by Rees Quinn
Disney’s television shows had a major impact on American popular culture. In 1955, a three-episode series on the life of American frontiersman Davy Crockett spawned a craze that swept the United States. The theme song, “The Ballad of Davy Crockett,” dominated the airwaves and boys across the country sported Davy’s coonskin caps. That same year, Disney launched a daily after-school show called the Mickey Mouse Club. This quasi-educational variety show featured two adults leading a cast of child actors called Mouseketeers who sang and danced to a different theme each day of the week. Cartoons and serials from Disney films were interwoven into the show. The show was an instant hit.
The original Mickey Mouse Club ran on ABC from 1955 to 1959, when it was cancelled due to weak advertising revenue and contract disputes between the network and Disney. Although the show never became the reliable revenue generator the Disneys had hoped for, it proved an invaluable tool in promoting Disneyland. The program carried regular promotions for the project, and sometimes, Walt Disney himself appeared in his conductor’s cap in the locomotive of his Carolwood Pacific Railroad to highlight progress in different sections of the park. By the time the park opened on July 17, 1955, millions of children were clamoring to go.
Construction of Disneyland broke ground in July 1954, and was beset with problems almost from the start. The ground was oversaturated from California’s wettest spring season in years. Disney’s constant tinkering and demand for perfection did not make things any easier. He ordered changes even after work was completed – a large tree he thought too close to a walkway had to be uprooted and moved; fence lines were adjusted to slightly enhance a view. Union crews and saboteurs caused delays by tearing down completed projects so they could profit by doing the work themselves. Disney’s vision for the park blossomed, along with its cost – which went from $5 million to $12 million, and then topped out at $17 million. Still, Disney pressed his ambitious deadline: Disneyland would be built in a year.
Four days before the park was scheduled to open to the public, on July 13, 1955, Walt sent out a special invitation to a select group of about 300. The guests were to include celebrities and Hollywood heavyweights, such as Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, Louis B. Mayer, and Walt’s old polo buddy Spencer Tracy. The occasion was Walt and Lillian’s thirtieth wedding anniversary. The invitation read:
“TEMPUS FUGIT CELEBRATION
Where: Disneyland . . . where there’s plenty of room . . .
When: Wednesday, July 13, 1955, at six o’clock in the afternoon . . .
Why: . . . because we’ve been married Thirty Years . . .
How: . . . by cruising down the Mississippi on the Mark Twain’s maiden voyage, followed by dinner at Slue-Foot Sue’s Golden Horseshoe!
Hope you can make it – we especially want you and, by the way, no gifts, please – we have everything, including a grandson!
Lilly and Walt
Six months earlier, on December 10, 1954, their daughter Diane had given birth to Christopher Disney Miller. Diane’s husband was Ron Miller, whom she had met while attending the University of Southern California. Ron was a football player at USC and would go on to play professionally for the Los Angeles Rams, before taking a job at The Walt Disney Company. Walt was ecstatic about being a grandfather for the first time, but groused about his daughter’s choice of a name for his grandson. “Diane pulled a name out of the blue,” he wrote in a letter to an associate. “She seemed determined no son of hers was going to be tagged with my name. She had a particular aversion to the ‘Elias’ part of it.”
Disneyland was decked-out for its first party. Hours before, Walt rushed about the park, scrutinizing details and making small adjustments. Lillian, more uncharacteristically, was discovered on the deck of the Mark Twain riverboat with a broom, sweeping off sawdust on the still-untested vessel. Walt stood at the gates, wringing his hands when many of his guests were delayed by traffic. Finally, he greeted them with arms spread wide to his fantasy world, directing them to horse-drawn carriages that carried them down Main Street, U.S.A., to Frontierland.
It was a lavish affair, with guests sipping mint juleps on the riverboat and cancan dancers kicking their heels at the Golden Horseshoe saloon. Walt seemed intoxicated, perhaps on euphoria more than alcohol; Diane said later she didn’t think he had much to drink. A stage show in the saloon featuring comedian Wally Boag as the cowboy hero Pecos Bill, popping off shots with his play pistols, moved Walt to join in. He dangled from a balcony over the stage, the finger and thumb of both hands mimicking his own six-shooters. His guests gasped as he awkwardly climbed down to join the show, and then shouted, “Speech! Speech!” Disney basked in the glory, the pressures of the work still ahead forgotten for the moment.
Meanwhile, time was running out for Disneyland’s public debut, which meant cutting corners: Many of Disney’s demands could not be met; some details would have to be added later on the fly. Sections of the park were left barren, or overgrown with weeds. Tomorrowland, true to its name, would have to wait for another tomorrow; the path to this unfinished attraction led nowhere for the time being. The night before Disneyland opened, Disney busied himself with last-minute details, at one point grabbing a can of spray paint to help crews finish a giant squid at the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride.
When the big moment finally arrived, Disney addressed the opening-day crowd, saying: “To all who come to this happy place: Welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world.” Disney’s daughter, Diane, said he was as happy as she had ever seen him. Lillian was absent for Walt’s crowning achievement.
The American Broadcasting Company (ABC) broadcasted live from Disneyland on opening day, for a special hour and a half program that granted millions at home entry into Walt Disney’s fantasy land. It was hosted by Disney’s friends, Art Linkletter, Bob Cummings, and Ronald Reagan. Linkletter opened the show from the railroad tracks of the Disneyland and Santa Fe Railroad, upon which Disney and a costumed Mickey character arrived on the E.P. Ripley, named for the president of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. Twenty-nine cameras and dozens of crews filmed the broadcast, which Linkletter called “not so much a show as a special event,” and compared to the unwrapping of “a $17 million bundle of gifts all wrapped in whimsy.” The first guests to be interviewed were Linkletter’s children, who were asked which Disneyland attraction they were most excited to visit. Six-year-old Diane said, “The great big castle where Sleeping Beauty is.” Sharon, who was eight, answered “Frontierland, where Davy Crockett fights the Indians.” Son Robert wanted to “take the boat trip down the Congo,” and daughter Dawn “a cruise to the moon in a rocket ship over at Tomorrowland.”
The hosts took viewers from the entrance of the park down nostalgic Main Street, U.S.A., a thoroughfare modeled after Disney’s beloved Marceline, Missouri. Linkletter described it this way: “You find yourself in a bygone time, another world. The clock has turned back a half a century, and you’re in the main square of a small American town. The year, 1900. There’s the city hall, quaint and dignified with its post office, the place where the citizens of the town gather to exchange gossip and hear the latest news of the day. The fire station, that’s of special interest to the volunteer bucket brigade whose horse-drawn engine and up-to-date hose and chemical wagon are a source of real local pride. Then there’s the car barn housing the horse-drawn streetcar, a great boon to speedy transportation. That little old streetcar will be going up and down Main Street here in Disneyland about every ten or fifteen minutes, day in and day out. It goes by a whole flock of very interesting and quaint little stores. There’s the emporium, where a lady could buy lisle stockings, or a silver button hook, or for a dollar, a new pair of tan high-button shoes. Main Street, U.S.A., and every one of those buildings is 5/
8th real size. The doorways, of course, and the windows are full size, but the buildings themselves are five-eighths. The people you see walking up and down the street are full-sized people; they are not made by Walt Disney.”
The live broadcast had some hitches, which Linkletter warned viewers to expect, comparing it to “covering three volcanoes all erupting at the same time and you didn’t expect any of them.” Park-goers could be seen tripping over the miles and miles of television cable on the grounds; co-host Bob Cummings was caught on camera kissing a dancer in Frontierland. Miscues were played for laughs; when Linkletter lost his microphone in Fantasyland, Cummings, aboard a pirate ship, did a play-by-play as Linkletter searched for it in front of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
Overall, opening day was a disaster. Thousands of counterfeit tickets turned up, and the crowd was three times larger than expected. Celebrities who were supposed to appear at staggered times showed up en masse. The temperature soared to 101 degrees, and most of the park’s water fountains malfunctioned. Faced with a plumber’s strike on the eve of the opening, Disney had been forced to choose between running toilets or water fountains. Since Pepsi was a sponsor of the day, many guests grumbled that the lack of water was a deliberate move to sell more soda.
Much of the park’s asphalt had been poured just that morning, and with the heat, the pavement became so soft that women’s high-heels sank into it. Vendors ran out of food. A gas leak closed the three major attractions – Fantasyland, Frontierland and Adventureland - for the afternoon. The lines were enormous; parents were seen throwing their children over other people to get them onto rides. For years, Disney executives referred to the day as Black Sunday.
But the problems were quickly solved, and the park went on to draw more than a million visitors in its first six months. It was a testimony to Disney’s vision, leadership, and attention to detail. Employees were trained to pick up every bit of trash within thirty seconds of it hitting the ground. They were also expected to be unfailingly cheerful and helpful. According to the Disneyland employee handbook, “At Disneyland we get tired, but never bored, and even if it is a rough day, we appear happy. You’ve got to have an honest smile. It’s got to come from within. And to accomplish this you’ve got to develop a sense of humor and a genuine interest in people. If nothing else helps, remember that you get paid for smiling.”
Detail mattered to Disney. Sheets of blue note paper popped up all over the park, with orders from Disney to change a burned-out light bulb or empty an overflowing trash can. The same blue notes had been used in Disney’s studio for years. Disney told his team that cost was secondary: “You and I do not worry whether anything is cheap or expensive. We only worry whether it’s good. I have a theory that if it’s good enough, the public will pay you back for it.”
Disney liked to say that Disneyland would never be finished; after the opening, it only occupied more of his time, energy, and imagination. “He practically lived there,” Lillian said. In fact, Walt furnished an apartment overtop the park’s fire station on Main Street and stayed there often. It had the look of a late-nineteenth-century home, with red-velvet and lace décor. Sometimes, he could be seen in a window, gazing out at the park.
Walt walked through Disneyland with the loping stride of a farm boy; occasionally, he zipped by on an electric cart. He could suddenly appear on a ride platform and commandeer a coaster or boat or simply stand back and watch riders come and go. “I come down here to get a real rest from the humdrum of making pictures at the studio,” he told Joe Fowler, a retired United States Navy admiral who supervised the construction of Disneyland’s riverboat and stayed on as a general manager at the park. “This is my real amusement. This is where I relax.”
Disney was like a kid with a massive play set, constantly thinking of accessories to add to it. Months after the park opened, he called in a Swiss company to design a cable gondola to traverse the park. The Alpine Skyway would be part of a more-than-$7 million Disneyland expansion announced the following May.
Disneyland filled another gap in Walt’s life. His backyard Carolwood Pacific Railroad, which had brought him so much joy, was retired shortly after the park opened. He had been taking some neighborhood children on a ride when the train skipped the track. The crash wasn’t serious, but it was enough to break the train’s whistle. One of the children jumped off the train to take a look at the damage and was scalded slightly by a hiss of steam. Walt’s daughter Sharon said there was another incident that followed shortly thereafter, in which the train – remotely controlled by the barn – crashed into the garage. That was its last run. “Daddy took a lot of pictures of it and stashed it for good in a cubby at Disneyland. He was through with toy trains,” Sharon said.
Around the same time, Walt’s beloved poodle Duchess died. The Disneys’ veterinarian had diagnosed Duchess gallstones, and rather than surgery, recommended euthanizing the dog. Walt would not agree and stayed with her. Though the poodle somehow seemed to be improving, she suddenly passed away. Walt suspected Lillian of agreeing to euthanize Duchess and ordered an autopsy. He was upset about losing his companion and kept her blanket undisturbed in his studio office as a sort of memorial.
In March 1959, Walt was in a hospital bed, recuperating from a bout with kidney stones. His daughter Sharon came to visit with her boyfriend, an interior designer from Kansas City named George Hurrell, and announced they were getting married. Walt approved of Hurrell, but he was melancholy at the thought of losing his daughter. At the wedding two months later, Walt cut in on a dance between the bride and groom, telling Hurrell, “It’s not your dance yet.”
Suddenly, the palatial home on Carolwood that he had built to bring his family closer was empty but for Walt and Lillian – and their cook and housekeeper, Thelma. Walt confided in Thelma, a feisty woman who, like him, smoked and played gin rummy. When Walt was running late at the office, his secretary called Thelma to tell her to keep dinner warm. Lillian didn’t cook; days Thelma took off, she and Walt went out – they were regulars at the Tam O’Shanter restaurant.
In the coming decade, people flocked to Disneyland, while Walt Disney gradually pulled back. He and Lillian took trips – he would not call them “vacations,” insisting that the work followed him. Sometimes, he scouted locations for films; other times, ideas for Disneyland. But in truth, these were escapes. They went on long Caribbean cruises, cross-country drives, and stayed in posh resorts. Every year, they retreated to Europe for weeks or months at a time. Walt had a vacation home built in Palm Springs, Florida, where he made it an “inviolable rule not to do anything but rest and relax.”
Meanwhile, the studio released more than fifty family-friendly movies, many of them live action.
Mary Poppins, released in 1964, one of the most technically ambitious films the studio generated, featured animated characters interacting with live-action actors, and took more than twenty years to bring to the screen. In 1951, the persistent Walt Disney finally succeeded in bringing author P.L. Travers from Ireland to Hollywood for a meeting. By then, Mary Poppins was the heroine of five children’s novels – 1934’s original book, Mary Poppins Comes Back (1935), Mary Poppins Opens the Door (1943), Mary Poppins in the Park (1952), and Mary Poppins From A to Z (1962). P.L. Travers was a pen name (the initials stood for Pamela Lyndon); her real name was Helen Lyndon Goff. Although she agreed to hear Walt’s proposal to adapt her books to film, she was highly protective of “her Mary” and insisted on script approval rights, though Disney stipulated that final say on the finished project was his.
Production on Disney’s Mary Poppins took three years, mostly because of Travers’ wrangling over the script. She was particularly hard-nosed about the use of animation in the film, which she felt cheapened her story. She was ambivalent about the music, and opposed the softening of her domineering, but ultimately endearing, governess. This conflict was embellished and dramatized for a 2013 film, “Saving Mr. Banks,” which cast Tom Hanks in the role of Walt Disney and Emma Thompson as P.L. Tr
avers.
In the end, Disney got his way. He cast rosy-cheeked Julie Andrews as Mary Poppins and Dick Van Dyke as her closest friend, Bert, a chimney sweep who sells kites and works as a street artist for spare change.
A strong wind carries Mary Poppins on her umbrella – with an animated duck-head handle that talks – to Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane in London, home of the Banks family. George Banks, played by David Tomlinson, is interviewing nannies for his two children, Jane and Michael, who chased off the previous one with their bad behavior. Mr. Banks’ ad calls for a disciplinarian; the children are seeking a fun, kind-hearted and caring nanny. After Mr. Banks tears up the children’s ad and tosses into the fireplace, he is stunned when Mary Poppins recites their ad word for word. Mary asserts that she can be both kind and firm, and sets the terms of her employment, which includes a trial period of one week. She charms the Banks children with her magic, extracting all manner of amusements from her bottomless carpetbag. With Bert, she takes them on adventures, galloping on merry-go-round horses that come to life and dancing with cartoon penguins. Through it all, Mary Poppins imparts lessons about responsibility. By the end, Mr. Banks, a banker with little time for his family, realizes what he’s been missing out on.
Mary Poppins premiered at Grauman’s Theatre in Hollywood on August 27, 1964. Walt Disney attended - his first premiere appearance since Snow White. Travers was not invited, and had to ask Disney to add her to the guest list. She was disappointed in the final film and approached Disney after the screening, screeching that the animated sequence be cut. “The ship has sailed, Pamela,” Disney told her. Critics and audiences alike loved the film, which topped the box office with $28.5 million in its first year. It was nominated for thirteen Academy Awards, including Best Picture, and won five: Best Actress for Andrews, Best Film Editing, Best Original Music Score, Best Visual Effects and Best Original Song (“Chim Chim Cher-ee,” sung primarily by Bert in a musical number across London’s rooftops).
