by Martin Sklar
I missed my flight home that evening. It was a very wet night in New York, and I don’t mean rain.
One day Walt came to inspect our progress, and designer Claude Coats, special effects wizard Yale Gracey, and I drove him back to his hotel. The conversation turned to our New York experiences, and Walt asked how our spouses were enjoying the city. No one responded. “Oh, I get it,” Walt said. Walt knew that we were all family men and women and that we’d been away from home for some time. The next morning, before we had even left for the fairgrounds, each one of us received a call from WED’s finance staff with one question: “When do you want your spouse to arrive?”
For Walt, the most difficult event occurred at the State of Illinois Pavilion, where Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln brought the immortal words of our sixteenth president (and Illinois’ favorite son) to audiences a century after they were first spoken. Writer/producer James Algar of the Studio had combined lines from six different Lincoln speeches into one potent short message, and a team led by designer Marc Davis, sculptor Blaine Gibson, mechanical craftsmen Roger Broggie and Bob Gurr, and programmer/animator Wathel Rogers had breathed mechanical life into the amazing figure. The only problem was that on opening day, the president refused to utter a word or move a muscle, disappointing the governor, the state’s United States senators, a packed theater audience, the media, and of course Robert Moses, who had sold the concept of an Audio-Animatronics Lincoln to the state of Illinois. It wasn’t until several days later that Honest Abe was ready to talk. Walt, unfortunately, was forced to explain why “the winkin’ blinkin’ Lincoln” could not perform.
For the Imagineers, another depressing event was Walt’s review of GE’s Carousel of Progress. It was a late morning walk-through—just Walt and the Imagineers—but it was in preparation for an early evening event that same day: a preview Walt was hosting for the GE board of directors. The show lasted only a few moments; nothing worked—no Father upset that Cousin Orville had taken over the family bathtub; no dog barking in each of the four main acts; no Sherman brothers’ “Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow” song. Walt was clearly irritated; he wanted to see and discuss each act with the key Imagineers, and potentially tweak the show, before his guests arrived five or six hours later. And what if nothing worked then?
When the GE directors assembled that evening, Walt gave a lighthearted disclaimer, making clear that the show was still in test mode, and “anything can happen”…or not happen. The show began with actor Rex Allen’s Western twang words: “Welcome to the General Electric Carousel of Progress. Now most carousels go round and round without getting anyplace, but on this one, at every turn, we’ll be making progress.” And they did: every animation cue, every line, every lighting nuance—was perfect. It was the carousel’s moment to spin and shine, and it did. The board of directors was so pleased that Walt could have been elected the next CEO, right then and there.
For me, the Ford Pavilion created so many special memories. As part of our behind–the-process tour, I had sat in while Ford’s advertising agency pitched the launch campaign for the original Mustang to the vice president of the car and truck group, Lee Iacocca. It was all advance preparation for the gala introduction of the Mustang at the Fair, just outside the entrance to the Ford Pavilion. The Mustang was an instant success, and so was its sales and marketing chief. Lee Iacocca was on his way to becoming president of Ford, from 1970 to 1978. (When Henry Ford II fired him in 1978, Iacocca became CEO of Chrysler.)
I like making Top Ten lists, and the New York World’s Fair provided grand memories to rate. Aside from the four Disney shows, here’s my list:
The film in the Johnson’s Wax Pavilion. Francis Thompson’s To Be Alive was an inspiring tour of life and people living it to the fullest around the world.
The DuPont Pavilion. You walked into a chemistry laboratory where all the beakers and burners were giant size—wow!—and a live jazz band played during the “experiments.” And then the film story unfolded, with live actors handing flowers to celluloid actors—as though they were both right there in front of you. It was pure magic.
The Vatican Pavilion. The prime attraction was the Pietà, an incredible loan to the Fair from Pope John XXIII. But for this non-Catholic, there were two other special treats: the marvelously designed, religious-themed banners by French-Canadian artist Norman Laliberté; and the miniature dimensional scenes, the Nativity, and much more, created by Los Angeles artist Sister Mary Corita.
The IBM pavilion, shaped like a giant egg with its “People Wall” (a tiered grandstand holding five hundred people that ascended hydraulically into the heart of the sphere to start each show). It was the design inspiration of Charles and Rae Eames and the architectural firm Eero Saarinen Associates.
GM’s Futurama II. The $38 million (in 1960s dollars!) lavished on this show was extravagant—and made for a beautifully executed show.
The Zulu dancers, recruited from Africa to perform their amazing dances.
Introduction of the Mustang. The car is still a classic, and to be there when it was unveiled was incredibly exciting.
The Unisphere, symbol of the “Peace Through Understanding” world theme. One of its design and construction impresarios was Harper Goff, designer of the original Adventureland Jungle Cruise at Disneyland, and later my good friend, a Disney Legend, and, more than anyone, responsible for the look and layout of Epcot’s international area, the World Showcase.
The Bell System’s “Picturephone,” demonstrated throughout the day in calls back and forth from Flushing Meadows to Disneyland!
And the Fair’s “most popular experience”—eating a Belgian waffle! Originally introduced at Expo ’58 in Brussels, it became the mouthwatering favorite of visitors in Flushing Meadows. How could you go wrong with a waffle smothered in whipped cream and strawberries?
THEY LEFT ME BEHIND—AND WENT HOME!
In 1967, the year after Walt Disney’s death, it often seemed as though the company was literally dead in the water. Unfortunately, the water in the Disney-owned Florida swampland seemed the most stagnant. In fact, there was a serious question about whether Disney would actually move ahead with the development of the big piece of property, “twice the size of Manhattan Island.” Walt Disney World, or Project X, was not yet three years old at the time of Walt’s death if you counted from the initial land acquisition.
While he was alive, Walt had made it abundantly clear that WED (Walter Elias Disney) Imagineering, despite the fact that it was no longer his personal family company, was still his personal “laughing place.” It was where creative development for Project X happened. The executives at the Disney Studio got it, and stayed away to give Walt his space. Although it was only three miles from their offices in Burbank, Roy Disney had visited WED’s building at 1401 Flower Street in Glendale once; Card Walker and Donn Tatum had never been inside Imagineering’s headquarters at the time of Walt’s death.
To the credit of Dick Irvine, John Hench, and Joe Fowler (vice president and general manager of Disneyland Park, but soon to become chairman of Imagineering), their almost-daily lunches at the Studio with the corporate executives throughout the early months of 1967 paid dividends. In these meetings, they worked their sales magic to get Project X off the ground. Early in the summer, major earth-moving work began leading to a dirt road running east to west across the northern part of the Florida property to a one hundred-acre clearing where the Magic Kingdom would be built; and the first drainage canals began, ultimately to funnel rainwater to the two natural waterways, Reedy Creek and Bonnet Creek, on opposite sides of the site.
Although many of us, not fully understanding what was occurring in those Studio lunchtime discussions, had expressed our frustration to Dick Irvine about the lack of progress, we were all excited about the new attractions opening and in the works for Disneyland. Pirates of the Caribbean and The Haunted Mansion were destined to become the new standards for our industry—and to affect the planning for Walt Disney World as well.
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br /> In the film I wrote for Walt that was shown for the first time in Florida early in 1967, we referenced Disneyland’s attendance—6.7 million in 1965–66. That number was the basis for Imagineering’s early planning of the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World. But sparked by the popularity of Pirates and Haunted Mansion, Disneyland’s attendance had increased to over nine million by 1971. The dilemma for the Disney planners and designers was to commit to construction of attractions and facilities with no attendance track record; an infrastructure originally based on that six million attendance figure—the equivalent of Disneyland when our planning began; and expenditures that threatened to break even the Practical Pig’s piggy bank—and certainly Disney’s.
Another issue complicated the planning questions: Disney had never built or owned a hotel. Walt’s friend and neighbor Welton Becket was called on again. Becket’s architectural firm had designed such Hollywood landmarks as the Cinerama Dome and the Capitol Records building, and was well under way on the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown Los Angeles. This time, Becket said “yes” to a Disney project.
Dick Irvine phoned me one day to announce that I was to be included in what would become one of the most important trips concerning the initial development of the Florida property. Boarding the company Gulfstream I in Burbank early in October 1967 were Irvine, chief of design at WED, and three of WED’s key designers and master planners—Marvin Davis, Bill Martin, and John Hench. Also on board were Card Walker, Disney corporate vice president, then responsible for marketing and communications; Dick Nunis, who was in charge of Disneyland operations and, soon, both Disneyland and Walt Disney World; Welton Becket and two of his senior architects; and “the two Joes”: retired admiral Joseph W. Fowler, chairman of the Disneyland operating committee, and William E. (“Joe”) Potter, a retired general hired from Robert Moses’s staff at the World’s Fair to head Disney’s Florida staff. (Once, in New York, watching Fowler and Potter carry presentation boards to a meeting at GE, Walt marveled that an admiral and a general were “privates” following his marching orders.)
Our itinerary was reflective of the planning and design work still to be done. We stopped in Atlanta to see a new John Portman-designed hotel; visited new resorts in Miami and on Grand Bahama Island; and then headed for Orlando. This was the first trip to Florida for this group since Walt’s death in December 1966, and my first ever. On the Walt Disney World site, we caught up with Bill Evans, the company’s master landscaper. Bill, who had already established the first tree farm north of the Magic Kingdom site, would soon begin teaching us about Florida flora and fauna (“No, Mr. Becket, we can’t grow that kind of palm around the Polynesian!”). And that was only one of many discussions that would change my weekend plans.
The photo of Dick Irvine, Welton Becket, and me standing on a big yellow “X” in the middle of a one hundred-acre clearing still exists. This was the scraped site for the Magic Kingdom, and the yellow “X” marked the location where the castle would be built. We all agreed on that, but there were so many other disagreements that a quick decision was made: I would be left behind with a photographer to map the property from the air and to provide accurate research for the planners of the hotels, campground, parking lots, roads, and other Phase One developments.
So here’s my three-day-weekend itinerary for late October 1967: we rented two helicopters—a big, empty military transport, and a three-passenger Bell job. Photographer Carl Frith took movie footage from the big helicopter and stills from the little chopper—often as I held the belt around his waist while he leaned out “for a better shot.”
The film and the still photos are an amazing record of the property as it was “before Disney” (there was only one built road, the dirt pathway that became Vista Boulevard). The pictures also became the early planning tool for so much that has become “The Vacation Kingdom of the World,” as I defined it for our early marketing materials. Every October, I make a point to look at that photo of the yellow “X” and blink. Forty years later, on a peak day, there are over 300,000 people on the Walt Disney World property—more than the population of the entire Orlando area in 1967!
As I recall that weekend, I have no regrets that I was left behind to oversee filming of the site. And I think that the Magic Kingdom’s millions and millions of guests would agree.
* * * * * * * * * *
Although we arrived in Orlando on the Disney Gulfstream and landed our private aircraft at the small Herndon Airport, Carl Frith and I soon learned that commercial flights to McCoy Field—primarily a military operation in 1967—were almost nonexistent. When we departed from McCoy, we discovered the numbers: four airlines serviced Orlando, with seven flights per day. For a presentation I made some forty years later, I received these numbers from the Orlando International Airport for the twelve months beginning April 1, 2011:
Annual Passengers: 35,500,000
Daily Passengers: 95,205
Annual Flights: 309,000
Daily Flights: 846
International Passengers (2009): 2,977,920
In her 1966 interview with Walt for the Chicago Tribune, Norma Lee Browning asked why he chose Florida, and especially Orlando, for Walt Disney World. “Florida and Southern California are the only two places where you can count on the tourists,” Walt replied. “I don’t like ocean sites because of the beach crowd, and also the ocean limits the approach. If you’ll notice Disneyland at Anaheim is like a hub with freeways converging on it from all sides. I like it better inland. That’s why we chose Orlando.”
The search had actually begun in the early 1960s. In his book, Walt’s Revolution, Buzz Price wrote:
In 1961, after rejecting some other alternatives, Walt asked us to look at the rest of Florida and figure out where the park should be. Late in 1963, we studied in depth a location in Central Florida. The key conclusion was that Central Florida (not Miami as most people expected it would be) was the main point of maximum interception of Florida tourism, and that Orlando, centrally located, was the point of maximum access to the southerly flow of Florida tourism from both the east and west shores of the state.
There were many challenges that had to be overcome long before the first guest was welcomed on October 1, 1971. Central Florida in the early 1960s was still the “Deep South.” As our various staffs began traveling to the area early in 1964 (negotiations for the property began in April), they found many vestiges of the old ways. You didn’t drive far from the Walt Disney World site before you found WHITE ONLY entrances to a restaurant, or separate restrooms and drinking fountains for African Americans and Caucasians. In my view, helping to make Central Florida “color blind,” and create employment opportunities for African Americans and Latinos, especially, is one of the most significant contributions Walt Disney World has made as a good citizen of the state of Florida. (In addition, the company’s financial support and cast members’ volunteerism undoubtedly has no equal in the Orlando area and the entire state.)
That first trip to Central Florida was chock-full of new experiences for me. Arrangements had been made to take us by boat into the deepest, darkest part of the Reedy Creek swamp, about ten miles from the site of the Magic Kingdom. Watching all the gators sunning themselves on the shore, and diving into the waters as the boat’s noise stirred them awake, was a chill as well as a thrill.
From a rickety wooden dock near the site of today’s Contemporary Resort, we were taken by speedboat to Riles Island in the middle of Bay Lake, where we saw our first armadillos. We also came across a shack used by illegal poachers during hunting expeditions for deer, wild boar, and wild turkey.
Of course the land was often very wet. To me, this could be quite spectacular, especially as I looked down from the helicopters on the cypress trees standing offshore in Bay Lake, entirely surrounded by water. Yet the engineers, with their soil borings, were finding all the challenges of building in wetlands. Near that yellow “X” in the middle of the Magic Kingdom-to-be, John Hench dug a hole about one foot d
eep. When we returned the next morning, the hole was filled with water—a visual demonstration that impressed all of us desert-dwelling Californians.
Almost immediately, the WED designers began to wield their influence:
The Corps of Engineers had dug fifty yards or so of the first wide drainage canal, following the basic premise that a straight line is the most direct path—perhaps related to retired Major General Potter’s six years as governor general of the Panama Canal Zone. John Hench reacted immediately, calling for the visual look of a natural river. He drew an overlay on the plans, creating a curving channel that looked on paper like a slithering snake.
Bill Martin, who was to become the overall art director for the Magic Kingdom, suggested the key idea for dealing with the wetlands between the Transportation and Ticket Center and the Magic Kingdom: create a “lake,” later named the Seven Seas Lagoon, and use the earthen material removed as fill to raise the level of the Magic Kingdom by fourteen feet. Creating higher ground for the park not only made the Magic Kingdom an iconic visual destination, it also enabled one of Walt’s Epcot ideas: the creation of “Utilidors” under the Magic Kingdom. These twelve-foot-wide, ten-foot-high corridors became the location for underground utilities, and the opportunity for an amazing backstage staging area, housing a plethora of cast member services and facilities: costuming, cafeterias, maintenance, and audiovisual and other electronics.
Bill Evans, one of the most respected landscape authorities in the country after his pioneering accomplishments at Disneyland, had already established a tree farm when we arrived that October. He was experimenting with a variety of tree and plant materials not native to Florida, including California redwoods (which did not thrive) and several varieties of eucalyptus. “There are over five hundred varieties of eucalyptus in Australia,” Bill lectured us. “We should be able to find some that do well here.” And he did, for use as windbreaks and background screening.
