Saturday, July 25, 2015

What's in A Sign?

Let's get detailed.

I think that until the opening of Disneyland Paris in 1992, Magic Kingdom was the theme park with the most interesting, unique collection of...... signs.

Signs are interesting things in theme parks. They don't often get a lot of attention and coverage, but they really belong to that category of theme park grace notes which visitors would miss if they weren't so nicely done. Magic Kingdom's original crop of signs were, in many ways, dead simple. Many of them were simply flat, painted surfaces in a variety of evocative shapes. Especially since the 1990s, theme park signs have become increasingly dimensional and elaborate, sometimes turning into light shows or kinetic sculptures.

Yet its the dead simplicity of those early Magic Kingdom signs which appeals to me. They often had nothing more to work with than typefaces, shape, and color. But sometimes, that's all you need. Indeed, some modern theme park signs are better than the attractions they lead to or the architecture they adorn. The earliest Magic Kingdom signs worked with the architecture like a hand inside a glove.

Consider Adventureland, the Magic Kingdom area with probably the nicest collection of signs and typefaces. Fantasyland went all-in on Gothic letters and Tomorrowland was a sea of handsome, sans-serif fonts. But in Adventureland, the rules could be loosened or broken.

Let's take a moment to consider why this is. At Disneyland, Adventureland goes heavy on the "Tiki" styling: carved masks, skulls on poles, and a rugged outpost feeling. At Disneyland Paris, it's adventure literature of a long ago childhood brought to life. Tokyo Disneyland has a bustling tropical plaza.

Magic Kingdom's Adventureland is the only Adventureland which is feminine, which may partly explain why I favor it. It's all flowing lines, layered details, and complex carvings. It has architecture which manages to evoke the Caribbean, Asia, India and the South Seas without specifically replicating any single element of these cultures.

In other words, in the place of the elephant gun and dive bar ethos best reflected at Disneyland, Magic Kingdom's Adventureland evokes lazy evenings on tropical verandas being fanned with banana leaves, and lazily turning fans. It's a Henry Mancini exotica record frozen in architectural form.

A diverse range of fonts were selected to convey this impression, and largely the main rule seemed to be that anything that went heavy on serifs and looked "fancy" would do nicely. It's a broad range of styles which reflect the notion of a romantic (if unspecific) tropical fantasy.

Let's take a close look now at one specific example, how its signage changed over the years, and how this subtly affects the meaning and presentation of the attraction: The Jungle Cruise.

1962 / Daveland.Com
 By the time the Magic Kingdom was being built in 1971, Disneyland had years before pulled down their original Jungle Cruise boathouse (above) and replaced it with a series of huts and thatched roofs to allowed greater queueing space. So it's perhaps interesting that when WED built a new boathouse in 1971 that was more or less an architectural copy of the original one.

Here's a photo from Jerry Klatt showing the original Magic Kingdom boathouse, pre-expansion. We get a very good view of the original sign, picturesquely suspended on the side of the second floor:

The sign can be read, but not in any real clarity. Thankfully the same font that's used here was used for years afterwards for the ride's advertisement on the side of the Main Street omnibus, tasteful placards which were reproduced in The Poster Art of the Disney Parks.

That's Windsor EF Elongated, a font which saw active duty until fairly recently on the directional signs around the entrance of Magic Kingdom. It's an old font - over one hundred years old now - while still looking restrained and modern. Based on Jerry's photograph, the modern digital version of the font and the spacing and kerning of the omnibus poster example, we end up with this for the Jungle Cruise's original "logo":

It's perhaps a little too easy to fault this one for being too plain. Jerry's photograph does demonstrate how in this original 1971 arrangement, it was possible to enjoy the simple, rather spare Victorian design of the boathouse, which was fancy in a rather simple way. It was old fashioned in an unspectacular way, and the Boathouse still is amazingly effective at conveying the idea that it's been there in the middle of nowhere for a long time without finger pointing. Windsor as a typeface choice is similarly classical yet restrained, echoing the original concept for a simple building which is the embarkation point for a huge adventure.

The first changes came in 1973, shortly ahead of the opening of Pirates of the Caribbean. The entire queue was reworked, expanded out towards the new ride, and the entire area where you see those rope switchbacks in Jerry's photo was covered with a roof. Because the 1971 sign would now be located so far away from the pedestrian space that it would not be seen, a new one was created, and it's a doozy.

For years I thought this had to be a hand-lettered logo, simply for being so weird. I was somewhat right, in the sense that any sign produced in 1973 was going to be painted and cut by hand, producing eccentricities. But it actually was a real font, and a contemporary one in 1973: Barker Flare, which has been digitized by Canada Type as Plywood. I produced mine by tracing from a photo.

This is one of my favorite attraction signs ever.

Barker Flare is idiosyncratic - it's completely modern in design, with those upward thrusting serifs on the R, L and E. It wouldn't be out of place alongside a hippie poster's bubble text.

Yet it's also undoubtedly old fashioned, placing it in the era's love for Victorian and Victorian-style fonts, such as the elongated version of Rubens used for the Haunted Mansion's marquee. There's something to it which suggest the organic, flowing curves of art nouveau.

And it's that art nouveau connection which so easily suggests, especially in the context of the ride it was affixed to, the reaching vines of the jungle without being too overt about it. In other words it was a precise middle ground between being modern looking while still looking a little old fashioned while also looking vaugely, indefinably exotic - perfect for a modern, but wholly old-fashioned excursion into the unknown.

That's right, don't forget that in 1973 there was no hint that the Jungle Cruise was taking place at any time other than right now. Yes, it was a Hollywood-style escapism as well, but with details like red-striped candy colored boat canopies and a bright orange camping tent for the gorillas to cavort in, we clearly weren't back in the Great Depression, either.

So it's interesting to note that not only was the Magic Kingdom Jungle the first to get "sent back" to the 1930s, but that this was accomplished in 1991 with relatively few changes. By far the bulk of them came to the queue, which besides gaining vintage music, got an entirely reworked entrance area. If you never saw this in person you may be shocked at how elaborate this was, because it's all gone now.

Al Huffman
A giant mass of pilings anchored a huge mast which on one side supported a gigantic sign. Spears were stuck in the sign as though they had been thrown out of the jungle and become lodged there.

Al Huffman
A vintage delivery vehicle welcomed visitors, along with boxes for delivery and an engine being worked on. At this time the familiar "boat rudder" marquee also appeared at the top of the hill, beckoning visitors to come check out the Jungle Cruise, just as it does to this day.

With the new theme and new time period, a new logo also appeared.

Given the fact that I've heaped praise on the weirdo 1973 sign you may be forgiven for thinking that I wouldn't like this one, but I do. The hand-lettered look and complex capitals conveys a vintage atmosphere which sets the stage for what's to come. The wave that the words inscribe suggest a relaxing experience while the informal quality of the letters suggests that it won't be entirely serious. And, best of all, it's never been used by a Jungle Cruise in any other park, so it belongs wholly to the Magic Kingdom ride.

Certainly given the tone of the ride and the two terrific logos it's had since, one could be forgiven for thinking that the short lived, handsome 1971 logo is just too darn serious.

Amazingly enough, the huge sign and theming outside the Jungle Cruise lasted eight short years. By 1999 the area was being reworked for the introduction of Fastpass. The vintage car was re-painted and moved to the Africa area at World Showcase, where it sits today, doing nothing. It did nothing outside the Jungle Cruise too, but at least there it was lending atmosphere to one of the park's best rides instead of sitting in the corner of the worst "pavilion" in World Showcase. A new sign appeared, smaller than any of the ones which preceded it but making good use of natural wood grain:

There was no logo change this time. After twenty years, the Jungle Cruise finally had a graphic identity she could live with. In some ways, the Jungle Cruise is an abnormality. Most rides don't change their signs, ever. Here's a ride that's had three good ones and not one of them is at all similar to any of the others.

In our day to day world, signs are functional and not much else - does anybody seriously frequent, say, a Chinese takeout place with a sign you'd be willing to hang in your house? In theme parks the attentively designed, carefully crafted signs are part of the thoroughly manicured impression the parks exude. They help create the "play space" where everything is beautiful and everything, even the smallest detail, has been put in place entirely for the pleasure of the viewer.

Sunday, July 05, 2015

The New Age Music of Tomorrowland, and Others

The New Age Era, 1983 - 1993

The year was 1983, and Tomorrowland was looking a little bad.

EPCOT Center had just opened the year before, and compared to the friendly new face on tomorrow WED had achieved just south of Magic Kingdom, the fact that Tomorrowland was still selling a 60s version of the future was ever more apparent.

In truth the project hadn't really ever ended. For the opening of Space Mountain in 1975 Flight to the Moon had been reworked into Mission to Mars and America the Beautiful had been updated for the Bicentennial. New Circlevision films had popped up pretty regularly, and the Canada Circlevision film from the 1967 Montreal Expo had even been shown occasionally during "Canada Weeks". This was before it was reworked yet again and installed permanently at EPCOT.

1983 saw the first true "New" Tomorrowland. Space Mountain was given a new post show and EPCOT-style musical soundtrack. ORAC-1 took over for Jack Wagner on the WEDWAY Peoplemover. American Journeys, another reworking of America the Beautiful, moved into the Circlevision theater. The whole area was given a new color scheme, and the problematic entryway fountains were turned off. And, Jack Wagner created a new piece of music for the area.

The music sound system of Magic Kingdom had seen its first efforts to standardize and improve in the early 80s. EPCOT Center had been by far the most musically complex theme park ever created, and for the first time WED had managed to create a theme park with wall to wall music that was evenly audible through the entire area. What they had learned was headed back to Magic Kingdom and Tokyo Disneyland.

New speakers had appeared all through Tomorrowland during the re-painting process, and soon debuted a new kind of Tomorrowland music. Jack Wagner had experimented with "New Age" synth music in the 1983 Tokyo Disneyland Tomorrowland, and created an entirely new one for Magic Kingdom, this time using music entirely from one artist.... surprise! It was Mannheim Steamroller.

Tomorrowland Area Music [ca. 1983 – 1990] 
Running Time Approx. 50 Minutes
01.  Chocolate Fudge [1] 
02.  Pass the Keg (Lia) [1] 
03.  The First Door [2]
04.  The Fourth Door [2]*
05.  Going to Another Place [2]**
06.  Toccata [3]* 
07.  Mere Image [3]* 
08.  Four Rows of Jacks [4] 
09.  The Third Door [2] 
10.  The Fifth Door [2] 
11.  Morning [3] 
12.  Midnight on a Full Moon [3]* 
13.  Dancing Flames [4] 
14.  The Cricket [3]* 
15.  The Sixth Door [2] 
16.  Door Seven [2]***

[1] Fresh Aire by Mannheim Steamroller (American Gramaphone, AG-355-S, 1975)
[2] Fresh Aire II by Mannheim Steamroller (American Gramaphone, AG-359-S, 1977) 
[3] Fresh Aire III by Mannheim Steamroller (American Gramaphone, AG-365-S, 1979) 
[4] Fresh Aire 4 by Mannheim Steamroller (American Gramaphone, AG-370-S, 1981)

* Denotes a track which fades into the next track
** Track 5 is followed by five seconds of wind sound effects from the end of the record fading into the next track
*** Followed by approx. 15 seconds of silence
Based on a reference recording by Mike Lee made in 1990. Identified and compiled by Nomeus and Foxx.

 We really have Nomeus to thank for this one. He worked in Tomorrowland in the 80s and really kept the memory of this loop alive on MouseBits, even putting together a playlist of the Mannheim Steamroller songs he remembered playing there which turned out to be mostly accurate. It was his prompting that got Mike Lee's live recording of the loop from 1990 transferred, which allowed me to attempt a reconstruction.

This is one loop I won't post my rebuild of, because all of the tracks are commercially available, owned by the same person, and distributed by a company founded by the composer for the sole purpose of distributing this music. It's a very straightforward compilation process.

I do hope you'll make your own playlist or reconstruction of this loop, because I think it's the most remarkable Tomorrowland loop Jack Wagner ever created. The loop is structured around the first side of Fresh Aire II, which is an extended single suite which weaves variations on a theme in and out of a larger piece of music for a full 20 minutes. Wagner re-orders the tracks but keeps the musical motif moving in and out of his loop, meaning this is one of the very few pieces of park BGM which feels like a true listening experience instead of a bunch of random pieces of music which have a unified "feel". I had no idea what to expect during the identification of the songs and reconstruction of the loop, but it turned out to be my far and away favorite.

After Mannheim we come to the famous "Bubble Shuffle" loop.

I've tried to come up with a clear date when Mannheim fled the coop, but it just isn't possible. The loop which replaced the Mannheim loop is often distributed with a 1989 date on it, which I don't think is accurate. Home videos and recordings by Mike Lee from 1990 and 1991 reveal both the Mannheim and Bubble Shuffle loops playing on different days. Between 1989 and 1991 Disneyland, Tokyo Disneyland and Magic Kingdom began to switch over from reel to reel music to CDs, so it's possible that the Bubble Shuffle loop was intended to replace the Mannheim loop when the new system came online, and it wasn't a straightforward process.

The Bubble Shuffle loop is made up of tracks which entered the Wagner sound library in 1983 to compile the Tokyo Disneyland Tomorrowland tracks as well as music which played at the EPCOT Wonders of Life pavilion. Jack used these same tracks to create the sound scape for the Honey, I Shrunk the Kids Movie Set Adventure at Disney-MGM in late 1990, and I would not be surprised to learn they were used elsewhere as well. After Jack's retirement, they were used to create the interior music loop for FountainView Espresso at EPCOT in 1994.

Tomorrowland Area Music [ca. 1990 - 1993, 1995 - 2003]
Running time: approx. 58.46 
01. Bubble Shuffle [9] 
02. Night Fire Dance [3] 
03. The Palace [6] 
04. Summer's Day [8] 
05. Windswept [12]  
06. Inside the Sky [5]
07. Inside the House [10]  
08. Sea Space [9]
09. Fire Ritual [1]
10. Behind the Waterfall [7]  
11. Generation Prelude [11]  
12. Generation [11]
13. Elsewhere [2]  
14. Hidden Pathways [4]
[01] Between Two Worlds by Patrick O’Hearn (Private Music 2017-2-P, 1987)
[02] Direct by Vangelis (Arista ARCD-8545, 1988)
[03] Down to the Moon by Andreas Vollenweider (CBS MK 42255, 1986)
[04] Hidden Pathways by Bruce Mitchell (Narada Mystique CD-2003, 1987)
[05] Inside the Sky by Steve Haun (Silver Wave Records SD-504, 1988)
[06] Island by David Arkenstone (Narada Equinox ND-63005, 1989)
[07] Natural States by David Lanz and Paul Speer (Narada Experience ND-63001, 1985)
[08] Neverland by Suzanne Ciani (Private Music 2036-2-P, 1988)
[09] On Solid Ground by Larry Carlton (MCA Records MCAD-6237, 1989)
[10] The Wanderer by Azuma (Private Music 2037-2-P, 1988)
[11] The Waiting by Peter Buffett (Narada Mystique ND-62002, 1987)
[12] Whatever Works by John Jarvis (MCA Records MCAD-6263, 1988)

Playlist compiled by sds910.

This floats around in various versions, including one ripped from a CD that was used in park, but I don't think you can do better than this restoration by YouTube user TheMellowPumpkin:

Most people who went to Disney in the 90s remember this as the New Tomorrowland music, and in fact it hung on all the way up to 2003, when the current Foliart loop began playing. To help fill in the record a bit, I'm going to wander out of the usual time period of this blog and provide a brief overview of how we ended up listening to Behind the Waterfall until 2003...

The New Tomorrowland Loops, 1994

When Tomorrowland went down to be rebuilt in 1993, the sound scape was simplified. The 1976 WEDway "Lounge" track, which had survived all through the "New Age" era, was removed and the Peoplemover track speakers were wired to play the same music as the rest of Tomorrowland, which is why an entire generation remembers Behind the Waterfall from the TTA.

When New Tomorrowland debuted in late 1994, it did not do so to the relaxing sounds of Peter Arkenstone and Vangelis. A short, 15 minute suite of music by Raymond Scott played, appropriate to the machine age look of the refurbished area. You know Raymond Scott from dozens of Looney Tunes shorts and Ren and Stimpy. It's the music which usually plays when a factory is shown.

According to MagicMusic forum user sds910, all of the tracks came from a 1989 CD called "The Raymond Scott Project, Vol. 1", which most reviews online seem to indicate is of extremely unsatisfactory quality. The tracks used were, in order: 01, 03, 21, 20, 13, and 12. This played for a few months.

Soon that 15 minute loop was replaced by a 30 minute loop especially recorded for Tomorrowland by George Wilkins, in a clever pseudo-imitation of Scott's style. This still floats around online, usually identified as "Old Tomorrowland Music", in a group of ten tracks. Here's a sample:

The Wilkins track did not last long either, apparently not even making it through 1995 before the music reverted to the good old Bubble Shuffle tracks. Why?

If we use the Internet Archive and access the official Raymond Scott website at RaymondScott.Com, if we go back far enough we eventually find listed under live performances:
Tomorrowland - DisneyWorld: (Orlando, FL) six Scott Quintette compositions and recordings blatantly used as musical template for constantly-running soundtrack loop at renovated theme park attraction; infringement settled out of court (1995-96)
Busted! It looks like the Scott estate had been after Disney for a while,  for if we backtrack to the F.A.Q. section of the website we find this pointed remark:
Was Raymond Scott's music used in the Disney film HONEY, I SHRUNK THE KIDS? 
The film score was written by noted klepto-composer* James Horner, who cleverly appropriated Raymond Scott's "Powerhouse" in approx. 17 scenes, without crediting Scott. Disney was threatened with a lawsuit by Scott's publishers, and after a year of negotiation, the matter was settled out of court for an undisclosed sum. Although the film's screen credits were not revised, the film's cue sheets (music logs) were revised to reflect a dozen or so uses of "Powerhouse." This means Scott's heirs and publishers earn performance revenue through ASCAP when the film airs on TV and elsewhere. (* see New Yorker Magazine, March 9, 1998)
This is presumably why Esquivel music continued to play in the exit area of Space Mountain up to 2005, and possibly rights-free for Disney!
In some ways this is one of those cases where you don't realize that a piece of music is inappropriate until you hear what was intended. And while the Raymond Scott and Wilkins tracks are undoubtedly more in the style of New Tomorrowland, I don't regret having lost them. I don't know anybody who loved the 90s version of Tomorrowland who didn't feel that the New Age loop worked for it. I think the secret is that it softened an area which otherwise could feel frenetic and impersonal. The 1994 Tomorrowland sometimes seemed more sarcastic than genuinely optimistic, but the soothing, upbeat New Age music gave it back a beating heart which perhaps it would have otherwise lacked.

Friday, June 05, 2015

The Early Music of Tomorrowland

Looking Back at Tomorrow

There's some things, in terms of theme park music, that you can pretty much rely on. The specifics may shift, but they're always gonna be playing Japanese-sounding music at the Japan Pavilion in EPCOT. Main Street USA has always had its gay nineties waltzes. They're always gonna have movie music playing on Hollywood Boulevard. These are easy things to guess.

But wait. What does "the future" sound like?

That's a moving target. If you asked somebody in the late 1950s they may have given you an orchestral score laced with theremin music. In the 70s it may have been experimental Moog synthesizers, and in the 90s it could have been ominous, New Age-inflected atmospheric tones.

When I first began my work gathering up theme park music, the musical history of Tomorrowland was a total blank slate. There's a track that's well known to park goers because it played all through the 1990s during the age of the "New Tomorrowland"; it's well known for including the classic park anthems "Bubble Shuffle" and "Behind the Waterfall". Many a young sci-fi nerd made indelible memories listening to Bubble Shuffle while cruising past the Tomorrowland Speedway in the TTA car, and perhaps also noticed the same tracks playing at Wonders of Life and Fountain View Espresso at Epcot. Behind the Waterfall by David Lantz is one of the few immortal Disney tunes not written expressly for the company, joining Baroque Hoedown in an exclusive club.

The Disney internet was still too small to mourn the passing of the "Bubble Shuffle" New Age loop in fall 2003, when it was replaced with the music which as of this writing currently plays in Tomorrowland. Made up of classic Tomorrowland music cues like "Miracles From Molecules" and arranged in a pleasingly spacey style by composer Dan Foliart, it also currently plays in Tokyo Disneyland, Disneyland, and Hong Kong Disneyland. But that was where the knowledge ran out. If you wanted to know what played in Tomorrowland before the "New Age" loop, you were out of luck.

So it's with a measure of pride that I can present this early musical history of the area to you. It's been a long time coming.

In the Beginning: 1972 - 1975

It actually took a good amount of work to confirm that there was any music playing in Tomorrowland to begin with. As I've covered in this blog before, many areas of Disneyland did not (and still don't) have formal area loops. Jack Wagner was hired to provide the park background music in 1970, but the west coast Tomorrowland did not receive a full area loop until 2005 - and it was the Dan Foliart loop. Nobody I talked to could remember far enough back, and good luck finding somebody who thought to bring a tape recorder to Magic Kingdom and do some documentation back in 1973.

Despite this, I was convinced that something had played. Check out this late 1971 photo:

See those tall, brown speakers bolted to the central light columns? Disney wouldn't bother to run audio cable underground and up through a light pole for no reason. Something had to be playing, or at least was supposed to be playing, even if nobody really noticed it.

I heard all of the theories. Some thought the original Tomorrowland loop was music from Kaleidoscopic Vibrations: Electronic Pop Music From Way Out, which was the Perrey and Kingsley record which Baroque Hoedown was originally released on in 1967. This had some appealing logic to it, but then of course nothing much on the album sounds very "spacey", Baroque Hoedown included. Did Disney really have an electronic version of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg playing in Tomorrowland?

One former Cast Member claimed that the early area music was the entirety of Wendy Carlos' Switched-On Bach, which is such a specific memory that I still think this famous and recognizable record could have played in one of the area shops, which had their own music sound systems. But this seemed to get me no closer to the area music.

Thankfully, Mike Cozart had been in touch with Jack Wagner before he died about the early Magic Kingdom area music and had ended up with some materials Jack had compiled for his own records of his work for Disney. As it turned out, Mike not only had Jack's list but had already identified the source music for a few of the tracks!

As it turned out, the tracks that Mike had were from the Capitol Media Music line. Media Music was a line of production music releases produced by Ole Georg and released through Capitol, where Wagner already had contacts. Production music LPs are a fascinating subset of music releases, in that they are intended to be licensed on an individual album or track basis and used for things like television commercials and radio station segments. Many filmmakers who cannot afford to hire composers use production or library cues to fill out their films. This was a frequent practice of George Romero who filled out the entirety of Night of the Living Dead with library cues. Probably the most widely seen film to make heavy use of library music is Monty Python and the Holy Grail, where the tinned, slightly cliche quality of the library tracks add to the comedy of that film.

The Capitol Media Music releases themselves are still the gold standard for library music, and they're extremely evocative. All of the goofily retro music heard in Ren and Stimpy came from Ole Georg's back catalog, and the tracks are still in use today by any production wanting to evoke a vintage atmosphere. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, Jack Wagner used the Media Music releases to create a handful of the most evocative psuedo-futuristic area tracks ever created.

None of this makes it any easier to actually figure out the Capitol Media Music line, however. Each piece of the Media Music library was sorted into "Releases", which were numbered. There could be two or three "Releases" a year - say Release No. 5, Release No. 6, and Release No. 7. Within each "Release" would be twelve to fifteen individual albums, each grouped to a theme. Capitol sold these to production houses as entire "Releases", in which case the purchaser would receive the full raft of fifteen LPs. They also loaned each disc out individually, and would require the discs to be returned upon completion of the order.

In other words, if you're looking for a specific track from the Media Music library, you need to remember a lot of easily confused data: the "Release" set, the individually numbered record from the Release, and the name of the track. This is why, when I finally get to listing the music here, you're going to be seeing things like "Capitol Media Music Release 12 Number 6".

To make things even stickier, these same pieces of music were released at least three times more. Some of them reappeared in the "Hi-Q" 45 RPM series, with new and different releases interspersed. Then, the new Capitol production music line in the 1970s - "The Professional" - included the original Media Music tracks with yet more updated tracks and styles. And Ole Georg himself is now selling rights to some of, but not all of, the tracks through CDs.

Okay, so that's where the music came from. Now the trick was to figure out how to get it.

Thankfully Jack's document included the run times of each track, so matching the track to the release had an additional check on authenticity. Thankfully, I also at the time was living in Los Angeles, which is the best place in the country to find old production library LPs because as the production houses closed or moved to newer sound formats they sold off their old records. So with help from Michael Sweeney, C33, Mike Cozart, and me driving around in my car, I can finally allow you to read, and hear, the earliest Tomorrowland music.

This is dated March 1972, and it's likely that there was simply no music in Tomorrowland for its first few months. Please note that the loop is incomplete; the bottom of the list indicates that it's continued on a second page which is now lost.
Tomorrowland Area Music 1972 - 1983
Running Time Unknown

01) Primary Project (3:29)
   MM R11 06 Tom Eliot

02) Jet Propulsion (1:27)
   MM R4 06 Dan Kirsten
03) Tomorrows Machinery (1:20)
   MM R4 06 Dan Kirsten
04) Cosmic Labs (1:46)
   MM R4 06 Dan Kirsten

05) Valley in Bloom (3:17)
   MM R15 02 Jan Kimberly

06) The Great Epic (2:18)
   MM R15 02 Jan Kimberly

07) Point of Vista (3:16)
   MM R14 04 Jack Mayborn

08) Roots Revisited (3:38)
   MM R14 04 Jack Mayborn

09) Majestic Mountain (3:36)
   MM R15 02 Jan Kimberly

10) Sea Living (2;02)
   MM R5 01 Dan Kirsten

11) The Valley (1:56)
   MM R5 01 Dan Kirsten

12) Majestic Scenery(2:05)
   MM R9 03 Henrik Neilsen

13) A Proud Nation (1:43)
   MM R9 03 Henrik Neilsen
14) National Geography (2:37)
   MM R13 04 Jan Kimberly

15) Fast Western (1;17)
   MM R5 01 Dan Kirsten

16) Dignity of Man (1'12)
   MM R9 03 Henrik Neilsen

17) Clean Environment(:30)
   MM R9 03 Henrik Neilsen
18) Nature in Motion (1:50)
   MM R9 03 Henrik Neilsen


Capitol Media Music Release 4 Number 6 World of Progress
Capitol Media Music Release 5 Number 1 Scenic
Capitol Media Music Release 9 Number 3 National Parks/Environment
Capitol Media Music Release 11 Number 6 New Industry
Capitol Media Music Release 13 Number 4 Huge Nature
Capitol Media Music Release 14 Number 4 Grand Scenic
Capitol Media Music Release 15 Number 2 Majestic Vistas
I believe that the loop is missing only one track. It comes out to a running time of about 39:30, which is just enough time to include one of the many :30 tracks (intended for commercials) on the Environment/Ecology or National Parks releases. This would bring the run time up to an even 40:00, which is the average length of many of the original Walt Disney World loops (Caribbean Plaza, Frontierland, probably Main Street, etc). Regardless this must be regarded as and will always be a partial playlist - although the tape master still exists, it has decayed beyond the point of usability.

It's a unique loop. Wagner took his cue from the majestic architecture of the area and crafted a loop of grand, sweeping music not too far off from the sort of music which would play ten years later outside EPCOT Center.

The WEDway Peoplemover: 1975 and 1976

Now, in researching this loop I watched home videos, listened to live recordings, and spoke to everybody in a position to possibly remember, and everybody tells me that the main sound heard in Tomorrowland that they can remember is the echoed music coming from the Peoplemover.

My best guess is that the 1972 loop would have been audible through the summer of 1975, when the WEDway came online. It's clear that once those blue cars started rolling, that whatever music was intended to play down on the street level was drowned out totally, and Disney may have turned the 1972 "Concourse" music way down at that time, or even removed it. The WEDway music became the defacto music of Tomorrowland.

There have been two distinct music loops which played along the WEDway track. When the ride opened in Summer 1975, it used the same music that the Disneyland model had used since 1967, which was simply an endless loop of George Bruns' "Monorail Song" and "Nation on Wheels" from episodes of Disneyland.

In 1976, Jack Wagner expanded the Peoplemover loops on both coasts with music from Capitol Media Music. These loops were not identical. Magic Kingdom's loop was expanded out from the original WED track, while Disneyland's much longer Peoplemover got an entirely new loop. Many of the California Peoplemover tracks still play in the waiting area of Disneyland's Autopia.

Finding the correct tracks and moreover track names for the east coast park was trickier, and Michael Sweeney and I pretty much ended up buying every Media Music LP we suspected could have a match. As it turns out, a track which had previously been identified as "Outdoor Life #1" is actually "Outdoor Life #2" and was re-named when Ole Georg released the tracks to CD in the late 1980s. Our list uses the track names for the original LP releases.

The WEDway continued to use this loop until it closed in 1993 to make way for the "New Tomorrowland". As part of the conversion to New Tomorrowland, the WEDway speakers were taken off their unique loop and changed so that they played the same music heard in the rest of Tomorrowland, and it has remained that way ever since.

WEDway Peoplemover BGM 1976-1993
Running time Approx. 13:30

01 Neutral Strings #2 [3]
   Comp. Neil Amsterdam

02 Neutral Strings #3 [3]
   Comp. Neil Amsterdam

03 Outdoor Life #1 [1]
   Comp. Henrik Neilsen

04 Outdoor Life #2 [1]
   Comp. Henrik Neilsen

05 Monorail Song [4]
   Comp. George Bruns / Walt Disney Productions

06 Nation on Wheels [4]
   Comp. George Bruns / Walt Disney Productions

07 Industry in Motion #1 [2]
   Comp. Neil Amsterdam

[1] Capitol Media Music Release 7 Number 8 "Outdoor Life / Supersoundic Strings"
[2] Capitol Media Music Release 8 Number 5 "Industry in Motion" 
[3] Capitol Media Music Release 8 Number 7 "Neutral Strings in Motion"
[4] Walt Disney Productions / Disneyland Forever

 1983 saw Tomorrowland's first big image make-over, and with it came a new loop and the era of "New Age" Tomorrowland began, but that's a story for another time. Perhaps our next post?

Monday, May 18, 2015

Song of the South: Disney's Loaded Gun

"Don't you know you can't run away from trouble? There ain't no place that far."

In 2012, two books were published within two weeks of each other, each with dueling viewpoints but which come to similar conclusions. The first, Disney's Most Notorious Film: Race, Convergence, and the Hidden Histories of Song of the South by Jason Sperb, is an excellently written cultural history. Sperb, however, falls into the trap so many other Disney critics have fallen into since the 1940s by working himself into an aesthetic lather over the racism of the film, and the presumed racism of Walt Disney. Contrasting the Sperb book, Jim Korkis' Who's Afraid of Song of the South? is a production history from the perspective of an unabashed fan who comes down on Disney's side.

Every Disney blog, it seems, has a post about Song of the South. This is mine. Now, of all of the eras of Disney animation, the period of fevered creativity and pinched budgets between 1941 and 1949 interests me the most. I own three bootleg copies of Song of the South, because each has slightly different visual qualities. I've been showing it to everyone who will sit for it for over a decade.

I'm not convinced of the film's greatness, but I think it's a really interesting movie.

And I'm not going to come down on the side of either Sperb or Korkis. I'm not convinced that Walt Disney was as malicious - or as naive - as he's often portrayed by film academics. However, I'm also not going to follow in the footsteps of so many other Disney bloggers and act the know-nothing when it comes to having to confront the problematic aspects of the film either.

Song of the South is not an easy movie to level with. Merely watching it requires that one take a position, and ask tough questions that don't yield ready answers. These are generally the criteria for a deep dish cinema masterpiece, not a frivolous nostalgia piece occasionally touched with brilliance. It would hardly seem to be worth the effort for a film whose cultural expiration date is long past. But engaging those questions and coming out the other side is the reason it's still worth discussing.

Let's begin by prodding the sensitive underbelly first. It all began a long, long time ago...

1) The Song of the South Problem

The default position of many Song of the South advocates is to either ignore or hand-wave at the basic problem of racism in this film. After all, it's easy to counter, the film was reissued in 1986 and met with no real opposition, the concerns of racism in the film are just overly sensitive allegations. No problem. Don't see any problem here.

This is bullshit.

The key issue comes down to representation, which is still something worth fighting over, because images carry power. Non-white, non-straight people are still fighting for better representation in films and popular culture. But truthfully, the fact that representations of persons of color onscreen have improved dramatically in the past few generations does not enter the Song of the South equation, either. The key character in question, Uncle Remus, no longer is forced to stand alone amongst a relatively narrow group of peers.

In 1946, Remus represented a complex, unusually central role for a black entertainer in a major Hollywood production. By 1986, an era when black actors were striving to escape from a screen ghetto of limited representation, Remus was an impossible throwback. In 2015, when we expect diverse and complex casts in major motion pictures, Remus looks more like a figure of fantasy, which isn't too far from how he was perceived in 1946.

This isn't to suggest that strides cannot still be made in these areas onscreen, but simply to point out that Remus, taken in isolation, is no longer the gigantic problem he once was. We're more likely today to admire Baskett's dignified, moving performance in the midst of a maelstrom of a film of absurdly old-fashioned attitudes than to perceive this sort of Uncle Tom stereotype to be a normal or common perception of a black man. He's so far from our modern reality he's become fiction again.

No, it isn't Remus, it's his context in the movie which is problematic, and the reason it's problematic is because the film splits its black characters between the "culturally black" animal comedy trio of Br'rer Rabbit, Br'er Fox and Br'er Bear and the "manifestly black" cast of actors who represent the labor force on the plantation. The "Br'er" critters have craft and power - they have an agency in their own plot which is not reflected in the plantation laborers, Remus included.

This lack of agency in the story is exactly why it's possible to mistake Song of the South for a film set in the Antebellum period, before the Civil War. There's plenty of scenes between the white, upper class family and the black laborers, but if the word "slave" never appears, neither does the word "employee". We never even find out what they're growing on the old plantation, nor do we ever see Uncle Remus doing any real work, or are told how he gets by or what he's retained, exactly, to do.

We do see him living in what appears to be slave quarters near the house, although we never discover where the rest of the labor force lives. There isn't even a date to clue us in to when the film takes place. All we see are black laborers doing something, white people running the place, and a living situation that looks like it dropped out of Gone With the Wind, David O' Selznick's 1939 bad taste extravaganza. The title actually cues us to think of Gone with the Wind. They even sound kinda similar. It's a clear cue to the movie buying public: "Did you like that film? Here's something similar."

In other words, the film doesn't do anything to dispel the impression of Remus as an old slave, perhaps one beloved and trusted as a member of the family, but undoubtedly a man treated as a piece of property. His attempt to leave the plantation at the climax of the movie is so underdeveloped that it hardly seems to matter, and arrives long after most of the damage has been done.

Not helping matters is Hattie McDaniel, a wonderful actress familiar from films of the 1930s, essentially reprising her role of Mammy from Gone With the Wind. Like most vintage movie fans, I love Hattie - any appearance by her is a reason to celebrate - but she isn't given much of interest to do here. Her character may be hired help, but all the film ever gives us images of Hattie singing and baking. Simply put, to expect post-Gone With the Wind audiences not to process such an image as "slave" is the equivalent of putting Anthony Hopkins in an orange jumpsuit behind a Plexiglas wall and asking us to remember that he's not a serial killer. It doesn't work that way.

Many commentators also like to bring up the happy singing field workers, although this is a case where I'm not sure if this accusation isn't somewhat off base. Truth is, we don't see them clearly enough or often enough to decide if they're jolly or simply singing. But the fact is that by then in the film, it's given any critic looking for a racism angle more than enough rope to hang it. Audiences and critics turn to Song of the South looking for evidence of the racism of noted white guy Walt Disney, and the film over delivers. I've even seen multiple online articles indicate that the reason the father leaves suddenly at the start of the film is to fight for the Confederacy!

But if we want to point accusing fingers anywhere for this state of affairs, it isn't at lazy audiences or inattentive critics, it's at Walt Disney himself. Disney hired left wing screenwriter Maurice Rapf to temper the unfortunate inclinations of the screenplay by Dalton Reymond, and Rapf told Walt directly: he would have to be very clear about the situation and social context of the film, or risk appearing to endorse slavery. This, incidentally, is the key event for Jason Sperb, who takes Walt's "refusal" to clarify the situation as evidence that he didn't care if the film offended anyone.

And so, in maybe one of the worst story decisions ever made at Walt Disney Productions, Walt gifted us millions of words of commentary on a film that in some ways seems hardly deserving of it. How simply it all could have been, if not avoided, then greatly reduced. All it would take is uttering the word "sharecroppers" or giving us a date. But the film refuses.

The sad fact is that there were likely other factors playing into all of this. In the 1940s, with home video still a generation away, films were basically temporary things. They were expected to go out, make their money, and then probably vanish forever. The possibility that future generations from a very different culture would be sharpening our rhetorical knives over this film was not even a realistic consideration. Walt had to do what was right for the film in 1946. And, the fact is, in 1946 and even well into the 60s there were many places in the South where films had, historically, been given a hard time at the box office due to their perceived progressiveness.

MGM released Cabin in the Sky in 1943 and 20th Century Fox had Stormy Weather in 1944, two all-black musicals which today look like two of the best Hollywood musicals ever. In the Jim Crow South, there's places where these wonderful films were refused distribution outright, which meant they had no chance of returning a profit to the studio in certain sectors. Disney met with 20th Century Fox producers to discuss Stormy Weather, so right there goes Sperb's fantasy that Disney simply didn't care. In this case, he may have simply chosen the path which guaranteed a financial return for his shaky motion picture studio, which, shamefully, was to choose no path at all.

Is Song of the South racist? By our modern standards, yes it is. It's foolish to ignore this, because it's the whole reason the film isn't available, which by extension is the whole reason to discuss it. It's reductionist, naive, and to most modern eyes, about blissfully servile slaves. To try to pretend that that just isn't there in the film isn't fooling anybody.

And yet! And yet.

And yet it's also just as foolish to insist that that is all that Song of the South is. Because for all of the cultural hand-wringing over Uncle Remus, he is undeniably Walt Disney's surrogate in this film. He's the most compellingly drawn character, and the only character in the film to have an emotional arc.

The film allows us nearly no empathy for the white characters: Bobby Discoll's character is an annoying wimp and spends most of the film wearing a "dramatic" expression that suggests constipation. His mother is a hysteric who consistently makes the wrong decisions, and his grandmother does nothing to prevent a bad situation from getting worse. We don't blame Johnny for wanting to spend all of his time with Remus; we do, too. Baskett's Remus and Glenn Leedy's Toby are the most likable characters in the movie.

Remus is our identification point, and he's Disney's too. He's a wise but humble storyteller whose stories not only teach valuable life lessons, but save the boy's life and even appear to reshape reality. We can also enjoy the way in which Remus is a master manipulator of his white employers, always making careful allowances to maintain the fiction that his suggestions were their ideas, all along. That's not exactly progressive, but it's something.

This does not obliterate everything I've said before, but it does complicate it. I'm in no position to judge if the Walt Disney of 1946 was racist or not, never mind the Walt of 1926 or 1966. You aren't, either. People aren't that simple. All we have is the film, an alarmingly troubled work about a heroic stereotype. It's not simple enough to come off as a total fantasy, but it's not complex enough to allay our modern unease and easily put the film in its place. So now we have to deal with that.

2) Song of the South Into the Present Day

Audiences in 1946 didn't see it the same way we do. Coming out the other side of a world war, the American film  industry was at an all-time productive high. The post-war era in American pop culture is a fascinating one, and tough, serious film making like Rebel Without a Cause sat cheek to jowl with blistering satires and totally absurd escapist fantasies. The all-star movie musical roared back to life with a vitality it hadn't had since the pit of the Great Depression. Song of the South is one of these escapist films.

If we pay close attention to fashion and dress, it's possible to realize that Song of the South is set right about the turn of the 20th century, or in other words the world into which Walt Disney was born. The 1950s saw a revival of interest in "The Good Old Days", visible in such films as The Jolson Story, The Music Man, Night and Day, Man of a Thousand Faces, and reaching its most immortal expression in Disneyland's Main Street, USA.

Song of the South represented to 1946 audiences an escape into a pre-modern fantasy world, of a world before automobiles and airplanes and mechanized warfare, a dimly remembered cultural fantasia. Today's audiences are, depending on one's perspective, either more informed or more cynical, which makes the acceptance of these nostalgic fantasies tougher to take. We're more likely to look for and expect to see the downsides of a reconstruction south presented even in a fantasy film in ways that 1946 audiences likely would not. This would not last long, however.

According to my first edition copy of Leonard Maltin's The Disney Films, Song of the South was reissued without incident in 1956. Throughout the 1960s, Disney kept Song of the South more or less out of view. The Br'er Rabbit animation segments were featured in episodes of Disneyland and Br'er Fox and Br'er Bear could be found in New Orleans Square, but it would not be until 1972 that it was reissued.

Many modern commentators have opined that Song of the South was not reissued during the 1960s due to the turbulent political situation at home, but I think that's stretching the point a bit. If there's any secret reason the film didn't re-appear during the 60s, it may be because Walt Disney remade it - as Mary Poppins, in 1964. Now, Poppins is quite a different film, but the basic situation of a central, mythologized figure who brings animation and magic to a young boy and girl and in doing so mends a broken family strikes a familiar cord.

It's possible that Walt saw a way to recycle a mythology he found special meaning in into a less controversial, more technologically sophisticated film, and he was willing to do it with either Mary Poppins.... or Eglantine Price. Poppins in the finished film is actually extremely remote and mysterious, not at all like the jovial, magnetic presence of Remus. At the suggestion of the Sherman brothers, the emotional core of Mary Poppins is the father, who isn't even present for most of Song of the South.

Given the comparative excellence and sophistication of Mary Poppins, it's possible that this film could have totally eclipsed Song of the South. Today Song of the South could be one of the studio's many obscurities from the 1940s, like So Dear To My Heart or The Reluctant Dragon. But, in 1989, Disney did the one thing that will ensure that demand for Song of the South will never dry up and its legend will loom ever larger - they opened Splash Mountain.

From the perspective of 2015 it seems incomprehensible that Disney would green light an attraction based on a film they had no intention of releasing, but things were different back in 1985.

Back in the 80s, Song of the South had become a perennial money maker for Disney. Reissues in 1972 and 1980 had been wildly successful in a way the film just wasn't in the 1940s, and another was slated for 1986. In other words, audiences in 1989 were expected to recognize the Disney Uncle Remus characters alongside such characters as those from Cinderella and The Jungle Book.

In fact, the entire original version of Splash Mountain at Disneyland is designed based on this assumption. The characters are introduced very casually - the dynamic between Br'er Rabbit, Fox, and Bear isn't even set up, visually or verbally, since we're just supposed to know who is who. Pumpkins, red earth, mint juleps, willows and cattails belong unambiguously to the deep Georgia south of the film.

At Disneyland, the journey through Splash Mountain begins in an old barn, pointedly one of the few structures explicitly built for the interaction of humans and animals. From there, the queue moves past a fireplace with a cast iron pot, and is routed so guests must walk across the hearth. This represents the fireplace where Remus tells Johnny the Br'er Rabbit tales in the film, and to make the connection clear, a direct Remus quote from the film is painted on the wall above the fireplace. Although Remus is never referenced or seen in the attraction, to the familiar observer, the signposts and connections to Song of the South are many.

Daveland at Disneyland
I'd give a lot to know when exactly Eisner instituted his ban on Song of the South. If the stories told about that key visit to Imagineering are correct, then the design for Splash Mountain had been solidified by 1985 in time for it to be seen by Michael Eisner and Breck Eisner and green lit. Song of the South was re-issued both in theaters and internationally on home video in the 1980s, and of course the Disneyland ride is a direct continuation of what riders would be expected to recognize from the film.

But when Splash Mountain appeared at Walt Disney World in late summer 1992, there were changes both obvious and subtle that reflect Song of the South's status as banned goods. Relocated to Frontierland from a dedicated "Critter Country", holes and tunnels became mine shafts and saw mills. A musical score which previously was a fairly conservative recreation of Daniele Amfitheatrof's 1946 orchestral arrangements was re-imagined as homespun, bluegrass ditties. The final version of "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah" employs a gospel singer.

More pointedly, the Florida version of Splash Mountain works overtime to introduce riders to the core characters as if they had never existed before. Disneyland's Splash Mountain starts in media res; Br'er Fox and Br'er Bear are out to get Br'er Rabbit because that's what they always do. Comparatively, Magic Kingdom's version uses framed portraits and signs to introduce us to the cast of characters and locations before the ride even begins, then makes all of the characters chatterboxes. We splash down into the cartoon world and see Br'er Fox and Bear spying and plotting about Br'er Rabbit; Br'er Rabbit sings about leaving home and then a porcupine sings about his decision to leave home being a bad one. Two rabbits and a roadrunner six feet later repeatedly remind us of what Br'er Rabbit is up to. Absolutely nothing is left to chance.

Perhaps even more pointedly, the Florida Splash Mountain removes nearly all of the Uncle Remus quotes from Disneyland's queue and jettisons the hearth, making the film's central character seem more like a distant echo. Instead it creates a character who functions as a sort of replacement Remus - Br'er Frog, an incidental character from the film, now sets up the story seen in silhouette in a (brilliantly framed) introductory queue tableau.

In other words, the Magic Kingdom Splash Mountain goes to great lengths to cut its ties with Song of the South, giving us a new world for Br'er Rabbit, Br'er Fox and Br'er Bear to exist in, one unique to Frontierland. They even changed the color of Br'er Rabbit's fur from brown to grey, almost as though they were afraid anyone riding would make the connection.

Despite appearing in its own Critter Country separate from Westernland, the Tokyo Disneyland Splash Mountain repeated the "bluegrass" aesthetic of Magic Kingdom's version, thus creating a "Splash Mountain Universe" that the Disneyland version doesn't quite belong to.

Generally, I view creative decisions as just that - decisions, existing in a timeline of the creative process, which must be made because decision must be made, but I can only conclude that the 1992 Splash Mountain seems to be a deliberate attempt to remove the ethnographic origin of the Uncle Remus characters from the "Disney Splash Mountain Universe". Br'er Rabbit and Br'er Fox, in particular, speak in the 1946 film and 1989 attraction with cadences, phrases, stammering and stuttering very obviously directly descended from African-American comedy conventions of a bygone era. And let's not forget that James Baskett himself appeared on Amos 'n Andy.

Jess Harnell's Br'er Rabbit sounds a great deal like Johnny Lee's Br'er Rabbit, but what he doesn't sound like, is black. Br'er Rabbit's attractive sass and swagger is totally gone, as are his memorable film dialogue lines retained for the 1989 Splash Mountain, like "'I'm gonna bust you wiiiide open!". With his grey fur and stock hijinx, the 1992 Br'er Rabbit could just be a Bugs Bunny clone with all of Bugs' gender queerness removed.

Even with a core cast that's been literally whitewashed, Splash Mountain is the single thing that's probably kept Song of the South alive in the public consciousness. As Bob Iger said in 2009, the film actually is "antiquated" and "fairly offensive", yet literally thousands of people can ride through a major thrill attraction based on it every day of the year. And these same people can now go on the Internet and discover that those clever, well realized characters and world come from a film Disney doesn't want you to see. In any other circumstances Song of the South probably would've ridden off into the sunset reserved for all entertainment whose cultural expiration date is long past, but Splash Mountain is like a billboard off a major highway advertising a place you can't go to.

And yet despite all of that, there's one defiant scrap of Song of the South left in the Magic Kingdom attraction, and everyone who exits the ride walks past it. It's a tiny, framed black and white photo of Br'er Rabbit gesturing to the Briar Patch from the film. More people likely see it in a single day than have seen the film in three decades.

1986 reissue poster
3) Give Us Dirty Laundry

Nothing spreads faster in our Internet culture than bad news.

Now, in my decades of talking about this movie to people, I've come to the conclusion that most Disney fans, and indeed most people born during or slightly before the ban was instituted, have never seen the Song of the South. They haven't sought out the bootleg DVDs or watched it on YouTube. Disney fans are, if nothing else, above all loyal. But everyone, and I mean everyone, knows about the movie.

Or at least they know that it's "banned". What I've realized is that fewer seem to know what it's banned for. Unacceptable racial attitudes, yes, but that's where the understanding ends and the hyperbole begins.

Since the early 2000s and the wide spread of Internet culture, one of the default understandings of Walt Disney has become popularized by shows like Family Guy and Robot Chicken. Charges of racism, juvenile exploitation, and antisemitism are seemingly bolstered by the fact that there's a "forbidden" Disney film out there - Song of the South - so racist, so I've been told, that the NAACP picketed the film upon its release.

 In other words, there's a popular mythology growing out there which positions Song of the South as Disney's version of Birth of a Nation - an abominable film of undisguised hatred. And that doesn't describe Song of the South at all. For starters, the bulk of the film it isn't even entertaining enough to be offensive.

Part of this comes from the fact that Walt Disney hasn't been a fashionable guy to admire in a long time. Today, admiration for filmmakers behind the scenes like David O. Selznick or Daryl Zanuck is limited to a subset of movie fans, and today we're more likely to speak about directors like Alfred Hitchcock and John Ford than the money and organization men who believed in them. A great deal of Disney history today seeks to highlight the geniuses who worked for Walt. This very blog is as guilty of it as anyone - look at the number of posts I've tagged Marc Davis and the number I've tagged Walt Disney.

Since the 1970s, renegade geniuses who did their own thing and beat the odds have replaced the kind of unusual institutional bodies who made films through the end of the 1960s. Walt Disney couldn't even draw Mickey Mouse and is only credited for directing one film - and it's a lousy one. It takes some knowledge of film history to understand him as the creator of so much of the first half of the 20th's century's most potent popular art.

The Walt Disney Company has largely allowed this to happen in the past fifteen years. The Walt Disney Story was closed before Splash Mountain even opened. One Man's Dream, which opened in 2001 and has been updated only once, gives people an overview of Walt's accomplishments but no real personal sense of the man. Neal Gabler's 2005 biography of Walt Disney, positioned by Disney as a definitive Walt book, is a crashing bore, thicker than the complete works of Shakespeare, and seems to be written from an ambivalent perspective about the man's legacy. Saving Mr. Banks, the 2013 film, is widely derided by fans as a fantasy but at least attempts to give some sense of who Walt Disney was.

This means that in popular culture the character of Walt exists in a vacuum, and it's pretty much filled up with the kind of rumor mongering and character assassination that popular culture has been pumping into that vacuum for some time. If you're a Disney fan you've likely been asked point blank if Walt Disney was an anti-Semite (or a Nazi sympathizer) by somebody in the past fifteen years. Walt Disney, noted white guy, has become Walt Disney, likely racist, and Song of the South is his dirty laundry.

This is why I worry that keeping Song of the South out of circulation does as much damage as it does good. By removing consumer's ability to choose for themselves, then the choice to keep it under wraps becomes an eternally self-renewing cycle. It isn't available because it's racist. It's racistand so it isn't available.

This decision to withhold it is really our loss. We're being denied the pleasure of James Baskett and Hattie McDaniels' performances, and the voices of the Hall Johnson Choir. We aren't allowed to see the perfection of Ub Iwerks' special effects, 40 years before Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Song of the South is the first Disney animated film stylized after Mary Blair's artwork, and the character animation is among the best and funniest the studio ever gave us. It's also the only color film and one of the last films shot by Gregg Toland, on the short list of the greatest cinematographers of all time. This last point, in particular, is very painful for cineastes because Toland is famous for his dark chiaroscuro effects in Grapes of Wrath and Citizen Kane, and the dark, fire lit passages of Song of the South turn into a blurry mess in all available copies of the movie.

Surely all of those positives are worth something to history. They can't be worth tossing out entirely. But how do you reconcile a film whose reputation requires handling with kid gloves with the massive, moving target of a modern multinational corporation in the shooting gallery of pubic life?

4) Disarming the Loaded Gun

But to get to the core of the reason why Disney hasn't let Song of the South out yet, we have to compare the problem that Song of the South represents to how they've handled similar problems.

Disney has a spotty record when it comes to self-censorship. Things pop on and off the forbidden list randomly, more or less depending on who's paying attention. In the early 2000s, Roy O. Disney requested that cigarettes be removed from certain cartoons - Saludos Amigos and Melody Time - while permitting the cigar smoking in Three Caballeros and Pinocchio to remain. At the same time, he asked that the opening sequence of Make Mine Music - The Martins and the Coys - be removed due to offending sensibilities, but more likely because of cartoon violence and gun play that no child who's ever seen a Tom & Jerry cartoon would bat an eye at. Melody Time and Make Mine Music are still censored in the United States, while Saludos Amigos was presented without cuts on the "Walt & El Groupo" DVD release a few years later.

On the Walt Disney Treasures DVD releases, much stronger material was presented with little but a comment or two from Leonard Maltin, including a number of suppressed Pluto cartoons where his master is a bossy Aunt Jemima type, and several examples of pretty hardcore wartime propaganda like Education For Death.

In a similar vein, the VHS release (and as far as I can tell,  subsequent home video releases) of The Lion King have zoomed in several shots in the "Be Prepared" sequence to make the goose-stepping hyenas a little less apparent.

Closer to home, at some point Disney did major censorship to Dumbo, removing entirely the jive-talking crows from all but their final appearance in the film to sing "When I See An Elephant Fly". And the famous black centaurettes have been missing permanently from Fantasia since the 1960s. Yet despite this, there's never really been any attempt to remove the humiliating "What Makes The Red Man Red?" sequence in Peter Pan.

The reason Disney can't - and I'm not saying they won't, I'm saying that they cannot - release Song of the South has to do with, surprisingly, the success of their home video department.

If I asked you to, I bet that it'd be easier for you to come up with a list of places where you cannot buy Disney movies and DVDs than places you can. Electronics shops, mega marts, pharmacies, gas stations, automotive repair stores, supermarkets... children's entertainment on home video is a gigantic market segment and, best of all, it's recession proof.

During the DVD boom of the early naughts, films of all stripes were flying out the door, but once the market collapsed, home video has returned to levels of business fairly comparable to what it was like in the 1990s. If you grew up in the VHS era, as I did, think back to what movies your friends and family likely owned on VHS, and you're going to be picturing rows and rows of movies in those distinctive white puffy clam shells - Disney movies. Mixed in there was going to be, say, your friend's dad's copy of Goodfellas, or maybe Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade or something. In other words: hit movies, and kid's films. Then as now, that's what moves copies of films on home video.

Why? Because kids are easily bored and any parent knows that a bored kid is a recipe for disaster, so it's good practice to keep a bunch of them on hand. To kids, the word "Disney" means a good way to spend time. For adults, it means nothing more than "probably safe for your kids".

As Disney fans we tend to forget this, but for the vast majority of the consumer population Disney movies are used as electronic babysitters. Disney even has a special feature on their discs to facilitate this, and they market it like it's a huge benefit - Disney's FastPlay, in which an inserted disc will play assorted trailers, ads, the feature film, and even bonus material clear through, exactly like a VHS.

They've been using it for 12 years now, and if you look carefully, most other animation studios have followed suit with their home video releases, so they must be hearing from people that this is what they want.

This is the market that Disney fears. It isn't the people who are going to line up to attack a 70-year old movie, and it isn't pointy headed geeks like we who are worried about the aspect ratio of Melody Time, and it isn't the think piece in Huffington Post they're worried about, it's Joe and Jane Blow.

Disney movies are sold everywhere, which means they've locked their product into a massive distribution network that empties out into places like a Publix in Hollywood, Florida. It just isn't practical for them to do a small release of a film like Song of the South, because for Disney releasing a product - any product - on video is the equivalent of pressing a huge red button that vomits 10 million copies of everything into every store in the United States.

If you were collecting the Walt Disney Treasures DVD releases, you've experienced this. If you wanted one of the discs, you had to get to your retailer of choice money in hand on release day. The Treasures discs came in on the truck with all of the other Disney releases for that day, and when they were gone, they were gone.
Given this scenario, it's easy to see Jane Q. Public thoughtlessly throwing a shiny new Blu-Ray copy of Song of the South into her basket at Target because there's a fun looking rabbit on the cover, and turning into a raging consumer volcano upon discovering that the film features less than flattering depicting of - are those slaves? It's not nerds, but Moms, that Disney lives in constant fear of. They have spent generations building up goodwill and brand recognition to potentially degrade it by releasing something that's not really okay to most Americans.

So, if Disney is even going to think about a release of Song of the South, they have to find a way of releasing it in such a way that nerds can find it but casual Disney consumers cannot.

They could, for instance, sell it directly to fans at the D23 Expo, which given the cost to get in is all but guaranteed to screen out anyone who's going to be walking into Song of the South blindfolded. This would certainly bolster D23's tenuous claim to be "by fans, for fans", although it would encourage scalpers and bootleggers - but doesn't the current strategy do that already? If anything, the opportunity to purchase a legitimate copy of Song of the South direct from Disney could be a powerful incentive for some to attend.

Disney could also contemplate a limited distribution strategy through, say, their Disney Movie Club, which they're already using to make available such less-marketable titles as Pollyanna and The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes. Using this method it's still not impossible that Song of the South could end up in "The Wrong Hands", but the risk is far less than a wide release.

An even safer bet could be a direct digital download with, say, a click-through acknowledgement and an attached video disclaimer with Leonard Maltin.

Or, they could use a DVD boutique label.

Boutique labels are an interesting abnormality in the history of home video. The basic concept dates from the laserdisc era, when laserdiscs were an expensive product with a limited consumer base. The true money was in the inferior VHS format and the video rental business, and so while studios poured money into releasing their movie titles on magnetic tape, they often pawned off the rights to release their cult or classic films of more questionable commercial prospects to companies like Image Entertainment or Voyager on laserdisc. This, in turn, allowed these companies to lavish more time and attention on these cult items, and market them especially to collectors and nerds.

The long term benefits of this splitting of the market segment had undeniable benefits in film culture. Successful laser releases of catalog films meant that more and more older films were going to be restored and preserved. At the same time, the cinephilic bent of the format meant that more and more consumers were demanding not only better, but definitive releases of films.

Laserdiscs introduced the notion of alternate cuts, like the duelling versions of Jacques Tourneur's Curse of the Demon, and the now highly marketable Director's Cuts, like the long version of Lawrence of Arabia. Films which had previously existed in altered and truncated versions began to be put back together. Our modern, improved opinion of directors like Sam Peckinpah and Sergio Leone stems from reconstruction efforts which began as attempts to sell laserdiscs.

This is the model the industry is returning to, by the way. Video stores no longer exist, but the big multi-million dollar agreements of today are over streaming services, while the shrinking video market is increasingly being split up amongst boutique labels. Three of the best today are Olive Films, Twilight Time and Shout! Factory. And then there's Criterion. If you've come all the way to this blog I likely don't need to tell you what Criterion is, but just in case, here it is.

Criterion was the label for art house movies. Their first release ever was Citizen Kane. They pioneered the concept of added-value content on disc, recording the first ever commentary track - for King Kong. They printed essays about the films on the rear on their laserdisc sleeves. And they cleverly assigned each release a number - subtly encouraging collectors, like Pokemon, to get them all.

The impact of Criterion on our modern cinephile culture cannot be underestimated. For the first time, fans like Quentin Tarantino and Paul Thomas Anderson could watch a movie and then listen to its director speak about it on a commentary track. Criterion releases were film school in a box and paved the way for our current home video standards - director involvement, correct aspect ratios, high picture quality, and bonus features. As a result, each Criterion film release has, for some, acquired the character of the canonization of a saint.

The respect and prestige conferred on Criterion means that a Criterion release of a film or director can actually turn the conversation of the film around. In the late 1980s Criterion released a gigantic laserdisc set of Terry Gilliam's costly, controversial Brazil and it's probably on the basis of their release, and then again on DVD and Blu-Ray, that the film has graduated slowly from curious cult item to established classic.

Isn't this what Song of the South needs? A careful release that will turn its image around while keeping it out of the hands of casual consumers? A release will confer instant prestige on a troubled film?

This strategy comes with a certain degree of insurance against wandering hands. To begin with, Criterion goes to great lengths to design unique covers which reflect the films inside, a world away from Disney's standard "a bunch of characters looming" method. The upshot is that the release would look nothing like a normal Disney movie. And, of course, Criterion releases are priced at a premium price point - more than twice the price of other movies. All of these factors tend to keep Criterion discs out of mass market retailers like Target and Wal-Mart, where the majority of Disney product moves.

Well, that's how I'd do it. There is no perfect solution to the problem. As I said at the start, Song of the South is a film which demands an interpretive scheme - it demands that the viewer have a point of view. You cannot watch it passively. Even with a careful release and thoughtful roll out, those who want to view Walt Disney as a racist and The Walt Disney Company as an evil corporation will find plenty of ammunition in it. But what does it matter? They were going to take that position anyway. Meanwhile others who may have judged the film harshly based on reputation will be given a chance to re-evaluate their position and make up their own mind. It won't happen right away, but bit by bit the film can be pulled back into respectable company. Hey - it happened for TRON.

Disney's point of view is that the film doesn't exist. By keeping it out of sight they hope it will eventually just go away. It isn't going to work this way. Escape From Tomorrow was allowed to go out unchallenged because Disney correctly guessed that it wasn't a good enough film to be more than a passing novelty.

But Song of the South is a film they advertise to tens of thousands of people a day inside their parks. And what's more, most people who see it tend to like it. By failing to take a position, Disney is fleeing the problem like Br'er Rabbit hopping away from the briar patch. And, just like Uncle Remus said, any place they go will never be far enough away.