There is one face in entertainment that’s new and old simultaneously. Old because it’s been around ever since Mickey Mouse starred in Steamboat Willie. New because the old master has been conjuring up a project—it tells American history with life-sized, animated figures of our presidents—that’s as revolutionary as sound was when Jolson sang “Sonny Boy.”
Walt Disney has held on tight to the common touch and contact with everyday people. He maintains an apartment, furnished in grandmother’s style, in one of the buildings overlooking Main Street at Disneyland. On many a Saturday night Walt and his wife will sit up there, tweaking back the lace curtains that cover the windows, gazing at the crowds below like children watching a Memorial Day parade. It’s a real bit of Americana up to date.
He doesn’t acknowledge that anything but clean, good-humored pictures exist. He has never, to the best of my knowledge, sat through a single reel of the off-color, highly seasoned imports from France, Japan, and Italy that flood our screens today. By sticking to purity and fun he makes more money than ever before—and spends it as fast as it pours in.
He once almost lost Disneyland to the bankers who had extended necessary construction loans. But he was saved by the gong. He made a new picture, which earned more money than anyone had anticipated, and the big bad wolves were foiled again. The only living soul that Walt fights with is his brother Roy, who is the professional hard guy in Disney Productions, doomed to keep on wailing: “Walt, you’re spending too much money.”
My own modest contribution to the bank balance consisted of badgering Walt for five years to reissue Snow White, since I was convinced that a new audience grew up every season for his picturing of this timeless classic. In the end, he was persuaded and showed his thanks in the heaped-up basket of presents he sent my granddaughter Joan every Christmas.
He insisted on throwing a birthday party at his studio for her, with her whole school class, their mothers and teachers invited. We all watched a special showing of some Disney cartoons, then made our way to the party, which was held in Walt’s private penthouse atop the studio building. As the presents were handed out to every guest, ice cream and cookies devoured, cake cut with its miniature merry-go-round playing “Happy Birthday,” I noticed a detail that Walt had overlooked: the walls of the room had been adorned by Disney cartoonists with murals of rather handsomely equipped females without benefit of clothing.
One little fellow on the guest list wasn’t paying much attention to the gifts or the goodies. His eyes were riveted on the naked girls. “I’ve never seen ladies like that before,” he said when I went over to him. “I like them. I think I’ll be an artist when I grow up.”
I relayed the incident, with a chuckle, to Walt. His permanently raised eyebrows arched up an inch or so higher. “Oh, sure,” he grinned, “I forgot all about those pictures. There was only one youngster staring at them? Well, that’s all right. They won’t kill him.”