Movies that relied on the wizardry of mattes and optical printers, such as the original King Kong in 1933 and Citizen Kane in 1941, were increasing in popularity. Yet as exciting as the technology was, the devices were not yet available commercially. Movie studios that wanted to take advantage of the magic of optical printers had to build them in-house.
At the Walt Disney Studios, Ub Iwerks was the man in charge of visual effects. One of the first animators to draw Mickey Mouse was back after his own animation studio had closed its doors a few years previously. Iwerks was building an optical printer that had the potential to combine animation and live action. The new technology would come in handy for the second film developed from the Latin American goodwill trip, The Three Caballeros.
Walt’s directors had originally filmed a scene in the movie using a rear projection screen with animation running behind Aurora Miranda, a Brazilian singer and actress and younger sister of the legendary Carmen Miranda, and a few dancers. Donald Duck was projected onto the screen so that it looked like he was at her side, and the unlikely pair danced to a samba. But the scene lacked realism, and the artists were unhappy with it. Only by using the optical printer could they truly combine Miranda’s moves with that of her cartoon costars, Donald and the parrot José Carioca. Thanks to the technology Iwerks had engineered, the animated characters broke free of the background and looked like they were moving in front of and between the dancers.
Mary Blair played a key role in designing numerous scenes in both of the Latin American movies. Her drawings of children, a whimsical train, and unusual plants and flowers, along with her bold color choices, provided some of the films’ most striking features. Mary’s talents were highly praised, and she was no longer in direct competition with her husband at the studio. Lee had been drafted into the army and sent to Camp Livingston in northern Louisiana. Lee wrote to Mary telling her of his escapades, life in the military, and his new friends and professing his love for her. Yet he rarely asked about her work and life, and as is often the case, the distance between them exposed the faults in their relationship.
The person closest to Mary during the war years was not Lee, but Retta. With her husband gone, Mary found the house lonely, so she invited her friend to move in with her. The two were now both living and working together, as Retta had been rehired at the studio in the summer of 1942. She was happy to be back, for in her months away she had struggled to find creative endeavors. Along with animator Wolfgang Reitherman, known as Woolie to his friends, she had painted large canvases of military aircraft for local officer clubs and had put together a picture book about a bomber plane titled B-1st, although they couldn’t find a publisher. Woolie had a reputation at the studio for dating female colleagues, including both Grace and Retta. Retta and Woolie dated during the layoffs but when Woolie was rehired at the studio, they parted ways. Retta found work illustrating an airplane-parts catalog until she finally got her job back too.
Retta returned to the studio on August 12, 1942, one day before her work reappeared in American movie houses. On August 9, the long-awaited Bambi premiered in London, as a show of support for the city in the midst of World War II, and it was released in New York a few days later, on August 13. Among the fifteen animators credited, Retta was the only woman. It was the first time a female animator had ever been credited in Hollywood feature animation.
The critical reception to Bambi was mixed. Variety proclaimed, “Bambi is gem-like in its reflection of the color and movement of sylvan plant and animal life.” Variety also admired Sylvia’s thunderstorm for its “glow and texture.” Retta was proud of the abundance of praise for her work; Time had called her dogs “the most terrifying curs since Cerberus.”
Yet many hunters came out against the movie, and an article in Outdoor Life called it “the worst insult ever offered in any form to American sportsmen.” In a different vein, a review in the New York Times complained that the animation was too realistic, saying of Walt’s latest production, “His painted forest is hardly to be distinguished from the real forest shown by the Technicolor camera in The Jungle Book [the 1942 live-action film],” and asking, “Why have cartoons at all?” Bambi, like Pinocchio and Fantasia, would be an unequivocal failure at the box office, losing approximately one hundred thousand dollars in its first theatrical run.
Retta was thinking not of studio profits but of her own paycheck when she returned to work. She found an environment very different from the one she remembered—everything was smaller. Not only the staff and the grounds, but also the projects; they were far more limited in scope. No longer were the group members indulging in lengthy storyboard meetings in which they debated topics like the moral lessons central to a particular character. Their focus was on educational shorts, commercial projects, military propaganda films, and a small number of features, although these seemed unlikely to ever leave the studio walls. More upsetting still was her humbler position in the studio hierarchy. Before Retta was laid off, she had been a top animator, but when she was hired back, she was told that she could return three salary grades lower as an assistant animator or move over to the story department. Both options were demotions, so she reluctantly chose the story department, where she felt she’d have a greater chance of creative freedom.
But Retta would soon learn that artistic expression was not to be found in the projects currently under development.
When she returned to the studio, a nonfiction book called Victory Through Air Power, by Alexander P. de Seversky, was number one on the New York Times bestseller list. Released mere months after Pearl Harbor, the book was causing a sensation. The author had served in the Imperial Russian navy and in 1918 had been sent as an envoy to the United States. The timing was providential—it allowed de Seversky to escape the chaos of the Russian Revolution and the rise of the Soviet Union. With no wish to return to his home country, de Seversky offered his services to the War Department and was soon assistant to General William “Billy” Mitchell. The two men had much in common, as they both passionately believed that the future of combat depended on military aviation and that no other force, neither battleships nor troops, was nearly as critical. Mitchell felt so strongly about the dominance of air strategy and the need for a separate U.S. Air Force (which was not formed until 1946) that he was openly insubordinate, accusing the Navy and War Departments of “incompetency, criminal negligence, and almost treasonable administration of the national defense” in a 1925 press conference. After being court-martialed for his outspokenness, Mitchell ultimately resigned his commission and left the military.
De Seversky invented and patented many aeronautical instruments (including a gyroscopically stabilized bombsight and a device that allowed for air-to-air refueling) and started an airplane company that manufactured a fleet of nimble military aircraft. In 1939, however, its board of directors, frustrated at the business’s lack of profit despite multiple military contracts, forced de Seversky out.
Although he’d been removed from his own aircraft company, de Seversky remained a passionate proponent of aerial warfare. He wrote articles and gave lectures on the subject, and in 1942, his book Victory Through Air Power was published. The book, advocating for a separate air force and an aviation-centered strategy, drew both fierce criticism and warm praise, igniting a public debate about how war should be waged. Walt, like many, found de Seversky’s arguments persuasive. In fact, he was so convinced that he felt compelled to bring its contents “far beyond the limited audience of the book-reading public.”
With the war ongoing, speed was the chief consideration at the studio when adapting the book. The film needed no finesse from the optical printer; it included scenes of de Seversky and General Mitchell speaking directly to the camera, and basic animation carried the rest of the action, each thesis of the book illustrated with maps, planes, and submarines. Retta spent long hours animating arrows indicating battleships, airplanes, and supplies moving from the Americas and throughout Europe and Japan. She joked that the film
necessitated so many of her arrows that it should be called Victory Through Arrow Power.
While she missed the artistic wonderland of the studio during the early production on Bambi, Retta knew that her workplace was reflective of a changing world. Everyone’s life was altered, and the dreams she had cherished after graduating from Chouinard had to make way for new realities. At night Retta was happy to have Mary’s company, and the two of them drank cocktails on the large porch that had once hosted wild parties.
While Retta’s recent experience illustrating airplanes proved useful for the film, many in the studio regretted that Grace had left. Her expertise in aircraft would have been a rich source of knowledge for the film. Grace had hoped that leaving the studio would finally bring her the career in aviation she longed for. Yet World War II, rather than opening doors in the field for her, was shutting her out. First, her job at Fairchild Aviation was withdrawn. Next, her many inquiries for jobs as part of the war effort were rebuffed. Grace thought she might find work ferrying planes from the United States to Great Britain, as she knew women in England were performing similar work, and yet no one would hire her. With frustration she watched as men with less flying experience than herself were hired as copilots while her applications were continually passed over.
In the midst of this disappointment, Grace met Berkeley Brandt Jr., a pilot with a commercial license like herself. He flew for United Airlines and had an employment history and opportunities that Grace could only dream of. The two fell in love, and in late 1941, Grace was married in a white lace dress with a long train. Marriage did not dim her hopeful prospects for the future, but the continued prejudice she encountered against female pilots did.
“It is a total war,” Grace wrote in her diary. “It seems as though it should be the right time for every able-bodied person, man or woman, to help. Now more than ever even though I am married I feel that I can and should be of service, but still there are no opportunities.”
The film version of Victory Through Air Power, released in July 1943, was advertised with the tagline EVERY VITAL QUESTION YOU’VE ASKED SINCE PEARL HARBOR… ANSWERED AT LAST ON THE SCREEN! The film showed the horror of the Pearl Harbor bombing in animated Technicolor, and for the audience, the images of destruction, occurring so recently on American soil, were distressing. Yet Walt chose to keep violence in the picture. This was not timeless entertainment for all ages; this was a propaganda film.
The message of the film divided its audience. Many were persuaded by the animated scenes of airplanes dropping bombs across Europe and Asia that an air force was needed, and others were angered by the film’s shallow depiction of the significance of the navy and army. One of those who found its message ill-considered was President Roosevelt’s chief of staff, Admiral William Leahy. Attempts to have the film screened at the White House, one of Walt’s chief ambitions, were blocked.
He had better luck across the Atlantic, where Winston Churchill not only viewed the feature but appeared to find its message persuasive. When Churchill met with Roosevelt in August 1943 to plan the D-Day invasion of France, he asked the American president if he’d seen it. When Roosevelt replied that he hadn’t, Churchill insisted that a fighter plane rush a print of the film to them, and they watched it twice in two days. Walt had accomplished his ultimate goal of sending its message to those in power.
What role the movie played in shaping future tactics is unknown, although it seems likely that it only reinforced the already growing reliance on aviation among military planners. A year after the film’s release, June 6, 1944, D-Day marked the largest aerial operation in history, with transports, bombers, reconnaissance planes, fighter planes, and troop-carrier planes all playing critical roles in the storming of the beaches at Normandy.
Although many women worked on Victory Through Air Power, including Retta and Sylvia, the only one to receive screen credit was Natalie Kalmus, the ever-present color director, brought in for Technicolor consultation. Although the strike had sought to democratize how artists were credited, the results were as subjective as they’d ever been. Retta was not credited for her work on Fantasia, Dumbo, or Victory Through Air Power. Other artists were similarly denied on-screen acknowledgment. Tyrus Wong, whose color palette and visual style defined Bambi, was listed as merely a “background artist.” The artists who benefited from the hierarchy of on-screen credit were those who were favorites of Walt’s, such as Mary Blair.
In red pastels, Retta drew an impish creature donning a flight helmet and goggles. Its mischievous grin made Mary laugh when she saw it, but the author who had described the troublemaking character would not find Retta’s sketches quite so amusing. The creatures were called gremlins, and Royal Air Force pilots in England had dreamed them up during World War II to use as all-purpose scapegoats for the many mechanical failures of modern aircraft.
Roald Dahl, a flight lieutenant in the RAF during World War II, wrote a story about the creatures, “Gremlin Lore.” As a boy, Dahl had enjoyed writing stories, but his instructors did not believe the young man possessed any extraordinary talent. One of his English teachers wrote in a report, “I have never met anybody who so persistently writes words meaning the exact opposite of what is intended.”
Dahl had been a combat pilot, but after suffering numerous injuries, he was sent to Washington, DC, as a military attaché. At his desk job, he wrote adventure tales of his experiences, including “Gremlin Lore,” which told of a band of endearing troublemakers. As an officer in the RAF, he could not have his stories published without the approval of the head of the British Information Services in the United States, Sidney L. Bernstein. But Bernstein wasn’t merely a government liaison; he was also a well-known English movie producer with connections to Walt Disney. Believing that the story Dahl had written had the potential for adaptation, he sent a copy to Walt on July 1, 1942.
Nearly everything Walt and the studio were working on was related to World War II, and although wary about the fleeting nature of war entertainment, Walt telegrammed less than two weeks later that he wanted to secure the rights to the material. Dahl was an unpublished writer and so had few demands, his only stipulation being that he should have the “opportunity to pass upon the general characterization and technical details,” a seemingly inconsequential line that would later prove challenging to Retta and the studio.
Dahl’s story was sold to Cosmopolitan magazine that September, and Walt Disney Studios was slated to create illustrations for the piece. In many ways, the published story was a test run; the hope was that its popularity would pave the way for a feature film. The fervor for gremlins, however, grew far more quickly than the studio expected. The legend had made its way to American airmen stationed in Great Britain, and by late 1942, articles about the devious creatures were being published in dozens of magazines.
Retta drew her gremlins as both rascally and adorable, small in stature with barely visible blue-tinged wings, too-large boots, and green horns on their heads. Her drawings portray creatures that resemble naughty children playing in dress-up clothes. Dahl was not amused, writing, “If only I had been able to come down and talk with you about them, I know I could have, at any rate, given you an accurate description of what they looked like.” The twenty-six-year-old writer was insistent that the creatures should wear green bowler hats instead of flight helmets and goggles, citing his personal observations on the airfield.
Dahl traveled to Burbank and spoke with the studio artists, describing with minute exactness how gremlins should look and act. He wasn’t the only pilot to visit—Walt put out a call asking available RAF airmen to come to California, and dozens of pilots arrived to offer tales of the gremlins and eyewitness accounts of their appearance and behavior. The depiction of the creatures became so complex that in the story department, the staff made a chart to organize the vast array of guidelines governing gremlin behavior. The artists listened to the men sympathetically, hiding their surprise that these military professionals, all of whom appeared sane, talk
ed with certainty about seeing creatures scampering around their planes. Retta and Mary worked together from the detailed interviews and research, Retta sketching while Mary developed the color palette.
Even as the story treatment and artwork were taking shape, the physical appearance of the gremlins was still hotly debated. Not only did Dahl continue to have strong notions about what his characters should look like, what clothing they should wear, and how they should behave, but a clause in the signed contract required both his approval and that of Britain’s air ministry.
Between the studio’s difficulties with revisions for the film and Dahl’s displeasure at their design, the project ultimately became more trouble than it was worth. The storyboards were scrapped, and production for it shut down. Dahl’s story, however, would still be published in Cosmopolitan, under the pseudonym Pegasus, and would later be published as a book, the proceeds of which were donated to the RAF Benevolent Fund.
Many within the studio’s walls were beginning to feel as though everything they produced was destined for failure. Pinocchio, Fantasia, and Bambi had lost millions at the box office. Dumbo, even with its reduced production costs, barely broke even. Saludos Amigos and The Three Caballeros (released in 1944) had earned a small profit, but Victory Through Air Power had lost half a million dollars. Training shorts commissioned by the U.S. government were helping to keep the studio afloat, but the threat of bankruptcy lingered. With their meager staff and suppressed creativity, the artists at Walt Disney Studios were starting to think that animation, an enterprise that relied on hand drawings and the artistic spark, was antiquated and couldn’t possibly turn a profit.
The Queens of Animation Page 16
