by Glenn Beck
Now, Roy had just learned, the TV show itself was also blowing past its budget—a budget they had all, including Walt, agreed to with ABC. Walt wasn’t one to let his imagination be limited by a lack of funds, so he spent whatever he felt was necessary to make the show look right.
Last night’s offering on ABC was another tribute to Walt’s exactness and talent for excess—and it was yet another headache for Roy to manage. The program had included an expensive original film called Man in Space, in which Walt had somehow convinced the most famous scientists of the day to narrate their vision for the world of tomorrow. Even the former Nazi Wernher von Braun took part in it.
The show was putting forward all sorts of fanciful notions of the future: rockets lifting off into outer space; men living on board spacecraft; even satellites orbiting the earth. Another show, slated to air later that year, predicted a manned mission to the moon in the near future.
In the end, though, Roy couldn’t be too upset with his brother. For all his fussing and complaining, Walt was happier than he’d ever been. Besides, the numbers didn’t lie: 40 million people—40 million!—had watched Man in Space the previous night. The program was winning raves from critics. It was capturing everyone’s imagination. Well, almost everyone’s—Walt’s wife, Lillian, was so bored by the programs that she refused to watch with him.
Four Years Later
Disneyland
Anaheim, California
June 14, 1959
Once again, Roy stood in awe of his brother. Disneyland was a smashing success, surpassing even the most optimistic projections. Five million guests were expected through the gates this year alone! Cash was flooding into the company at a rate that no one could have predicted. The Disney company’s sales and net profits had risen faster than almost any company in America. The stock price was seven times what it had been before the park had opened.
Roy watched with pride as his brother debuted the park’s new, clean, and practically noiseless monorail system. Walt boasted that it was the first such service in the entire Western Hemisphere.
He also watched uneasily as reporters pressed Walt about his plans for another park. “Oh, no,” Walt said. “There will only be one Disneyland.”
But Roy knew his brother far better than any reporter did. There was something about the way he answered that suggested he might have something even bigger in mind.
He always did.
Burbank, California
December 1, 1961
Death terrified Walt Disney. He avoided funerals at all costs and thought constantly about how time was slipping away from him.
To cheer him up on his sixtieth birthday, Hazel George, the studio’s nurse, gave him a picture of herself when she had started at Disney after finishing nursing school in 1929. The photo’s message was meant to be obvious, and Walt took the hint immediately: We are all getting older. It’s part of life. So suck it up.
“You know, Hazel,” Walt said, “after I die, I would hate to look down at this studio and find everything a mess.”
Hazel had been attending to Walt’s various ailments, including a wrenched neck after a polo accident, for years. She was also an amateur songwriter, and Walt had let her write songs for the Mickey Mouse Club and for movies like Old Yeller under the pseudonym “George Gil.”
With her tart tongue and clever wit, Hazel was also one of the few people able to get away with teasing the temperamental Disney founder. “When you die,” she replied with a smile, “what makes you think you won’t be using a periscope?”
Walt smirked. “Smartass.”
Jacksonville, Florida
February 12, 1964
The seventy-three-year-old man with the distinctive face and a bearing of self-assurance walked into the hotel after arriving from the airport. At the reception desk, he gave his name for the registry. It was not his real one.
From the safety of his room, Roy Disney made a long-distance call to California. “There are some large parcels of land available,” he said.
On the other end of the line was his brother, waiting impatiently back in Burbank for news. Roy had decided that Walt was too recognizable to join the other Disney executives, who were currently fanning out all over Florida looking at land records and conducting discreet surveys. If anyone found out that the Disney company was trying to buy up large swaths of property, the prices would instantly skyrocket.
Within Disney itself, the initiative was code-named “Project X” and “Project Future.” It was so secret that the non-Disney employees in Florida involved with the real estate transactions didn’t even know their true mission or who they were really working for.
“Okay,” Walt replied. “Let’s go after some land.”
Burbank, California
May 20, 1964
Walt listened closely as a member of Project X’s clandestine team made his presentation.
Using the name “Bob Price” to avoid any ties to the Disney company, Bob Foster had linked up with a Florida lawyer to help him purchase several large parcels of land “for recreational purposes.”
Foster stood beside a large map of the state, outlining possible areas for purchase in the vicinity of Daytona Beach. Walt and his team had spent years paying for surveys of land in different areas of the country for an East Coast version of Disneyland. St. Louis had been rejected. So too had the Washington, D.C.–Baltimore corridor. Only Florida had weather conditions that would allow the park to stay open all year.
But the Daytona Beach area gave Walt serious pause. He peppered his man with questions: Didn’t that part of the state get too cold in winter? Would tropical vegetation survive? How close was Daytona to the typical hurricane routes? Wasn’t it better—and safer—to start from scratch someplace in the middle of the state?
“But inland Florida doesn’t have as much water,” Foster replied.
Walt scoffed. “Then I’ll build a lake.”
Everyone in the room realized then that Walt had already made up his mind. Forget Daytona. Walt Disney wanted another area that had already been surveyed: Orlando.
Florida Airport Tarmac
Near Orlando, Florida
September 9, 1964
Walt had insisted on going. He couldn’t not be there. Not for this. Even Roy couldn’t talk him out of it. Walt understood the consequences if he was seen, and he swore he’d stay out of sight.
To keep him company, Walt had brought along books that he’d all but memorized—Ebenezer Howard’s Garden Cities of To-morrow and Victor Gruen’s The Heart of Our Cities. Both focused on the urban crisis in American cities and ways to correct them. He also had some notes for his latest film, an adaption of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book. As usual, Walt had a particular idea for the movie, and didn’t tolerate much opposition. He’d indicated as much when he’d walked up to one of his writers before he left for Florida and handed him the book. “Here’s the Kipling book. The first thing I want you to do is not read it.”
As their plane landed for refueling, Walt unbuckled and started to rise from his seat.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Roy asked.
“I’m going into the terminal,” Walt replied, looking confused. “With the rest of you.”
“No way. You can’t. You’ll be recognized.” At this point, Walt’s face, voice, and mannerisms were well known to millions of people. “Walt, you promised.”
Walt groused. “Well, can I at least stand out on the field for a minute?” he asked. “I need some fresh air.”
Roy nodded, knowing it was useless to protest any further. As he and the other executives headed for the terminal, Walt exited the plane and stood on the tarmac. It was not long before one of the young mechanics looked at him. Then looked again. Then again.
“Excuse me, sir,” the mechanic asked. “Are you Walt Disney?”
“Hell no,” he replied. “I get mistaken for him all the time.”
The mechanic looked bewildered.
“And if I e
ver run into that SOB,” Walt continued, “I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him.”
Back on board, the plane took off and before long was flying low over black swamps and vast cypress groves. To Roy, the view was a sobering wake-up call: Building a park in the middle of this mess would be a Herculean task—far more difficult than it had been in Anaheim.
Walt looked through the window, as if scrutinizing every inch of the ground below. Then he looked across the aisle at his brother and smiled broadly. “This is perfect. It’s going to be fine.”
Walt Disney Estate
Los Angeles, California
August 14, 1965
Walt watched the scenes unfolding on his television with a pained expression. Things had gotten so bad that National Guardsmen were being sent into the neighborhood of Watts, not that far from his own home, to quell the violence.
For years, there had been growing tensions in the area as more and more African-Americans migrated to California to work in the growing defense industry. They faced discrimination in housing and employment, and there were widespread allegations of police brutality. Three days earlier, the attempted arrest of a young black man for driving while intoxicated by a white member of the California Highway Patrol had quickly escalated into a shoving match between the officer, the driver, and his mother. Fanned by rumors that the cops had attacked the mother and a pregnant woman, a mob of black residents began to form.
Nearly fifty square miles of Los Angeles had become a combat zone. Thousands of citizens were looting shops, destroying neighborhoods, and engaging in battles with police. Martial law was declared.
Walt didn’t recognize his country anymore. This wasn’t the United States he was seeing—it couldn’t be. This looked like a riot in some banana republic.
The sixties was promising to be a decade of turbulence and uncertainty and the crisis in the inner cities was worsening by the day. Walt was thinking more and more of the children who watched his programs, and of his own young grandchildren. What kind of world would they grow up in? The inner cities were a far cry from the tranquil, carefree settings he remembered in Missouri.
The scenes of mayhem only made the Florida Project that much more urgent. Walt picked up the phone and dialed his brother. Roy knew what he was going to say before a word was ever spoken.
Cherry Plaza Hotel
Orlando, Florida
November 15, 1965
The jig was up. Earlier in the week a front-page headline in the Orlando Sentinel screamed the news, which they’d learned from a variety of tips:
WE SAY IT’S DISNEY.
By that point, it hardly mattered much anymore. Through dummy corporations, Walt Disney had purchased nearly twenty-eight thousand acres of swampland in the area between the cities of Orlando and Kissimmee, an area that was to be called the Reedy Creek Improvement District.
Still, Roy had been right that there would be a steep price to pay for the leak. The price of the remaining three hundred acres of land they needed had risen overnight from $183 per acre to $1,000.
Now that all of the purchasing was done, Walt and Roy appeared together before reporters to announce Disney’s next great plan. Florida governor Haydon Burns was on hand to introduce them to the crush of local reporters. Burns had already given his support to a plan that would give Disney almost complete autonomy over the Reedy Creek Improvement District. The district was even slated to include a small city that would serve as a test site for urban planning. Walt was going to have his own magic kingdom—for real this time.
Walt, who had earlier acquiesced to Roy’s pleas to build the Magic Kingdom part of the park in order to finance his dream of a model city, smiled before the cameras and stepped to the microphones. “This is the biggest thing we’ve ever tackled.” Gesturing to Roy, whom the governor saluted as “Disney’s financial wizard,” Walt continued, “I might, for the benefit of the press, explain that my brother and I have been together in our business for forty-two years now. He’s my big brother, and he’s the one that, when I was a little fellow, I used to go to with some of my wild ideas. He’d either straighten me out and put me on the right path or, if he didn’t agree with me, I’d work on it for years until I got him to agree with me.”
The crowd laughed. Roy smiled knowingly at the truth of Walt’s words, but after the smashing success of Disneyland, Roy had become a full-bore believer in his brother’s dreams.
Reporters asked Walt about plans for the Florida Project and rumors about a model city. Walt acknowledged that there would be another amusement park built in Florida—an East Coast Disneyland—but that he had even higher ambitions this time around. “I would like to be part of building a model community, a City of Tomorrow, you might say,” he explained.
Referred to as an Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, or EPCOT for short, this was to be Walt’s new obsession. He was still involved in films—the adaptation of The Jungle Book was proving to be a headache—but that was all going to have to play second fiddle. Now, at sixty-three years of age, Walt Disney truly believed that EPCOT was the most important thing he would ever do.
Burbank, California
October 1966
Walt outlined his plan for governing the Orlando property—which was twice the size of Manhattan—to a local reporter. “It will be a planned, controlled community,” he explained. “A showcase for American industry and research, schools, cultural and educational opportunities. In EPCOT there will be no slum areas because we won’t let them develop. People will rent houses instead of buying them, and at modest rates. There will be no retirees. Everyone must be employed in something. One of our requirements is that people who live in EPCOT must help keep it alive.”
“But what motivated you for such a project?” the reporter pressed.
“I happen to be an inquisitive guy, and when I see things I don’t like, I start thinking: ‘Why do they have to be like this and how can I improve them?’ City governments, for example. We pay a lot of taxes and still have streets that aren’t paved or are full of holes. And city street cleaners and garbage collectors who don’t do their jobs. And property owners who allow dirt to accumulate and help create slums.” His eyebrows raised slightly. “Why? Why is it like that?”
“Well, you seem to have enough to manage without taking on the problems of the cities,” the reporter replied.
Walt waved a hand, as if to dismiss the question. “You sound just like my wife,” he said. “When I started on Disneyland, she used to say, ‘But why do you want to build an amusement park? They’re so dirty.’ I told her that that was just the point. Mine wouldn’t be.”
Disney Studios
Burbank, California
October 27, 1966
Dressed in a light gray suit and narrow black tie, the mustachioed Walt Disney sat on the edge of his desk, a pointer in his hand, a giant map of his new project on the wall to his right. Looking into the camera, he told viewers he wanted to share with them “the most exciting and challenging assignment we’ve ever tackled at Walt Disney Productions.”
As with the ABC show he wanted to make a film that would excite viewers about what was to come. But this time around he also wanted to encourage companies to join Disney in running EPCOT and turning it into a showplace for American innovation, and to prompt companies to come up with new ideas and technologies for urban living.
“EPCOT will take its cue from the new ideas and new technologies that are now emerging from the creative centers of American industry,” he told viewers. “It will be a community of tomorrow that will never be completed, but will always be introducing, and testing, and demonstrating new materials and new systems. And EPCOT will always be a showcase to the world of the ingenuity and imagination of American free enterprise.”
Walt’s plans for the model city were ambitious. Housed under a glass dome, the entire city would be climate-controlled. There would be no more heat and cold, no humidity, no rain. Every day would be perfect.
&n
bsp; There would also be no cars. Pedestrians could walk and bike and browse without fear of being hit by a car or truck. Housing would be clean, spacious, and readily available at fair rates. The park’s offices and laboratories would be occupied by major American corporations who would use the facilities to develop new technology for use in the EPCOT city. Guests of the theme park would be allowed to go on tours of the facility to see how it all worked. Disney hoped they would be impressed enough to bring some of the ideas to their own communities.
Disney turned back to the cameras. “Speaking for myself and the entire Disney organization, we’re ready to go right now!”
Walt knew what he was saying wasn’t exactly true. The Disney organization was not ready to undertake anything quite that ambitious just yet. And neither, for that matter, was he.
Several times during the taping, Walt began coughing so much that he had to stop speaking. By the end of the production he was coughing uncontrollably. The crew behind the camera shifted uncomfortably as they waited for him to stop. Roy, on the other hand, just looked worried. For good reason, Walt thought. He knew what the coughing meant.
But he also knew something else: He wasn’t going down without a fight. EPCOT was the key to everything and Walt vowed to himself that he would speak it into existence while he was still able to work. That was why he’d rushed this film into production. He would will EPCOT into becoming a reality, even if took his last ounce of energy.
Even if it took his last breath.
Burbank, California
November 21, 1966
Walt Disney walked into his office at WED, frail, thin, and pale. His team greeted him with strained smiles. In his pocket, he carried a tattered telegram from actor John Wayne, a fellow lung cancer sufferer. WELCOME TO THE CLUB, it read.
