by Martin Sklar
Finally Herb asked me, “Why are you coming to my office every day?” I had to admit that Dick had told me to get him to finish the concept for the castle, which was nowhere to be seen on Herb’s easel. With a sigh, Herb told me to come back Thursday, and I would see the first drawing. Upon my arrival a few days later, he proudly unveiled the very first vital concept drawing of the Magic Kingdom’s Cinderella Castle: it was an eleven-by-fourteen-inch pencil sketch of me as a gargoyle (Ryman called it “Sklargoyle”), clutching my scripts to my breast, and spewing admonishments from the parapets! The original is framed and hanging in my home.
Fortunately, Herb understood that this would not satisfy Dick, and he agreed that if I came back the following Tuesday, he would have the sketch. And he did: an exquisite pencil drawing of a Cinderella Castle-to-be. It became the basis for Ted Rich’s beautiful architectural design—a perfect fit for the site of that big yellow “X.”
Our planning for the Magic Kingdom was not without early mistakes. In Fantasyland, there’s still a “pinch point”—a passageway too narrow for the amount of guest traffic—in the corridor between “it’s a small world” and Peter Pan’s Flight. And because a new concept by Marc Davis, a “Western River Expedition” featuring Audio-Animatronics cowboys and Indians, was being groomed as a major feature, Pirates of the Caribbean was not included in the original park plans. It was finally added in 1973 as part of the new Caribbean Plaza attached to Adventureland. But the biggest “goof” was the view we held of Florida’s audience that resulted in a decision not to build any “thrill rides” for opening day: we figured there would be too many older, retired people. When the audience demographics proved to be almost identical to Disneyland’s—families with small children and teenagers, as well as young adults looking for a thrill—the call went out for the Imagineers to solve this oversight as quickly as possible.
Two lucky opportunities converged to make a timely response possible. One was the contract with RCA to work with our engineers in designing “the first twenty-first-century information-communications system”—linking computers, telephones, automatic monitoring and control devices, mobile communications, and television. The contract included a significant quid pro quo: RCA agreed to consider sponsorship of a major attraction in the Magic Kingdom Park after its opening, if (that was the key word) we Imagineers could develop an attraction that they would be proud to be associated with. Ten million dollars, the equivalent of about $90 million today, was on the line.
Before the Magic Kingdom’s opening in 1971, John Hench joined me and artist T. Hee in developing a story and design concept for RCA. It didn’t take long; RCA was then in the computer business, and we determined to take Tomorrowland visitors inside a computer to tell its story.
Finally, after nine long months working our way up the corporate ladder, we secured an audience with RCA’s chairman and CEO, Robert Sarnoff. The night before our big day, we set up our presentation in the RCA board of directors meeting room. We lined one side of the room with nine, four-by-eight-foot storyboards covered with sketches, paintings, and graphic concepts. Everything was positioned so that Mr. Sarnoff, sitting in the center of the boardroom, would see everything directly in front of his chair. As we completed our perfect setup, the meeting organizers played their wild card: Mr. Sarnoff, they said, always sits at the head of the table. Sure enough, we made our pitch the next morning with the chairman sitting so far away, he needed binoculars to see our materials. It was impossible to communicate our brilliant concept for the computer story.
For a moment, I thought we might recover, as John Hench, T. Hee, and I joined Mr. Sarnoff and three RCA vice presidents in the seats adjacent to him. But soon Mr. Sarnoff scribbled a note and passed it to the VP next to him, who passed it to the next VP, who passed it to me. When I opened it, I read: “Who are these people?”
Reality hit me—hard. The VPs had not even told Sarnoff who we were, or why we were there! Nine months of my life down the drain with four words scribbled on a notepad.
My associates and I returned to California, and I went straight to the office of Card Walker. “Card,” I said, “I don’t care if you fire me, but I’m not giving another nine months of my creative life to RCA.” His response was clear: “Marty, you guys at Imagineering have to figure out a way to get RCA to sponsor an attraction. We need it!”
So we went back to the drawing board. And as good fortune would have it, there was a perfect idea staring us in the face. John recalled the day in 1964 when Walt brought a team of Imagineers together to discuss a “rocket flight into the cosmos” for the new Tomorrowland planned for Disneyland, to open in 1967. “Walt wanted to build a rollercoaster-style ride, but in the dark, which no one had ever done before,” John wrote in his seminal book, Designing Disney—Imagineering and the Art of the Show, published by Disney Editions. “He wanted to have precise control of the lighting and to be able to project moving images on the interior walls.”
John’s illustration of the now-familiar structure, drawn in 1965, excited the Imagineers—and created a huge stir among Disney fans. But there was one major issue: computer systems were not sophisticated enough to design a ride system to be run safely in the dark. Once again, technology needed to catch up to Walt’s vision.
A good idea may come back to life in the world of Disney…but a great idea will find its way into our parks somewhere in the world. Space Mountain was clearly a great idea, so John Hench and I created a way to make it work for RCA. First we had to enlarge the whole structure—at the Magic Kingdom, it’s 183 feet high and 300 feet in diameter, versus 200 in later versions at Disneyland, Tokyo Disneyland, and Hong Kong Disneyland. There was a necessary and practical reason for this: we had to create an RCA story before and after the trip through space, so we developed “Spaceports” along the long entry walkway, allowing guests to “view out into space” to see the RCA-developed communications satellites of the 1970s at work. And as a post-show, we created a moving ramp that revealed a “home of the future,” filled with RCA products—highlighted by an opportunity to see yourself on color TV as you exited the attraction.
Armed with this complete package—including the thrill ride itself—we had another day in court with Chairman Sarnoff.
This time, as we returned to the scene of our failure, we again set up our presentation of storyboards—and again the RCA people reminded us (after we were already set up) that “Mr. Sarnoff always sits at the head of the table.” “Fine,” I said, “but whoever sits there” (pointing to a seat in the center) “is the person I’ll be talking to. And if Mr. Sarnoff sits there” (pointing to the head seat), “I’ll have my back to him for the entire presentation!”
Fortunately, the RCA people stationed an interceptor the next morning, so that when Mr. Sarnoff entered the room (last, of course) the blocker said, “The Disney people would like you to sit here”—which he did. (No one, I guess, had ever asked before.) This time, Mr. Sarnoff did not need binoculars.
We made the sale…and on January 15, 1975, Colonel James Irwin, pilot of the lunar module on the Apollo 15 mission to the moon, became the first official rider.
To accomplish Walt Disney’s goal of a “rocket flight in the dark,” ride designer Bill Watkins completed the first all-computer design of a Disney-version roller coaster. Bob Gurr created a brand-new vehicle chassis that shares its basic design with a retrofitted 1974 bobsled for Disneyland’s Matterhorn Mountain. It was also Disney’s first pure gravity ride, with no boosters or retarders, advancing the state of the ride design art with its own computer-controlled speed and safety zone system.
Blending all the ride and show elements required the Imagineers to create “the most complicated, sophisticated, and accurate model” that had ever been built, Bob Gurr marveled. All the twists, turns, and drops of the ride system are spelled out, as is the location of each and every show light, sound amplifier, the projectors to create asteroids tumbling across the inner surface of the darkened mountain, and dancing, m
irror ball-like reflections to depict stars and the endless expanse of space. The result is a sensory experience conveying the convincing illusion of space travel.
But it’s the whole look of Space Mountain that stamps it as the definitive theme park statement about space. Here’s what designer John Hench wrote in Designing Disney:
Space Mountain begged to be cone shaped. It wanted to echo the expanding spiral of the ride inside. The form housing the ride follows its movement, so that the center of the structure is naturally elevated, like the peak of a mountain being pushed up from the pressure below.
In the construction of the building, the engineers selected precast concrete and steel T-beams for the main roof structure. They wanted the beams facing inside the building, but I wanted them facing outside to provide a smooth surface in the interior on which we could project images. The distance between the T-beams varies, from narrow at the top to wider at the bottom; on the cone-shaped roof this gives an appropriately dynamic effect of forced perspective. The resulting exterior design is strong, simple, and visually effective.
Space Mountain has an abstract, contemporary form and tells its story architecturally. The ride is above all an experience of speed, enhanced by the controlled lighting and projected moving images. But it evokes such ideas as the mystery of outer space, the excitement of setting out on a journey, and the thrill of the unknown.
To each of us at Imagineering who played a role in the birth of that first Space Mountain in 1975, we knew we were fulfilling Walt Disney’s vision. And it took us only a decade to accomplish! Every time I’m in Tomorrowland, I make sure to watch the faces of our guests exiting from Space Mountain—more than 250 million of whom have enjoyed this original Space Mountain alone. And I never ask, “Who are these people!!?”
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In a major feature titled “Mickey Mouse Teaches the Architects,” published by The New York Times magazine on October 22, 1972, (one year after Walt Disney World’s original opening), architecture and urban planning writer Paul Goldberger wrote a sidebar entitled “Disney’s Secret Ingredient in which he noted the following”:
While $100 million was spent on the new town of Columbia, Md., and $85 million for Reston, Va., Disney Productions has sunk $400 million into Walt Disney World. And it plans to spend another $50 million to $60 million in the next few years, expanding the Magic Kingdom and moving ahead on Lake Buena Vista, the condominium town already under way at the eastern edge of the property. And that’s all before the EPCOT dream city, for which company officials have not yet begun to prepare financial estimates.
The way all this money was raised would do credit to WED’s expertise in creating things out of nowhere; the company has thus far managed to remain entirely free of long-term debt. Through a scheme engineered by Walt’s brother Roy Disney, who led the company from Walt’s death until he himself died last year, Disney Productions sold convertible debentures which were quickly retired when the price of Disney common stock, stimulated by expected high Disney World profits, moved above the conversion price. The stock—in recent years, one of Wall Street’s prizes—has soared from $15 in 1957 to close to $200 this year.
Roy O. Disney hardly looked or acted the part of a financial genius. Yet in the second edition of my Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, I find these among the “genius” definitions: “the guardian spirit of an institution”; “a person who strongly influences (for good or ill) the character, conduct, or destiny of a person, place, or thing.” Those definitions of genius are remarkable descriptions of Roy O. Disney’s impact on Walt Disney Productions.
Even though I had interfaced with Roy closely in the development of four of the company’s annual reports beginning in 1964, I never felt a strong bond during Walt’s lifetime. But I came to appreciate and respect his love for the company he built with his younger brother, and for the Disney employees who made possible its growth and success. He was a cheerleader, and he made us feel good when he spoke to the media about our team: “The Disney organization brings to this project the most highly creative, experienced, and talented reservoir of personnel ever assembled in the development of an outdoor recreation attraction.”
There’s no question that, despite the stories of their conflicts about direction and money (mostly true, from what I know), Roy O. Disney was totally dedicated to supporting Walter Elias Disney’s brainstorms, new directions, and continuous drive to avoid repeating himself—sometimes at great cost to the corporation. As Walt said in his 1965 Florida press conference: “I would like to create new things…you hate to repeat yourself…I don’t like to make sequels to my pictures. I like to take a new thing and develop something…a new concept.”
Yet the story of conflicts persisted, from Roy’s infamous advice to “stick to shorts” when Walt began to develop the first full-length animated feature, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,…to Roy’s reluctance to involve the company in the New York World’s Fair shows, leaving production of the first three attractions to Walt’s personal company, WED Enterprises,…to the time lost in moving ahead on the Walt Disney World project after Walt’s death, while Roy and other Disney executives became knowledgeable about (and true believers in) the capabilities of the WED organization.
Diane Disney Miller, one of Walt’s daughters, told me this story illustrating Walt and Roy’s relationship. In the early 1950s, she accompanied Roy and his wife, Edna, to New York to meet her parents, who were returning by ship from Europe. “Wasn’t that nice of Uncle Roy to bring me here!” she enthused to her father. “Yeah,” Walt replied in a skeptical tone. “He knows I’m mad at him because he took an option on some land in Chatsworth for Disneyland!” (Chatsworth, at one end of the San Fernando Valley, is about sixty miles from the site in Anaheim that became home to Disneyland.)
I write about my experiences with Roy because I became genuinely fond of him in the years between Walt’s passing and Roy’s death just two months after the opening of Walt Disney World. My respect for him grew as I heard about the conflicts in construction between various Disney company factions and individuals, and outside contractors—and how he resolved these issues. He was the glue that held the whole project together, despite the challenges of building in the Central Florida of the late 1960s, where the infrastructure and ready availability of supplies and construction talents ranged from weak to nonexistent.
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One of those supply challenges was actually more of a morale challenge. The daily construction grind in the humid, ninety-degree summer heat in Central Florida took its toll on the California staff. That cold beer at the end of the workday was a good idea, except: the Westerners did not like Eastern beers. It took a creative solution by Orlando Ferrante and the PICO (Project Implementation and Coordination Organization) team to resolve the issue, and restore the spirits of the Californians. Ferrante arranged a weekly shipment of Coors to a designated team member’s home near the property. Every Friday afternoon, the workday ended with a mass “drive-by” of thirsty Californians, stopping just long enough to pick up their weekly supply of ice-cold Western brew.
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Within weeks after Walt’s death, Roy asked me to write a speech for him. It was the most difficult writing assignment I have ever had. The rhythm of Roy’s speech pattern, and the emphasis of his words reflecting his role as the chairman and “financial genius” of the company, left little room for soaring thoughts or phrases. But I was truly complimented by his asking for my help, and for the thanks I received following the event.
We became even more conversant on a trip to Japan’s “coming out party”—the huge Expo 1970 in Osaka that shouted to the world, and to the Japanese people, that they had fully recovered from the devastation of World War II. Leah, my wife, and I have wonderful memories of that journey, many involving Roy. I think Dick Irvine put the trip together to get everyone thinking about resorts (we stopped in Oahu and the Big Island Hawaii, coming and going) and new k
inds of shows; there were several, including big-screen IMAX, new at the Expo in Osaka. The trip included Card Walker, Donn Tatum, Dick Nunis, Joe Fowler, Joe Potter, John Hench, Claude Coats, Roy, Dick, me, and our spouses.
It seemed as though everyone wanted to avoid Roy and Edna, so Leah and I—as the youngest pups—had the duty of accompanying them. It turned out to be interesting and fun, because Roy was so relaxed. In a driving rainstorm, we drove them across Oahu to the Polynesian Cultural Center, and several times in Tokyo and Osaka we breakfasted with the both of them. We heard some great personal stories (which we have never repeated). Roy was a pixie with little comments about Edna when she could not hear him.
Roy was thrust into new responsibilities as the development of Walt Disney World progressed. One involved how to honor the people who created, designed, and built the Magic Kingdom. The tradition had been established at Disneyland by Walt. He personally selected the names that would be placed on the windows of the shops and other facilities that line Main Street—real names, accompanied by fictitious “businesses.” For example: PLAZA SCHOOL OF ART—INSTRUCTORS HERBERT RYMAN, JOHN HENCH, PETER ELLENSHAW (the Studio’s supreme matte painter, whose work had been a highlight of the early TV show about the park; Peter would later be honored with an Academy Award for his work on Mary Poppins). And of course ELIAS DISNEY, CONTRACTOR—EST. 1895—Walt’s recognition of his father, who actually was a contractor in Chicago when Walt was born in 1901.
Of course, there were many hurt feelings on the Disney staff among those whom Walt chose not to honor with their name on a window. So Dick Irvine asked me to write a memo to Roy, suggesting that in the Magic Kingdom we use fictitious names for the proprietors and leaders of those fictitious firms. Roy’s response was quick and firm. “No,” he handwrote on my memo, “I want to do it exactly as Walt did in Disneyland.” And to emphasize the point, as an example, he wrote out a window for me, misspelling my name: MARTY SKALAR.