by Bob Thomas
The extraordinary success of Mary Poppins prompted renewed awe for the achievements of Walt Disney. While he enjoyed recognition of his talents, Walt distrusted an excess of praise. Among his associates, he responded with an expletive. In the presence of strangers, he was polite but uneasy. One noon he entertained a group of industrialists at his table in the commissary, and they were extravagant in their praise of Walt Disney. Donn Tatum recognized Walt’s discomfiture and tried to relieve the situation by remarking, “Well, Walt, there’s only one thing left for you to do, and that’s to walk on water.”
Walt’s eyes twinkled and he answered, “I’ve already tried that and it doesn’t work.”
His creative touch extended to everything, from a new cartoon feature based on Kipling’s The Jungle Book to a projected Disneyland attraction, the Haunted Mansion, to a musical film based on a Broadway play, The Happiest Millionaire. He even found time to write an original story for a film to star Dick Van Dyke, Lt. Robin Crusoe, U.S.N. The idea came to him on an airplane, and he jotted the plot down on a scrap of paper. Later he insisted on screen credit for his contribution. It read: “Original story by Retlaw Elias Yensid,” a backward version of his own name.
With all his activities, he found time for small kindnesses. He invariably sent notes of condolence to friends and employees whose parents died. When old schoolmates and teachers and business associates from his Midwest years wrote him, he responded with long, reminiscing letters. He supported many charities, particularly those that benefited children. He maintained a warm relationship with St. Joseph’s Hospital, across the street from the studio, donating to fund drives and ordering decoration of the children’s wing with Disney characters.
Christmas was a time of trial for Walt’s secretaries. He maintained a file of hundreds of children of his personal friends, members of the press, studio workers, film executives, etc. To each child went gifts of Disney character merchandise—one important item apiece, plus a few little ones. The gifts continued until the child reached the age of twelve, then he or she was dropped from the list and received a Christmas card instead. Walt’s secretaries were charged with assembling the packages, and each had to be wrapped separately. A room in a studio warehouse was converted to a Santa’s workshop, and Walt dropped in to inspect the packages and make sure that his specifications were observed.
Walt usually left his family shopping until a day or two before Christmas, and his secretaries were enlisted to help. Often he settled on expensive perfumes for Lilly and their daughters. Finding gifts for him was a recurring problem; after opening packages he often grumbled, “I don’t need that.” One year his daughters presented him with a handsome volume of the complete works of Leonardo da Vinci. “What are you trying to do—educate me?” he muttered. But later that day Sharon and Diane saw him in a corner poring over the book. Walt often found more delight in the simplest of gifts than in the lavish presents from industry leaders. Hazel George had a good sense of what would please the boss, and she rarely spent over a dollar. One Christmas she gave him a dime-store kaleidoscope, and it fascinated him. He insisted that visitors to his office peer at the changing patterns of light and color.
He enjoyed sharing his enthusiasms with others. When Robert Stevenson and his son were journeying eastward on the Santa Fe Super Chief, the director was surprised to receive an invitation to ride in the locomotive. Knowing that Stevenson was a railroad buff, Walt had arranged the treat with the president of Santa Fe.
In the 1960s, Walt acquired a new toy—a company airplane. Since his activities were taking him all over the country, he concluded that a private plane would prove a convenience. As he did with most projects he contemplated, he ordered a survey by Harrison (Buzz) Price, the Stanford Research Institute executive who had been encouraged by Walt to form his own company, Economics Research Associates. The survey established the wisdom of Walt’s plan for a company airplane, and he made the proposal to Roy. Roy thought it a bad idea, and Walt countered by saying, “Well, I’ve got a little money; I’ll do it myself.” Roy finally agreed to the purchase of a Queen Air Beechcraft.
Walt took delight in planning each trip, plotting the itinerary on maps in his office over his evening Scotch. When passengers arrived at the plane’s home base at Lockheed Airport, he loaded their luggage aboard. During the flight he served the drinks and supervised the galley. For years Walt had yearned to pilot a plane, and on occasion the company pilot, Chuck Malone, allowed Walt to take over the controls. Walt insisted that Ron Miller and Bob Brown learn how to land the plane, in case of emergency when they were flying with their families. After Chuck Malone became ill while piloting the plane alone, Walt established the rule that two pilots would be required during all flights.
Walt was determined to overcome Roy’s opposition to the plane, and he planned a trip to the redwood country of Northern California and to Sun Valley, Idaho, for himself, Lilly, Roy and Edna. Roy was an uneasy passenger at first, but Walt persuaded him to assume the role of navigator. Roy, who had served as a navigator in the Navy in World War I, took over the task with enthusiasm, and he became a convert to the company plane.
Walt was convinced that the plane was an efficient tool for the company, not merely a frill for the executives. He grew more impatient with the claims of bankers and journalists that he was a profligate. He firmly believed he was not. He chastised producers who exceeded their budgets, and he was always seeking means to cut down production costs. Walt kept himself apprised of the company’s fiscal matters by means of a weekly memorandum he received from Orbin V. (Mel) Melton of the business department. Each Friday, Melton sent Walt a message consisting of three subjects written in capital letters, followed by a single sentence. Melton’s succinctness was purposeful; he realized that Walt would not take the time to absorb anything longer. Usually the three sentences contained enough information; rarely did Walt call Melton for a detailed explanation.
While he respected the financial needs of the company, Walt refused to be limited by them. At a meeting to discuss some major changes in Disneyland, Marc Davis, who had worked on the plans, began his presentation by saying, “Well, I’ve got an expensive way and a cheap way of doing this.” Walt rose from his seat and walked to where Davis was standing. Placing a hand on Davis’s shoulder, Walt said, “Marc, you and I do not worry about whether anything is cheap or expensive. We only worry if it’s good. I have a theory that if it’s good enough, the public will pay you back for it. I’ve got a big building full of all kinds of guys who worry about costs and money. You and I just worry about doing a good show.”
As Disneyland began its tenth year, it had grown from twenty-two attractions to forty-seven, from an investment of $17,000,000 to $48,000,000. Forty-two million people had passed through the main gate. Walt and Roy Disney appeared at a tenth-anniversary dinner attended by those who had helped them build Disneyland into one of the showplaces of the world.
Roy was characteristically modest in his remarks to the audience: “Well, a lot of you probably don’t even know me or didn’t know me, but I have been here. And along with the rest of you, I’ve had my nervous moments, too. But it has been a wonderful ten years. And while we have the public to thank for their wonderful attendance, we also have to thank you people that were the key gang in handling that public and in giving them satisfaction, pleasing them, and making them come back like they have—and having the word-of-mouth go around the world as it has. I have seen in my travels far and wide that the reputation of Disneyland stands out primarily, even beyond the show itself, for the courtesy of the people handling the public, and the cleanliness and friendliness of the place. I’ve always said, in my end of the work, that it takes people to run a business. You people have been the heart and soul of this business and we appreciate it no end. And we say congratulations to you for doing the grand job that you have done all these ten years.”
Walt was in a mellow, reminiscing mood when he spoke. He talked about hiring the singer Donald Novis t
o appear in the Golden Horseshoe Revue, and how Novis recommended a young comic he had worked with in Australia, Wally Boag. Walt recalled his first meeting with Joe Fowler, the retired admiral, and how “little by little we sort of got him trapped” into taking over the building and operating of Disneyland. Walt continued:
Well, we had a lot of problems putting this thing together. There was pressure about money. A lot of people didn’t believe in what we were doing, and we were putting the squeeze play where we could. I remember that we were dealing with all three networks. They wanted our television show, and I kept insisting that I wanted this amusement park. And everybody said, ‘What the hell does he want that damned amusement park for?’ I couldn’t think up a good reason—except that I wanted it….
ABC needed a television show so damn bad that they bought the amusement park! Well, five years later, my brother figured we’d better buy those guys out. They had a third interest; they had only a half million dollars invested in that park. But my brother figured, “If we don’t buy them out now, we’re going to be paying them a lot more later.” He paid them, after five years, seven and a half million dollars for their five-hundred-thousand-dollar investment. And it was a smart move.
Well, my brother’s had the worries of getting this money and fighting the bankers and things; and there was a time, I think it was after we opened the park, that our bankers said to my brother, “About that amusement park—we’re not going to let you put another nickel into it.” And my brother said, “Well, if you’re going to start running our business, we’re going out and find another place to borrow money.” And by gosh, they finally gave him the money.
But it’s been nip-and-tuck. I mean, when we opened, if we could have bought more land, we would have. Then we’d have had control and it wouldn’t look too much like a second-rate Las Vegas around here. We’d have had a little better chance to control it. But we ran out of money, and then by the time we did have a little money, everybody got wise to what was going on and we couldn’t buy anything around the place at all!…
This time, after ten years, I want to join my brother and thank you all who have been here with us and have been a part of making this thing come across. But I just want to leave you with this thought: that it’s just sort of been a dress rehearsal, and that we’re just getting started. So if any of you start to rest on your laurels, I mean, just forget it….
Honors continued to shower on Walt Disney. The highest came on September 14, 1964, when President Johnson presented him with the Medal of Freedom at the White House.
Walt flew east in the company plane with a few of his lawn-bowling cronies from Palm Springs. They paused for a lawn-bowling tournament en route, then went on to Washington. Walt had ample time before the ceremonies, so he asked his driver to stop at the Lincoln Memorial. Walt stood before the heroic statue of Lincoln for minutes, reading the measured words carved in marble as his eyes filled with tears. Then he went on to the White House, where Lyndon Johnson gave him the nation’s highest civilian honor. The citation: “Artist and impresario, in the course of entertaining an age, Walt Disney has created an American folklore.”
The accomplishments of Walt Disney impressed even his own grandchildren. He delighted in telling the story of how he and Lilly were babysitting with the children of Diane and Ron Miller when a thunderstorm struck during the night. The children came scrambling to the grandparents’ bed and one of them pleaded after a clap of thunder: “Turn it off, Grandpa.”
He related the story to Hazel George during one of their therapy sessions. She replied, “And did you?” Walt grunted and said, “You know what my next project is going to be? An Audio-Animatronic nurse.”
LIKE most of Walt Disney’s projects, CalArts had a long history. It dated back to the early 1930s, when Walt decided to train a new generation of cartoonists so he could accomplish his goals in animation. The result was a liaison with the Chouinard Art Institute, and Walt continued to support the school long after he had discontinued classes for animators. Chouinard had flourished after World War II because of large numbers of veterans who studied there under the G.I. Bill of Rights. But poor management and an embezzling employee brought the school to the edge of insolvency in the late 1950s.
Nelbert M. Chouinard, who had founded the school in 1921, asked Marc Davis, a Disney animator who had been a teacher at the school, if he thought Disney would donate a scholarship. Davis knew of Walt’s respect for Mrs. Chouinard and suggested asking for a luncheon appointment to explain the school’s plight. Walt met with Mrs. Chouinard and was immediately responsive; he remembered that Chouinard Art Institute had given Disney artists free classes when the studio could not afford to pay for them. He responded with money to help the school in its troubled period, and he contributed the studio’s financial expertise. Walt realized that Chouinard’s problems required more than periodic infusions of cash. He worked with his staff on ways to modernize the school, proposing a widened curriculum and a showcase where students could display and sell their art.
Walt’s own taste in art leaned toward the dramatic paintings of Rembrandt, Goya, Velazquez and El Greco, as well as the illustrations of Paul Gustave Doré; he had also been influenced in his youth by the Ashcan School of American artists, particularly Robert Henri. But Walt was not opposed to abstract art (indeed, portions of Fantasia, Dumbo and other Disney cartoons featured abstractionism). He believed students should find their own mode of expression—after they had been schooled in the fundamentals of art. During a visit to Chouinard, he was irritated to see first-year students using paint rollers on canvases.
He believed in an intermingling of the arts: “What young artists need is a school where they can learn a variety of skills, a place where there is cross-pollination.” Walt’s plan had a practical side; such a school could provide future talent for his own as well as other Hollywood studios, fulfilling in a more formalized and broadened way the function of the Disney school for animators in the 1930s. Walt commissioned Economics Research Associates to survey the problems of Chouinard Art Institute and offer possible solutions. In time there were twenty studies, offering a variety of proposals including a City of the Arts, a cluster of interrelated schools where students could polish their skills and market their works to help support their studies.
The school project began to take form when Walt learned that the Los Angeles Conservatory of Music was in the same condition as Chouinard. The conservatory, founded in 1883 when Mrs. Emily Valentine brought the first grand piano to Los Angeles, had been victimized by an embezzler, was declining rapidly because of faulty management, and was being supported largely by a single patron, Mrs. Richard Von Hagen, wife of a Los Angeles lawyer and businessman. Walt lunched with Mrs. Von Hagen, and they had an animated discussion about their problem schools. She proposed the concept of a college patterned after the California Institute of Technology, encompassing all the arts in the same manner that Caltech included the sciences; the new school would be called the California Institute of the Arts. CalArts began its history in 1962 with the merger of Chouinard Art Institute and the Los Angeles Conservatory of Music.
Walt embarked on planning a college for artists with the same thoroughness he had employed in conceiving Disneyland. He sent researchers across the country to visit art schools and conservatories, studying the curricula and facilities, measuring classrooms and corridor space. Walt sought advice from such administrators as Lee DuBridge of Caltech and Franklin Murphy of UCLA. He commissioned his own artists to create brochures and sketches of prospective campuses.
As the concept of CalArts grew, he considered where the school should be located. He became enthusiastic about hilltop property across the Cahuenga Pass from the Hollywood Bowl. The land belonged to the County of Los Angeles, and the County Supervisors agreed to release it for CalArts. All that was needed was permission by the State Legislature; and the Democratic leader of the Assembly, Jesse Unruh, assured that would be forthcoming. But at the last moment Walt decided ag
ainst the property. He concluded that the steep slopes would make construction difficult. Most of all, he did not want to deal with government bureaucracy. His wartime experiences remained vivid and painful.
Thirty-six other locations were considered until Walt and Roy decided on a simple solution: Walt Disney Productions would donate thirty-eight acres of its Golden Oak Ranch, a 728-acre spread in Placerita Canyon, north of the San Fernando Valley. The ranch, where gold had been discovered by a Spaniard in 1842, had been bought by the studio in 1959 as a site for film locations.
Walt talked about CalArts in a 1964 press interview in his office:
We’ve got to fight against bigness. If a school gets too large, you lose an intimacy with the students; they begin to feel they’re just part of a big complex. I don’t think you can create as well in too big a plant. That’s why I always tried to avoid bigness in the studio….I like the workshop idea, with students being able to drop in and learn all kinds of arts. You know, a kid might start out in art and end up as a talented musician. A school should offer a kind of cross-pollinization that would develop the best in its students….I started out to be a political cartoonist. I grew up on my dad’s socialist paper, Appeal to Reason, and I thought sure I was going to draw political cartoons. But then I took some children’s classes at the Kansas City Art Institute; I went two winters, three nights a week, and my ideas about my future began to change. I learned a lot from professional teachers at the Institute—they were more professional artists than teachers….Imagination is an intuitive thing; I think it’s something you’re born with. But it has to be developed. I learned a lot as a kid by going to vaudeville houses. The father of a friend of mine in Kansas City owned one, and we saw the shows three nights a week. When I moved to Chicago, I went to the vaudeville and burlesque shows more often. One house had eighteen acts of vaudeville; I saw every one and built my gag file….I might have become a political cartoonist, except that I was exposed to movie cartoons at the Kansas City Film Ad Company. There were a lot of cartoonists there, but none of them had my ambition to do anything else. The artist just did his work and turned it over to the cameraman to photograph. But I wasn’t satisfied with that. I watched the cameraman do his work, and I asked questions: “What’s your exposure?” “Why do you shoot it that way?” He was secretive at first, but then he told me all about it, and he let me run the camera myself. So I learned….The trouble with universities is that they restrict students from learning about a lot of things. The young people have to get so many credits toward their degree, and they don’t have a chance to delve into other subjects. That won’t be true at CalArts. Students will be able to take anything—art, drama, music, dance, writing. They’ll graduate with a degree of Bachelor of Fine Arts, and if they want a Bachelor of Arts they can go to other colleges and acquire a few more credits….The student body of CalArts shouldn’t be over two thousand, and as many as possible should reside on campus. There should be some allowance for those who are talented, yet are not students; they should be able to express themselves without worrying about grades. There will be a lot of scholarships at CalArts. Those who can pay will pay; those who can’t will get scholarships. We don’t want any dilettantes at CalArts. We want people with talent. That will be the one factor in getting into CalArts: talent.