring at the ship’s wake. By the time the ship docked at San Pedro, he was totally relaxed.

  When Walt returned to work, he remembered the doctor’s advice to vary his studio routine with exercise. He went to the Hollywood Athletic Club two or three times a week for boxing, calisthenics and swimming. Then he took up golf, rising at five-thirty and playing nine holes on the Griffith Park course, returning home for a big breakfast before reporting to the studio. He often left work early so he and Lilly could ride horseback in the hills behind their home. This was part of the regimen suggested by her doctor. He advised a physical buildup for both Lilly and Walt as a possible solution for their inability to have a child.

  BY 1931, the Mickey Mouse Club had a million members, and Mickey was known in every civilized country of the world. Douglas Fairbanks, Sr., ingratiated himself to Polynesian natives by showing them Mickey Mouse cartoons, and Mary Pickford declared Mickey her favorite star. In London, Madame Tussaud’s museum enshrined Mickey in wax. Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt wrote to Walt from the White House: “My husband is one of the devotees of Mickey Mouse….Please believe that we are all of us most grateful to you for many delightful evenings.” A rare discordant note was heard from German censors who banned a Mickey Mouse cartoon because “the wearing of German military helmets by an army of cats which oppose a militia of mice is offensive to national dignity.”

  The craze for Mickey Mouse brought a new and important source of income to the Disney enterprise. Use of Oswald’s likeness had been granted to a few manufacturers, largely for the publicity value. Walt first realized the financial possibilities of licensing when he was in New York for negotiations with Pat Powers in late 1929. He recalled later that a man called at his hotel and offered $300 in cash for permission to imprint Mickey Mouse on school writing tablets. “As usual, Roy and I needed money, so I took the three hundred,” Walt said.

  More offers arrived. On February 3, 1930, Roy signed the first contract for merchandising, granting the George Borgfeldt Company of New York the right to manufacture and sell “figures and toys of various materials, embodying design of comic Mice known as Minnie and Mickey Mouse, appearing in copyrighted motion pictures.” Disney would receive 2½ percent royalty on items selling for fifty cents or less, 5 percent for more expensive products. The first license made by Borgfeldt went to a Swiss firm for the manufacture of Mickey and Minnie handkerchiefs.

  After Mickey Mouse began to capture the nation’s affection, Walt assigned the prolific Ub Iwerks to devise a comic strip for newspapers. While Ub was at work on the strip, an offer for syndication came from the Hearst agency, King Features. Ub prepared several specimens until Walt was satisfied, and the Mickey Mouse comic strip made its appearance on January 13, 1930. Ub’s assistant, Win Smith, drew the Mickey Mouse comic for three months, then it was taken over by Floyd Gottfredson, who continued with the strip until 1975. Walt reviewed Gottfredson’s work for the first year and a half, then lost interest. Sometimes on trips he mailed Gottfredson copies from newspapers with a comment such as “There’s too damn much junk in this strip,” prompting the cartoonist to remove the clutter. The Mickey Mouse strip proved a big seller for King Features, which began syndicating Mickey and Silly Symphony comics in color for Sunday supplements on January 10, 1932.

  In 1932, an energetic Kansas City advertising man named Herman (Kay) Kamen telephoned Walt with proposals about how to merchandise Mickey Mouse and the other Disney characters. Walt and Roy had been dissatisfied with their New York and London agents, and they invited Kamen to California for a discussion of his ideas. The Disneys were impressed, especially with Kamen’s emphasis on the quality of the merchandise to bear the Disney imprint, and on July 1, 1932, Kamen signed a contract to represent the company. One of his first deals was with a baking concern for ten million Mickey Mouse ice-cream cones.

  The salesmanship of Mickey Mouse produced seemingly miraculous results. Kamen licensed the Lionel Corporation, pioneer in manufacture of toy electric trains, for the merchandising of a Mickey and Minnie wind-up handcar with a circle of track for the price of $1. Lionel had been hit hard by the Depression and had filed for bankruptcy. Within four months, 253,000 of the handcars had been sold, and the association with Disney was credited by a bankruptcy judge as a major factor in returning Lionel to solvency.

  The Ingersoll-Waterbury Company, makers of timepieces since 1856, had been pushed close to bankruptcy in the early Thirties, when Kamen licensed the firm to manufacture Mickey Mouse watches. Within weeks, demand for the watches caused the company to raise the number of employees at its Waterbury, Connecticut, plant from three hundred to three thousand. Two and a half million Mickey Mouse watches were sold within two years.

  Highbrow critics tried to analyze Mickey’s popularity in terms of mass psychology. Walt Disney was amused but unimpressed by such intellectualizing. He offered his own explanation: “Mickey’s a nice fellow who never does anybody any harm, who gets in scrape
s through no fault of his own but always manages to come up grinning.” He was quick to give credit for much of Mickey’s nature to Charlie Chaplin: “We thought of a tiny bit of a mouse that would have something of the wistfulness of Chaplin—a little fellow trying to do the best he could.”

  What emerged in Mickey Mouse was more Walt Disney than Charlie Chaplin. The most obvious connection was the voice. The nervous, flustery falsetto—a line of dialogue was often preceded with a shy “heh-heh-heh”—was just right for Mickey. It was no easy matter to get color into such an unnatural, limited voice, but Walt managed. No one else could capture the gulping, ingenuous, half-brave quality. But the similarity didn’t end with the voice. Both Walt and Mickey had an adventurous spirit, a sense of rectitude, an admitted lack of sophistication, a boyish ambition to excel. Both were unashamedly devoted to the ideals of Horatio Alger. Both clung to the old-fashioned notion of remaining steadfast to one sweetheart.

  The Disney animators recognized this unstated similarity, and when drawing the Mouse often kept in mind—subconsciously, at least—the characteristics of Walt. In describing his concept of how the cartoon should appear, Walt called upon his considerable histrionics, acting out each role and each line of dialogue. His depiction of Mickey was so accurate, so inspired, that animators wished they could capture the Disney facial expressions and movements. Once they managed to do so.

  In one of the cartoons, Mickey had a line the animators couldn’t fit a drawing to: “I’m Mickey Mouse; you’ve heard of me, I hope?” One of the animators asked if Walt would allow himself to be photographed while he recorded the line. “Oh, gosh, you don’t want that, do you?” he replied. They assured him the film would be helpful. “Well,” Walt replied, “if you put the camera in the control booth seventy-five feet away and don’t bother me while I record the line—okay.” The resulting film helped solve the animator’s problem.