Dream It! Do It!: My Half-Century Creating Disney's Magic Kingdoms

by Martin Sklar

  A second major controversy erupted over the location of The American Adventure pavilion. On a visit to Washington, D.C., John Hench and I had become enamored with the Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum on the National Mall. Designed by architect Gordon Bunshaft of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill to house contemporary art, the building is basically a raised, open circle elevated by four major “piers” with its entry located in the central courtyard. “The central plan,” wrote Paul Goldberger, architecture critic of The New York Times, in 1974, “is not only clear, but also provides a pleasant processional sequence…”

  That sequence was exactly what John and I wanted. By placing the pavilion at the entrance to World Showcase and elevating it in a manner similar to the Hirshhorn, we envisioned guests walking under the pavilion and emerging at an overlook into the World Showcase. The conceit was as though America was opening its arms and saying “Welcome!” to all the pavilions of countries around the world.

  This concept was a wonderful idea—on paper. But a Disney park is a live community of people and events, and often an idea, no matter how eloquently expressed in writing or through an illustration, must take a backseat to the realities of life in that community.

  Dick Nunis, Disney’s chief of operations for all the parks, pounced on the concept—not the design of the building, but its location. “We have to give our guests a key reason to go all the way around that big lagoon,” he argued, focusing on the Promenade, the full circle of walkways around the body of water in the center of the World Showcase. “We need to put the big attraction—like the castle of the Magic Kingdom—at the far side of the lagoon to make people want to go there!” In other words, we needed what Walt Disney called “a wienie”—the beckoning finger that says, “Come this way or you’ll miss the fun.”

  Dick was right; The American Adventure is the castle of the World Showcase, and it is a key incentive for our guests to “circle the world.” Of course, it meant a complete redesign of our American Adventure pavilion. A contemporary structure would not fit architecturally among the World Showcase pavilions, all of which feature traditional, iconic designs representing their nations, from the Japanese Torii Gate to the French Eiffel Tower. The home of our American Adventure show thus became a stately example of the Georgian Colonial style prevalent in important structures, and the homes of the wealthy, in the 1700s in America. (Contemporary may have worked for a hotel, but not for this building.)

  These fundamental conceptual decisions were in many ways overshadowed by two key aspects of the project: first, determining what to build; and second, identifying and selling sponsors (again, in Disney-speak, participants). We knew that the big corporations would want to weigh in with their “suggestions” for a ninety-thousand-square-foot, thematic structure that featured their logo and a PRESENTED BY on the exterior. But we were undoubtedly very naive about how many suggestions they would have—and how vocally they argued for their point of view.

  One major example was the Universe of Energy (now Ellen’s Energy Adventure), presented by Exxon. Randy Bright, the leader of our show development and writing team, handled this one personally. It took thirty-nine—count them!—versions of the shooting script before we agreed on one for the film portion of the attraction. Let’s just say there were a number of “facts” that we thought could be more objective. We made liberal use of the Energy advisory board, composed of key people we met through the Epcot Forums…and of the contract Exxon had signed, along with all the other Epcot participants, giving Disney final approval of all show elements.

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  So much of Epcot has depended on the interaction and cooperation between The Walt Disney Company and major corporations that it’s difficult to separate the concept phase from the sales phase. Often a final agreement with a participant depended on the Imagineers’ ability to create a pavilion concept that convinced a corporation’s management, and their board of directors, to sign on the dotted line.

  We also knew that Imagineering’s reputation, established by Walt in Disneyland and significantly enhanced by the New York World’s Fair shows and Walt Disney World itself, was a great trump card. As Colby Chandler, chairman and CEO of Kodak, told the media at the opening of Journey into Imagination: “We knew from the very beginning it would be a challenge to create a journey that would capture the imagination of everyone. But we also knew that if anyone could do it, Disney could…Epcot Center itself is a tribute to the reach of human imagination.”

  In Glendale, we directed our efforts toward developing major pavilions about key subjects: energy, transportation, food, health, space, communications, the oceans, and subjects that responded to sponsor discussions. In one form or another, every one of these subjects ultimately found a home in Epcot, as did several themes that responded to participant interests, such as Journey into Imagination for Kodak, and Horizons for General Electric. We were not as successful in the World Showcase. Even though several of them were some of our best work—such as the concepts that we developed for an African nations pavilion, Israel, Spain, Denmark, Switzerland, Costa Rica, Venezuela, and Iran (there was even a presentation in Tehran to the Shah himself!)—they were not built.

  One special thrill for me was getting to know Alex Haley, the author of Roots, who consulted on our African Nations pavilion. One night I took the midnight red-eye flight from Los Angeles to Orlando, necessitating a change of aircraft in Atlanta. To my surprise, there was Alex Haley, waiting to board the same flight to Florida—at 5:00 A.M. We had a great conversation, while all around us frenzied parents were chasing their children, already anticipating their trip to the Magic Kingdom I suspect.

  It was the extraordinary inventiveness of our Imagineering staff that carried the day, and opened doors to boardrooms that might otherwise be closed. Inventing new ways to present our stories became commonplace. The Universe of Energy ride system carried guests in six huge ninety-six-passenger, wire-guided vehicles single-file through a primeval world of dinosaurs, only to re-form as a group of six for a big screen film about the subject. In Spaceship Earth, visitors experienced a time-travel adventure aboard vehicles that moved up and down an eighteen-story structure, viewing a story about the history of human communications. In Journey into Imagination, guests met two new characters, Dreamfinder and Figment (of your imagination, of course) who became popular stars. Figment still welcomes you to the story, thirty years later. And I believe that we relaunched the 3-D film genre that had been dormant since the 1950s with a film called Magic Journeys by Murray Lerner—then almost a lone voice in his belief in the medium.

  In The Land, we created a walking tour through several biomes—a controlled environment farm where some of the food and fish are actually served in the Walt Disney World restaurants. In the years after Opening Day came more oneof-a-kind experiences: the largest oceanic environment built at that time, the 5.7 million gallon Living Seas pavilion (now called The Seas with Nemo & Friends);…and the Mission: SPACE attraction, where guests feel the g-force actually experienced by astronauts when they blast off to outer space.

  Developing these stories and designing the pavilions required a unique combination of talents that brought together age and experience, youth and inventiveness, and talent outside the Disney organization. When I realized the number of films we had to create from scratch, I called Randy Bright into my office and told him they were his responsibility. He responded this way: “Okay, on one condition: that I can build my own team—I don’t have to use the Studio’s filmmakers.” To some, it was heresy. After all, every Disney park film to that time, 1982, had been made—at Walt’s directive (even after his passing)—by a producer at the Studio. But those great talents Walt could call on—James Algar, Winston Hibler, Bill Walsh, Don DaGradi—were all retired or had passed away. This opened the door for us, and Randy, to bring in new filmmakers: Jeff Blyth, to make a Circle-Vision film in China; Murray Lerner for the 3-D Magic Journeys; Rick Harper and Bob Rogers, young writers and directors, to create a b
eautiful Impressions de France. We also hired wonderful art directors: Disney veterans Harper Goff (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), Bill Martin (Disneyland and the Magic Kingdom), and Bob Jolley (the supreme field art director who put the finishing touches, including aging, on the World Showcase pavilions). There were also movie industry talents like Walter Tyler, an Academy Award-winning art director, who designed the sets for The American Adventure.

  One day, in discussion with a small group working on story, I had an inspiration. I recalled that Disneyland opened with no original songs or music—it was all derivative, primarily from Disney films through the years. Then Walt asked Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman to write a song “explaining” the Enchanted Tiki Room, the very first show to introduce Audio-Animatronics figures—all birds. Their 1963 ditty for the show where “all the birds sing words, and the flowers croon” was an instant hit. Soon, Bob and Dick were capturing the essence of Disney shows for the New York World’s Fair, with “There’s a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow” for GE’s Carousel of Progress, and “it’s a small world” for the pavilion presented by UNICEF.

  Those world’s fair shows were featured in Disneyland, and soon thereafter they were joined by two iconic attractions, each of which featured a story-song by X. Atencio: “Yo Ho (A Pirate’s Life for Me)” in Pirates of the Caribbean (1967) and “Grim Grinning Ghosts” for The Haunted Mansion (1969). Then the song well went dry. No new songs were created for Disney shows in Walt Disney World or Disneyland for the next thirteen years!

  When I realized this, I was incredulous. What were we thinking, in a company where songs have told stories for decades? Such tunes included “Whistle While You Work” (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs), “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” (Three Little Pigs), “When You Wish Upon a Star” (Pinocchio), “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes” (Cinderella), “The Ballad of Davy Crockett” (Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier), “Feed the Birds” and “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” (Mary Poppins), and so many more during Walt’s lifetime.

  In minutes, I was on the telephone to Dick Sherman, and we were on our way to involving half a dozen excellent songwriters to play a key role in Epcot storytelling. Soon, there was Bob and Dick Sherman’s “One Little Spark” and “Magic Journeys” for Journey into Imagination; Bob Moline’s “Listen to the Land” (The Land), “Canada (You’re a Lifetime Journey)” (Canada), “Energy, You Make the World Go ’Round” (Universe of Energy), and the inspiring “Golden Dreams” (with Randy Bright for The American Adventure). More commercial songs were created for participants, especially Bob and Dick Sherman’s “Makin’ Memories” for a Kodak preshow about photography.

  Now we were really rolling; everyone was singing off the same song sheet. It was time to find those sponsors!

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  SELLING EPCOT

  No story of convincing major corporations to sponsor Epcot’s Future World pavilions would be complete—or accurate—without talking about the CEOs we dealt with. No company, with the possible exception of AT&T (Ed Block never told us how he involved his CEO), became part of our project without the direct involvement of its chairman, president, or CEO.

  But first…the convoy full of models and artwork we had shipped by truck and trailer to Warren, Michigan, for those GM meetings did not stop there. As soon as Jack Lindquist and I completed our presentation to GM president Pete Estes, our crew packed up the materials, separating them into well-thought-out portions. Half returned west to Glendale, and half traveled east to New York City. We had already determined that there was no way all the key executives we needed to reach would come to California or Florida to hear our story. We needed a dedicated location in their backyard that could be dressed out to feel like visiting our Imagineering headquarters. Thanks to our friends at RCA, we found the perfect location: an RCA recording studio at 1133 Sixth Avenue at 44th Street in New York City.

  I’m sure some of the great performers who had recorded there would have been shocked at how we converted the space from a “temple of sound” into a “symphony of tomorrow” for Walt Disney World. We still played music here, but it was already recorded, as part of our presentation film, which was generally one-third of our pitch to potential sponsors. Everything was oriented around the overall park model we had shown to GM. The third feature was, unfortunately, a showman’s violation of all the sound-absorbing walls of the recording studio. We filled them with reproductions of the major illustrations depicting the project.

  The marketing team manned the Epcot Presentation Center for up to six days each week, for well over a year, so that an explanation and overview of our project could be presented to corporations, advertising agencies, international executives, and government officials, almost on a moment’s notice. For key presentations, whoever was needed from the West Coast or Florida would fly in, often for a single presentation—an hour or two with an important prospect. It amazed me how many times my one overnight stay at the Waldorf was spent in a seven-room suite that, apparently, was seldom booked or rented in the late seventies. It always seemed to be available, even though I never requested it.

  Meanwhile, Jack Lindquist and the marketing team were especially active on the international scene. In his book In Service to the Mouse, Jack shares tales of waiting ten days in the Philippines for a meeting with Imelda Marcos, wife of the president; six weeks in Tehran waiting to meet the Shah of Iran (the meeting took place, but the Shah was overthrown a few weeks later); and of being “threatened with being beheaded by a ten-year-old prince in Morocco.” I was happy that I only had to make short trips to the headquarters of American corporations.

  For the World Showcase, we also continued to leverage Walt Disney World. One weekend, Jack Lindquist worked with Disney’s Washington office to bring a dozen senior ambassadors and their families from countries around the world, to enjoy the Magic Kingdom and see the Epcot construction site. Leading the diplomatic parade was the star of the ambassador corps in Washington from 1962 to 1986, Anatoly Dobrynin of the then Soviet Union. My wife, Leah, and I were assigned to host the family of Israel’s Simcha Dinitz—the ambassador was suddenly called home to Tel Aviv—but the weekend resulted in a two-week tour of the Holy Land for Leah and me, designer Rick Rothschild, and art director Jack Martin Smith. We were escorted by one of Israel’s great guides, Shraga Ben Yosef, as we worked with the government (unsuccessfully) to create an Israeli pavilion in the World Showcase.

  This special Walt Disney World ambassadors’ weekend was marred for me by one incident: the Swedish ambassador insisted his weekend would not be complete without his tennis game. As the best Disney player around, I was elected to take up the challenge. He was pretty good. When the set ended 6-6, we played a tiebreaker, which in those days ended with “sudden death” if the tiebreaker also reached 6–6, as it did.

  What to do? As a good host, I blew it, and the Scandinavian took his victory home.

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  The CEOs we met with were always an interesting challenge. As with Sarnoff ten years earlier, we always needed to send an advance party to check out the corporate spaces. Invariably, that meant sending or renting materials as basic as audio and visual equipment, easels, or pinnable corkboards. And then the fun began. Let me recount:

  I was shocked to see my copresenter, Jack Martin Smith, who’d been nominated for Academy Awards as a motion picture art director, suddenly down on his knees in front of our storyboard illustration of the dinosaurs in the Universe of Energy pavilion. “These,” Jack gushed to Chairman Cliff Garvin and President Howard Kauffmann of Exxon, “are the Marilyn Monroes of our project!” This was not something we had planned.

  Harry Gray, CEO of United Technologies (UTC), was the most thorough, committed, and involved CEO we dealt with in the development of Epcot. As the head of a technology company—Otis Elevator, Pratt & Whitney jet engines, Carrier air, and other environmental systems for buildings—he had a special concern for all the life-support sy
stems designed for The Living Seas pavilion. When Harry summoned us from California and Florida to UTC headquarters in Hartford, Connecticut, we knew the key moment in our plans (and our schedule) had come.

  The controversy was not insignificant—not when 5.7 million gallons of seawater was involved. Kym Murphy, our marine biologist, who had worked at several aquatic and aquarium projects before joining Disney, led our engineers away from a chlorine environment because of the negative effects on the ocean creatures he had observed. But his proposal—the use of ozone—had never been attempted in so large an area.

  At UTC, there was a divided house. The senior, retiring head of research and development supported our team’s recommendation. UTC’s new R & D leader, either not wanting to take a chance or hoping to distance himself from his predecessor, recommended against it—thus Mr. Gray’s call for a decisive meeting in Hartford. Tempers flared during the spirited discussion, and Harry Gray pushed and prodded, mostly yanking our chains. I was seated next to Ray D’Argenio, UTC’s senior public relations executive. As he listened, he drew a picture that looked like this:

  I asked Ray for an explanation. This is what he drew:

  It was clearly a lesson in who’s the boss. There was no question with Harry Gray, as we were to find out over and over again—even though we won this major battle, and ozone became the vital living environment for our sea life “stars.”

  During a presentation to Kraft of our concepts for The Land in a conference room at our offices in Glendale, Chairman and CEO William O. Beers received a telephone call, which he took in my nearby office. As we walked back to the conference room, Bill Beers stopped for a moment and confided in me:

  Marty, each of those nine people in that conference room runs a key division of Kraft, Inc.—and they never get together to address the challenges we have. That’s why I want to be part of Epcot: it gives each of them a chance to work together on a high-profile project, and focus on communicating our company’s leadership in the food business!