Below you can find information on topics, mostly focused on a 1971 - 1994 date range, arranged in the following order:
WDW Planning & Construction * WDW Transporation * The Magic Kingdom * WDW Resort Hotels * Lake Buena Vista * EPCOT Center * Miscellaneous WDW * WED Enterprises
PREFACE / INTRODUCTION / WARNING
This site is basically 30-plus years worth of scattered paragraphs about early WDW - absolute facts, impolite opinions and speculative junk written at different times by someone who grew up with the resort in the 1970s, worked there in the 1980s and documented a lot of it in the 1990s. It's not really suitable for reading as a single piece, although of course you're at liberty to read it any way you like, and it only covers specific aspects of its subject matter (especially the weirder stuff, like dark rides and magic shops). There are two basic premises behind this site, 1) from 1971 to 1994, this place that Walt Disney Productions built in the middle of Florida was the most amazing manmade attraction on the planet and 2) early WDW still doesn't get enough love from the company that spawned it, primarily because so many of the people who could provide the missing love are on the opposite side of the country and simply don't know what early WDW actually felt like to guests who experienced it (any more than someone who grew up with WDW could truly understand how special Disneyland is without actually visiting Anaheim). Widen Your World is an attempt to communicate what that early WDW feeling was, and provide context for those who wish they could have seen it firsthand.
Of course the story of Walt Disney World mostly begins with Disneyland, which Walt Disney built in Anaheim California for a July 1955 opening. It was a hit, capturing the imagination of the entire world, defining what it meant to be a theme park, revolutionizing the concept of rides and customer service, coining the use of the term "guests," and much more. It's still growing today and will, as Disney himself said, never be completed. I'm not recapping Disneyland's history here because the world doesn't need more accounts of something so well-documented from someone who wasn't even alive when the place opened, but some of my favorite Disneyland images are posted here.
Because of how great a success his first park was, Walt Disney soon began thinking about the prospects for other physical environments in other places. In 1958, Disney hired Harrison "Buzz" Price's Economic Research Associates to begin evaluating locations for another Disney project in the eastern United States. Disney put substantial time and effort into a mid-1960s plan for a park in St. Louis called Riverfront Square, but before and during that time he was looking at Florida as a likely location for his next venture. He commissioned two additional reports in 1959 and another in 1961, the result of which was that Ocala would be the ideal site, with Orlando coming in second. After yet another report in 1963 elevated Orlando to the top of the locations, and immediately following a meeting in St. Louis where Walt was verbally insulted by the head of Anheuser-Busch over Disney's refusal to consider the sale of alcohol at Riverfront Square, Walt flew over Central Florida that November and set the wheels in motion for what would becomes Walt Disney World. At the same time, Walt and his WED Enterprises design team were hard at work on four new attractions for the 1964-1965 World's Fair in New York City, which would have a substantial impact on much of what ultimately was planned for, and transpired in, Florida.
By mid-1964, the exact location and plots of land that Disney would purchase (using fake company names and operatives with CIA and/or extensive legal backgrounds, chief among them William Donovan, Paul Helliwell and Phil Smith) had been decided upon, with the center of the site being about 15 miles southwest of Orlando. Three major parcels for the site were tied down by August and a year later there were less than 300 acres left to secure out of the final count of 27,443. Orlando had been a quiet citrus and cattle town for most of its history, with some tourism activity related to its location through which people headed south toward Miami, southwest toward Cypress Gardens, northwest toward Silver Springs or, at its own doorstep, Gatorland. But now it was ablaze with rumors regarding who was purchasing all that property. The names and theories thrown out for consideration ranged from the Hercules Powder Company, Ford Motor Company and Boeing. Why so much land, and why the secrecy? The guessing game was intense and often zany, with Orlando Sentinel columnist Charlie Wadsworth hot on the trail of any lead or source that might reveal the identity of his "mystery industry." Disney did make the list of potential buyers in the mix, but was not a prime suspect. Not until Emily Bavar got involved.
Paul Helliwell (1915-1976) was a US Colonel, OSS Officer, CIA Operative and Miami Attorney who helped Walt Disney Productions negotitate with Florida property owners in order to secure parcels for Walt Disney World when the company's identity was still being kept secret from the public and all but a handful of businesspeople, namely those involved with the land acquisitions. Prior to assisting Disney Helliwell had been instrumental in setting up offshore banks and shell companies to help the CIA with various projects deemed by his employers to be in the interest of national security. For Helliwell this also meant dealing with organized crime figures and foreign operatives that could advance US programs without an appearance of having been underwritten by the US government. His experience was key in Disney's secret land purchase operation and also the priniciples behind WDP setting up its own municipalities within the Reedy Creek Improvement District.
On October 17th, 1965, Bavar, an Orlando Sentinel reporter, printed her firm belief that Walt Disney Productions had purchased the land. She and other reporters from across the country had been invited to visit Disneyland on the occasion of that park's tenth anniversary. During a Q&A session with Walt, she asked if he was behind the Florida land purchases. She said he was shocked by the question and that his answer belied a detailed knowledge of the region's details such as annual rainfall and tourist visitation even as he told her Central Florida was not the kind of place he'd want to locate an attraction. Bavar, referring back to Walt's response years later, said "he wasn't a very good liar." Although few took her story seriously at first glance, within a couple days her editors decided to make her educated guess a front page headline. On October 24th, Florida Governor Haydon Burns confirmed in a public announcement that he'd received official word from Walt Disney: his company was in fact the owner of 43 square miles of land near Orlando.
Walt Disney might have chosen Central Florida not entirely as the result of research, but also out of a bit of sentimentality. His parents, Flora and Elias, had been married in Kismet, Florida in 1888. Kismet no longer exists but was located in north Lake County, in the Paisley area. Although their parents moved to Chicago before Walt and his brother Roy were born (respectively in 1901 and 1893), the two visited relatives just north of Orlando periodically... decades before Disneyland itself was even built.
As far as history has recorded, however, the first and only time that Walt Disney actually set foot in the city of Orlando was November 16, 1965, when he, Roy and Burns held a press conference in the Egyptian Room of the Cherry Plaza Hotel on the western shore of Lake Eola. While it seems from the standpoint of revelations that Walt and Roy hadn't expected to be attending this type of event at such an early date in the project's lifespan, Walt did make mention of plans to equal or top the amount of investment that he had made in California. But he also stressed that he had too many possible ideas for what might materialize in Florida for him to list them off, and that all of the prospects were preliminary. Between Governor Burns and the reporters, you can see in videos of the event that everyone just wanted to hear Walt say he was going to build another Disneyland (something they could wrap their heads around in terms of scope, size and concept), but Walt didn't cave to the pressure. No concept art was presented at the time and the best verbal indicator for what the thousands of interested parties could hope to see Walt Disney Productions develop in Florida was a unique, family attraction that might include a model community.
Try to imagine being the governor of Florida when all of this was happening and, immediately afterward, when the announcement has passed and Walt has returned to California to begin the long process of assigning form to what he will build in Florida, when all the heated speculation as to the owner of the land has concluded and when your entire state is recovering from the biggest announcement to be made there since the advent of television. And now, time for peaceful reflection? Nope, because now you're being deluged with all sorts of inquiries about every single possible aspect of Disney coming to Florida from every conceivable governmental or business interest from all corners of the state, wanting connections, influence, assurances or special insights when you are in fact in possession of not much more information on Walt Disney's plans than the average reporter was during that press conference. Inquiries ranging from the mundane to the borderline insane. That probably sucked. Anyway, among the images here you'll find some correspondence that speaks to exactly what Governor Burns was contending with during that time period (the one about legalized bullfights is a gem).
Meanwhile, Walt Disney, fresh off A) giving the world a consciously vague introduction to the biggest and most expensive project his company has ever planned to tackle and B) the 1964-1965 New York World's Fair... for which he had produced four original shows... coming to a close, had a lot on his mind regarding what would come next.
Of course there were ideas Walt had for Florida by November 1965 that he just wasn't ready to share with anyone outside his organization. Plenty of concepts that he had overseen for the development of not only Disneyland and the World's Fair, but also Riverboat Square in St. Louis and a proposed Mineral King ski resort in Sequoia Valley, California provided him with more than enough content to build two entire theme parks if he so desired without the need for a single "new" proposal. He had already made mention, however, in the Orlando press conference how his team was incredibly capable of coming up with concepts and executing them quickly (he cited It's A Small World, designed for Pepsi-Cola's and UNICEF's World's Fair presence, as an example of something that went from "gag sessions" to opening for the public in a mere eleven months). Some of the concepts that former Disney animator Marc Davis devised, in his then-recent reassignment to the position of Imagineer with WED Enterprises (Walt's self-acronymical theme park design firm), for Mineral King and Riverboat Square would find themselves marked for Florida quickly, primarily a musical show with animatronic bears and a Lewis & Clark Expedition boat ride. Walt really liked both concepts and had other Florida-specific elements in mind which he had his creative team working on full tilt.
As a practical matter, Walt had clear notions about creating a self-contained destination resort that existed apart from everything around it. One of the reasons he wanted 40 square miles was to ensure that when his guests were on Disney property, their eyes and ears would not be distracted by the sights and sounds of the outside world as they were for guests of Disneyland in Anaheim... where the freeways and billboards and high-rise hotels encroached upon the borders of his kingdom and worked against the illusory qualities inherent to the park's appeal. In Florida this would be entirely avoidable and every component of the project would complement the others. "Twice the size as the island of Manhattan," in Walt's words, and all of it to be orchestrated in full-scale harmony. There would be a theme park comparable to Disneyland, without question. It would contain attractions familiar to Disneyland guests and also some unique to Florida. Themed resorts connected to the park and other features of the resort by Alweg Monorail, Peoplemover lines or boat, golf courses, artificial waterways adjoining Bay Lake (with more islands within them), water activities such as swimming, skiing, nightly cruises and a "swamp ride." An industrial park, an entrance complex and day guest parking area, and an airport.
The number of things his company could do to entertain people was essentially limitless with that much acreage in their hands. Walt, however, was thinking about something much bigger than rides, hotels or even theme parks for his land. He was thinking about a city. By the way, this is the segueway to the section about EPCOT (the city).
Almost everyone who's familiar with Walt Disney World has heard about EPCOT (in all caps), as opposed to EPCOT Center (later Epcot) the modern-day theme park, and that the acronym stood for Experimental Prototype Community Of Tomorrow, Walt Disney's name for a futuristic city he wanted to build in Florida. But very few people know exactly why Walt Disney spent the last two years of his life increasingly focused on plans for a city, or how he caught that bug so feverishly so late in the game. I don't know either. I THINK I do, though, so this is where I restate my personal theory that the 1964-1965 New York World's Fair, where Walt spent so much time, caused him to take a hard left turn from designing things with city-like aspects to them, like a studio campus or a theme park, to actually wanting to build a city. More pointedly, I think when Walt Disney first rode General Motors' Futurama II at the fair in 1964, he stepped off the ride a changed man - inspired and on fire. His organization had put together four dynamic presentations for the Fair but had not really tackled the subject of the future there (beyond postscripts), and the future was something of immense interest to him. And here he saw it done by another company in a dramatic style that he himself might have employed: bright, bold, colorful and underscored with a sweeping soundtrack. Even though the Tomorrowland section of Disneyland was about to undergo some major upgrades back in California, none of them were as amazing in scope as that General Motors show. That GM pavilion was the only World's Fair show, incidentally, to be more popular than Disney's four shows. It's weird to me that no one has even suggested this link in a book or published article (at least not before I first posted it on Widen Your World in 2014), because if you read Steve Mannheim's Walt Disney and the Quest for Community (2002), which is as detailed a work as you're going to find on Walt's urban intentions, you'll learn that Imagineer Richard Irvine remarked upon the strong impact Walt Disney felt the original (1939) Futurama exhibit had on the public. And here, decades later, Futurama's sequel ends with an extravagantly detailed, animated and fully lit model of a future metropolis, to which the Progress City model that Walt has his team building in 1966 (for the 1967 relocation of the original Carousel of Progress to Disneyland) bears so much resemblance that one could not rationally think of it as coincidental. Especially given that there is no actual record of Walt expressing any desire to build a city, or a neighborhood, or even a scale model of a city, prior to the 1964 World's Fair. In fact, the one book on city planning that Walt's colleagues and his daughter Diane said he carried with him was Victor Gruen's The Heart Of Our Cities, which was published in 1964. Imagineer John Hench stated in Mannheim's book that Walt had been following Gruen's work for years, but there's no practical evidence of that sparking any ideas in Walt's mind for a city of his own at some earlier date. I'm always going to believe that the primary credit for what Walt did next is due to Futurama II, because it is the most conspicuous potential missing link between the well-documented ends of a chain.
It's fundamental to this matter, however, that Walt Disney be given credit not just for going beyond plans for a model and launching into the process of actually making such a city come into existence (as far as he could take it personally), but also for demonstrating throughout his life the kind of drive, flair and passion for experimentation and risk-taking that is essential to human progress. And it was definitely a risk for him to stake his reputation on something that unprecedented after 40 years of defining and refining family entertainment... for him to mark EPCOT as the centerpiece of his entire Florida vision, which itself he must have known was going to be his final major project. At the time of its construction, Phase One of Walt Disney World was built around the notion of EPCOT falling into the middle of the works a few years later. Of course, it didn't happen the way the company originally mapped it out. The dichotomous theme park that appropriated the EPCOT acronym in 1982 shared very few physical or conceptual qualities with the idea after which it was named and whose space on the property map it ended up occupying. And the explanations given for this over the years have been as varied as the range of rough drafts that broke EPCOT down into a bankable enterprise instead of the incredible, far-reaching gamble originally envisioned by the "world's master showman."
Disney had been involved in matters of space planning, crowd flow and infrastructure for decades leading into the 1960s. The Disney Studios, the CarolWood Pacific Railroad, Disneyland and CalArts were some obvious examples where his hand could be seen in the development of real-life environments which would be inhabited, whether for a few hours or a full career, by real-world people. If you look at where Walt's attentions were in terms of his early 1960s project workload, he was literally into a little bit of everything (animated films, bobsled rides, live-action musicals, submarines, treehouses and World's Fair attractions - nearly all of which have become iconic). Even after the World's Fair and the November 1965 Florida press conference, he was involved in the development of many future attractions such as Pirates of the Caribbean and The Haunted Mansion, as well as films like The Jungle Book and The Happiest Millionaire. His top project, though, was given special attention and treatment. Walt had a group designers at the studio working on virtually nothing but the utopian guts of his Florida Project, to plan the conversion of WED artist Herb Ryman's paintings from canvas to blueprints to steel.
EPCOT's signature visual feature was its 30-story hotel structure placed in the dead center of the city's elliptical layout. This spatial configuration, a.k.a. "the radial plan," was basically an extension of the hub principle employed to success at Disneyland and was closely related to Ebenezer Howard's garden city and Victor Gruen's cellular metropolis of tomorrow - a circular city with businesses and community gathering spots positioned with increased density toward the central point. Everything would radiate out from there like spokes on a wheel. Office buildings, convention centers, the hotel and recreational spaces would sit atop the city center's roof. Underneath that roof, completely enclosed and climate-controlled, were the transportation center, office space, storefronts and an international shopping area. Along the perimeter of this core would sit high-density apartment buildings, home to some of the city's workers. Just beyond these structures would be an expansive green belt where community buildings, schools, churches, sports and recreational complexes for EPCOT's residents would be located. Further out, surrounding the entire development, would lie the low-density neighborhood areas. Here houses would back up against broad parks where children could play safely, free from traffic.
The purpose of this city, in Walt's words, was to "build a living showcase that more people will talk about and come to look at than any other area in the world." It was designed for a population of 20,000 who would live, work, learn and play primarily within EPCOT or other parts of Walt Disney World. And the entire complex would be charged with the daunting task of continually forecasting American urban and home life 25 years into the future. American industries would be constantly updating the technologies in both the commercial buildings and the homes, and those industries would be heavily relied upon as financial partners in the venture.
EPCOT's transportation system would consist largely of two technologies that Disney had already been using or developing at the time: the monorail and the peoplemover. The monorail would run straight through the center of the city with a station directly below the hotel. In this "transportation lobby," there would be connecting service to all parts of the community via the peoplemover. This system would radiate from the central lobby on separate tracks to the outer points of the low-density residential areas, with intermittent stations (vs. stops, for the peoplemover never stops). It was projected that residents would only need their cars for making long trips, not for commuting or shopping. While EPCOT contained plenty of roadways, they were all set up to flow effortlessly in counter-clockwise circles, both large and small, as a result of master-planning. Industrial automotive vehicles would be relegated to streets and parking spaces below the center of the city to keep things practical and looking pretty. It was even predicted that "nowhere in Disney World will a signal light ever slow the constant flow of traffic." What fun would predictions be if they all came true?
As mentioned above, EPCOT was to be the key component of Walt Disney World, the crucial stop on an almost six-mile long stretch of monorail beam that would also visit the theme park area, a 1,000-acre industrial park and a massive entrance complex which in turn connected with a "Jet Airport of the Future." This was Walt Disney World as envisioned by its namesake. This was the plan he sketched out himself and supervised as it was taken further toward a master plan. But it was only about a year after he made the first announcement that Walt died, on December 15, 1966. This was the beginning of the end for the EPCOT and the "Florida Project" as he saw it.
Yet the public knew little about just how he saw it until February 2, 1967. This was when a film he made about EPCOT the previous October was first seen by anyone outside Walt Disney Productions. It premiered at the Park East Theater in Winter Park, FL, where it was screened for Florida business and government figures. It served as a fantastic pitch, something to not only confirm that the company would move ahead with Walt Disney World and whet the appetites of potential corporate sponsors, but to also pave the way for the Reedy Creek Improvement District legislation that the company would successfully seek to have passed later that year in Tallahassee. This legislation gave the company extensive governmental controls over its Florida property. The film served another purpose that the company would find less desirable in the long run: it cemented certain concepts in the public's collective consciousness, one of which was the image of EPCOT, this beautiful city Walt had obsessed over and that was not outlined in as vague a set of terms as some in the company would suggest not too many years later.
In late 1967, a massive model of EPCOT debuted as the finale for Disneyland's Carousel of Progress. The Carousel of Progress was brought to Disneyland for the "whole new" Tomorrowland after a two-year run at the World's Fair. The model, pictured above and below, was called Progress City during its Disneyland years. When the Carousel of Progress was shipped to Walt Disney World for a 1975 opening, a section of the model came to Florida as well. It was installed as a part of the WEDway Peoplemover and as of 2017 could still be seen today by guests riding the attraction.
After the updated Carousel Of Progress and several other new attractions were unveiled at Disneyland in 1967, the primary concern at WED (the company's design & engineering arm) was master-planning the first phase of Walt Disney World. This would consist of a Disneyland-type theme park, several resort hotels, a wide array of recreational options, a transportation system linking all of those together and a support infrastructure that would service the same areas. Phase One's five-year development plan would provide the foundation upon which the company would build the remainder of the "Florida Project." As late as 1969, what lie beyond Phase One was still projected in basic accordance with Walt's outline. But it was off in the distance and nothing had been done to further define the plans or set any timetables. By 1970, with the opening of Walt Disney World just ahead, EPCOT, the industrial park, airport and entrance complex were planted firmly in the background.
Walt Disney World opened on October 1, 1971 to rave reviews and, soon enough, great attendance figures. Plans for additions to, and the refinement of, the first phase of the project sprang up almost immediately to meet the demands of guests arriving in greater-than-expected numbers. This trend continued for a couple years as the company became comfortable with its Florida empire and reacted to its needs.
During this time, EPCOT was barely mentioned. Careful attention was also being given to the context surrounding the precious few EPCOT allusions that did make it into company publications. The planned development of land at Lake Buena Vista (townhouses, apartments and condominiums) was heralded in the company's 1972 annual report as a step toward the development of EPCOT - as was the demand for "WED Enterprises to do consulting work in transportation, recreational and city planning" in 1973. A section of the post-show exhibit space in the Magic Kingdom's Walt Disney Story attraction, which opened in May 1973, had EPCOT city renderings on one wall just as the Disney Story film showed the painting. How it would come to pass, however, was yet to be revealed. All the while, a corner was being turned slowly in Glendale. Around that corner there would be a frequent usage of one particular statement Walt had made: that EPCOT would be a "Community of Tomorrow that will never be completed, but will always be introducing and testing and demonstrating new materials and new systems."
On May 15, 1974, Card Walker (then President and chief operating officer of the company) announced to a meeting of the American Marketing Association that Walt Disney Productions would be moving ahead "in a phased program" with the development of Walt Disney's concept for EPCOT. The company reasoned that Phase One of Walt Disney World was essentially completed ahead of schedule and it was time to turn toward Phase Two. The idea for a World Showcase of nations was introduced - its likely genesis in the International Shopping area concept and of course past World's Fairs. More importantly, EPCOT was now being considered "from the point of view of economics, operations, technology, and market potential." While the future phases of EPCOT were left very hazy, Walker did state that the company was not seeking "the commitment of individuals and families to permanent residence." Rather the company was looking for "long-term commitments from industry and nations."
Or, in other words, there wasn't going to be a city. The process of taking Walt's EPCOT apart and concocting something different with the pieces had begun. WED Enterprises spent about six years tossing ideas around, scrapping many and fine-tuning others. Future World was conceived as the "introducing and testing and demonstrating new materials and new systems" part of the project. It was grafted onto World Showcase and EPCOT Center was born. Groundbreaking took place October 1, 1979.
The term "center" in the name of this new theme park, though no longer used today, was a crucial part of the company's strategy at the time. From the beginning, Walt Disney World was built with EPCOT in mind, and even the development of Phase One had employed a variety of new systems and processes. From the modular construction techniques used in building the hotels to the water hyacinth waste treatment program, Walt Disney World was a sort of testing ground. And now the company purported that WDW was EPCOT and had been EPCOT all along, and EPCOT Center was where the "new materials and new systems" of WDW/EPCOT would be shown to the public. It was a fairly daring rationale to put forth to anyone who remembered Walt Disney's film or had seen the initial intended scope of Project Florida. But the company was doing just that, straight-faced and free of concessions.
The approach had an inherent flaw about which, strangely enough, journalists failed to question Disney management during EPCOT Center's construction and opening. It was that while WDW had dabbled in a handful of experimental processes, none of the cornerstone precepts of EPCOT the city had been applied to development of WDW since 1971, and precious few were being built into EPCOT Center itself. On-property transit for employees from parking lots to their work locations was handled by fossil fuel-burning buses rather than clean, electric Peoplemover systems. The majority of connections for on-property resort guests was also handled by bus instead of monorail. The "pedestrian is king" concept never truly caught on. Traffic lights did, of course, catch on... exponentially since working roadways into a constant circular flow was apparently too costly or complicated or both (or, worse, not even a consideration as the resort expanded under the guidance of next-gen planners never versed in the resort's original goals). And the company's highly-touted utilidor concept was only employed one more time on property, in EPCOT Center, and only below a small portion of the park's Communicore area. The Magic Kingdom's AVAC trash-collection system was never replicated in another park. In short, almost none of those forward-looking concepts that were integral to WDW Phase One and which formed the basis of the weak rationale that "all of WDW was EPCOT" were not carried forward past EPCOT Center's opening. Kind of sad.
In 1990 ABC's Chris Wallace interviewed Walt Disney Attractions President Dick Nunis for a Prime Time Live segment on WDW. During their conversation, Wallace asked Nunis about EPCOT, the city that never materialized. Nunis, who had years earlier suggested to Orlando-Land magazine editor Edward L. Prizer that the EPCOT plans Walt left behind were sketchy at best, responded by asking Wallace, "isn't this a city?" He offered by way of example the fact that thousands of guests spent the night on WDW property every evening, and they were real people. Using Nunis' logic, guests at WDW hotels had become the citizens of EPCOT, an extension of the theory that WDW was EPCOT. Others within the company, such as Marty Sklar, have offered more straightforward accounts of EPCOT's end. They assert that Walt's successors really didn't know what to do with his city, or how to do it without him. He was the one consumed with the passion for the project, and without his hand in the process the only palatable option was to make something out of it that was in keeping with proven formulas; i.e., turn it into a theme park venture that wouldn't scare the stockholders too much. Not that EPCOT Center itself was without its own nail-biting observers. Anyone in the company nervous about the park's prospects for success was, really, just being rational.
That theme park, by the way, became Epcot instead of EPCOT Center in 1995. In dropping the "Center" from the title and changing the acronym to a name, the company exercised some sound judgment in allowing for the difference between EPCOT the city and Epcot the park. In 1996, Disney's newly developed "town" of Celebration (Osceola County, FL) welcomed its first residents. This planned community has been compared to Walt's plans for EPCOT by many of the company's high-ranking officials. Some reasoned that the spirit of EPCOT was being fulfilled by Celebration, 30 years after Disney's city concept was first introduced. It was and is difficult, however, to reconcile that kind of reasoning with that 1966 painting, with that model or with Walt's EPCOT film. If Celebration was in any way intended to serve as a stand-in for EPCOT as a community, it didn't deliver on the basic experimental principles around which EPCOT originally conceived.
Some of those who worked with Walt doubted that even he could have pulled off the experimental city. Animator Ward Kimball for one, who was Walt Disney Productions' preeminent artist/lunatic-in-residence for decades, expressed uncharacteristic reservations about EPCOT's potential in an interview with my Disney research associate Ross Plesset. The sentiment that "you can't experiment with people's lives" has come up on more than one occasion in discussions with other WDP figures. This isn't true given that governments, corporations and doctors experiment with people's lives when they decided how much police protection to give a neighborhood, how much medicine to prescribe you or how much they pay you vs. how much fun they make your workplace, but the notion falters for a more specific reason: before Walt Disney died it was already established that anyone living in EPCOT would do so on a temporary basis, most likely for no more than two years. This doesn't change the fact that it would still have been an exercise in authority, control and human nature, but its intended long-range impact was not to be on individual families but the world at large.
One thing about EPCOT that persists in rearing its impossible head is the assertion that it was going to be a "domed city." After reading various quick newspieces from the past 25 years and comparing those to Walt Disney Productions actual plans for EPCOT, one would wonder how anyone might believe that the Disney company would cover a billion-dollar city of the future with a translucent dome that would, if built to truly span the city center, represent an engineering feat that shamed the Pantheon just so they could pit air-conditioning technology against the intense greenhouse effect that would result from a massive dome in one of the warmest climates in the USA. It doesn't make a lick of sense. But there have also been references to this big dome in more scholarly works such as Mannheim's book. He wrote that Walt's EPCOT film contains animation depicting a hemispherical dome enclosing the city's 50-acre core. What the film actually depicts is a close-up ... concurrent with the narrator's reference to the enclosed, climate-controlled city center ... of a domed skylight structure built into the city center's flat roof. Depending on which EPCOT rendering you view, there were twelve to thirty of those around the central roof structure. EPCOT would have been full of domes, but none in the plans had a diameter exceeding about 75 feet. The mere fact that there were a series of these small domes shown on the city center roof makes the notion of a larger dome covering the whole of that roof ridiculous, since it would make the smaller ones superfluous. But this is typical of misinformation about Disney, such as Walt being frozen or John Hench being a vampire, that perpetuates itself indefinitely.
In the end, combining all the rumors, drawings, interviews, rationales and facts of EPCOT yields a perplexing portrait of magnificent ambitions being tempered by cold corporate feet. It's unlikely that EPCOT will ever go full-scale in anything like its original form, but discussions surrounding just what it would have become if built will likely continue for decades. As for how much of a role GM's Futurama II actually played in driving Walt to pursue the concept of a future city, no potential answer really diminishes the immensity of what he intended to build. To me it's just funny that none of his associates ever said, "Oh, yeah, EPCOT definitely started with that GM show." Because, seriously.
It's hard not to feel bad for Florida Governor Haydon Burns. Here this poor guy is dealing with all of the bureaucratic and political workings of Disney coming to Florida when he gets defeated in the summer of 1966 for the Democratic gubernatorial nomination by Robert High of Miami (who then goes on to lose the election against Claude Kirk in November). That's a pretty big kick in the pants for Burns, who was only elected to the office in 1964. So, licking his wounds and preparing to relinquish the governor's mansion to a Republican, he still has one bright spot in his short legacy - being the governor who announced the Disney project and sat with Walt Disney in that legendary press conference. And just a few weeks later, Walt Disney dies and the entire future of everything that you promised to bend over backwards to see accomplished is now totally uncertain. What a nightmare. But nothing, really, compared to the nightmare facing Roy O. Disney and the second echelon of Walt Disney Productions' staff upon their loss of the company's namesake.
Not many people, even those close to Walt Disney, knew how bad his health was in 1966. Even in his final weeks, according to many of his WED Enterprises associates of the time, he wasn't revealing the severity of his condition.
TEXT PLACEHOLDER (IF YOU ARE HOLDING YOUR BREATH, DON'T) (IF YOU ARE HOLDING YOUR HORSES, FINE)
This first image below links to a .pdf file I created of the 1967 Project Florida book that was distributed to Florida business and governmental figures in 1967.
Fantasyland has always been my favorite land in any of the Disney parks, and even though Florida's Fantasyland became permanently (it would seem) overshadowed by California's in 1983 in terms of old school Disney detail and density, only the one I grew up with commands my subconscious as if I were its Manchurian candidate.
When people write "seriously" about Walt Disney World history, especially people who were actually around during the resort's first 25 years, they often overlook or downplay Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and make their seriousness look less intelligent and more uninformed as it prevents them for dwelling on the attraction's unique stature within the world of theme parks. WDW's Toad wasn't just some weird dark ride that was shut down because no one rode it anymore, it was a very popular weird dark ride that took guests down unidentical twin tracks of brightly colored nonsense and unsettling patches of darkness built around the story of a filthy rich amphibian who loved motor cars. It stood apart from everything Disney had built before or since (including its same-named DL predecessor) and continues to pick up dedicated fans - like a theme park equivalent of Syd Barrett - long after its departure from this world. When its impending closure was announced, the public calls for WDW to save Mr. Toad's Wild Ride from destruction may have fallen on the company's least sympathetic and least imaginative ears, but there's no chance that the mistake will ever be forgotten. To the contrary, MTWR's absence has only made more hearts that much fonder of what I think of as the best ride (certainly the most fun ride) ever built.
Toad's 1998 demise was a sad, clear signal that nothing was certain about original park attractions or their longevity, and also that devoted pleas or well-intentioned gatherers wouldn't be enough to save favorites from destruction. It also broadened the perceptible criteria for WDW management's justification of such action; an attraction didn't have to lose its sponsor, as had happened with If You Had Wings and Horizons, to find itself on the chopping block. Nor did it have to cost a ton of money to staff and maintain, like 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea or suffer from chronically depressed hourly visitor counts, like the Walt Disney Story or the Kitchen Kabaret in their later years. All it really had to be was a relatively easy give on the road to an alternate (somewhere in particular) destination. In the case of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, that end point was the Hundred Acre Wood. The company wanted to build a Winnie-the-Pooh ride in the Magic Kingdom - something to advertise, draw new visitors and move merchandise - and felt that the most economically apt starting point was within the walls of an aging, less tangibly valuable attraction. One of the unfortunate moments in life is the one where you realize that this is how many people at many companies think. It's rotten, but true; for a business-minded person who didn't grow up with the park, there's no metric for assigning something like Toad a value based on the artistry behind it, its inherent coolness or how many people stepped out of its motorcars forever 1% more puzzled about the universe. Instead, most of the time these decisions come down to things like 'return on investment' and 'value engineering' - terms that drive creative people insane. Most of the time it's a sordid matter of the easiest way to save money, make money or make even more money.
So MTWR ended up being the oddball tenant on a piece of commercially desirable Kingdom real estate. Given the company's 1995 decision to do away with Main Street's charming but sinister House of Magic (in order to use the space as part of the new and infinitely less interesting Main Street Athletic Club sport clothing store), the prospects for quirky old-timers in the path of anything with busier cash registers was already grim. And in case you're unfamiliar, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride was just about the most quirky thing in the park. For those fortunate enough to have experienced it in person, Toad's utter weirdness made it one of the key things that defined a trip to early WDW - one of the attractions that made the trip worthwhile. And it always had a line or, rather, two lines, which often grew so long that in 1993 they replaced the original vehicles with larger ones to increase its hourly ridership. In a park where capacity is a paramount concern and visitation helps to justify attractions' long-term prospects, how is a ride like that a candidate for replacement? When its replacement is expected to be (at least) equally popular and have a footprint that leaves room for a gift shop at the exit.
You could reason that, visitation aside, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride above most other MK attractions was in a precarious spot from the day it opened. Unlike Fantasyland's other opening-year dark rides, Peter Pan's Flight and Snow White's Scary Adventures, MTWR did not draw from "classic" Disney characters with a widespread domestic popularity base. Mr. Toad, Ratty, Moley and MacBadger hailed from a 1949 Disney adaptation of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind In The Willows , first published in 1908. It introduced those characters and others who dwelled along the river bank and the Wild Wood, and gave an accounting of how their daily life was disrupted by their neighbor Mr. Toad's insatiable thirst for motor cars. While the story grew to be treasured in its native England, it never enjoyed far-reaching stateside success. Disney's film treatment of the tale - while in some ways magnificent - did little to improve that situation. The first Mr. Toad's Wild Ride opened at Disneyland in 1955. It was built when the film was only a few years old, and absorbed a motif that was perfect for a Disney incarnation of old amusement park dark rides: a manic spin in a motor car through Foggy London Town. The ride was put together on a modest budget but became a park favorite, no doubt due to its crazy singularity. Given the time period, everything about it made sense.
What's inexplicable in hindsight is that Disney chose to build an updated version of MTWR when construction on WDW began fourteen years later. In 1969, Winnie-the-Pooh had already made (three years prior) his screen debut, was a household name and a formidable merchandising presence. It was by then clear that Pooh's impact on American culture was to be infinitely more profound than that of Mr. Toad. As further evidence of this condition, none of the characters from The Wind In The Willows were given a spot in WDW's Mickey Mouse Revue , whereas Pooh, Piglet and Rabbit had places in the show's orchestra. So it's remarkable that Disney didn't choose to build on the hungry yellow bear's snowballing popularity by erecting a tie-in ride during Pooh's initial heyday...and even more so considering that Mr. Toad was, again, getting his own attraction. This doesn't even factor in the original three dark ride concepts that WED Enterprises planned for Florida, based on Mary Poppins, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Sleeping Beauty. Toad won out over those also. More than that, it wasn't even a copy of the Disneyland original, but rather a sprawling two-track version with numerous intricacies and details foreign to its predecessor and multiple scenes that could only viewed by riding each track separately. What other Disney ride ever offered that added dimension? Space Mountain, Mission To Mars, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Haunted Mansion and the Grand Prix Raceway had either multiple lanes, tracks, theaters, queue or pre-show areas, but WDW's Toad ride presented a 2/3 completely different ride experience based on which side of the queue you chose. It was the only time in Disney park history this has ever happened, and it happened for Mr. Toad.
Given these facts, it makes the ride's 27-year existence a happy accident filled with odd stuff not found elsewhere in the dark ride world: a truckload of bobbies shooting it out with a carful of armed weasels, a barmaid with stunning cleavage holding enough foamy beer to paralyze a horse, a full-blown gypsy camp in the midst of a musical celebration, a perplexed farmer dropping a bale of hay on riders' heads, an elephant trophy head that trumpeted loudly from its wall-mounted plaque, a scandalous painting of a voluptuous nude woman and a suit of armor that toppled toward riders on cue. Toad Hall's first expansive chamber was both stately and bizarre - ceilings decked with banners of nonsense heraldry, oak paneling lined with priceless paintings (whose subjects bore more than a passing resemblance to the master of the estate) and as its focal point a teetering marble statue of Mr. Toad himself. Town Square, where previously divergent cars were reunited for a spin around the heart of a busy English village, was stocked with panicked citizens trying to avoid the motorized onslaught of vehicles circling another statue of Toad - this one spinning atop the upraised hoof of his horse friend Cyril. And the whole of the ride presented a constant uncertainty as to just how one's car would escape a particular environment: Would it be through the fireplace, a jail cell wall or a mountainous stack of barrels? No matter which way riders swerved or ducked, all roads ultimately led to a direct collision with a speeding locomotive in a pitch-black tunnel and an audience with Satan, surrounded by a horde of grinning red devils in the glowing volcanic bowels of hell.
Trying to quantify the beauty of all that lunacy is futile. Making sense of it is nearly as tough. According to the ride's own mythology (Disney once had - and probably still does - printed 'back stories' on hand as training materials for every attraction, regardless of their simplicity), the action that takes place within is predicated on the conceit that it's all part of Toad's imagination, or in their words, Toad's "crazy dream." It sounds weak at first but has validity. Those who have seen Disney's film treatment of The Wind In The Willows could easily discern that only a fraction of the settings and characters that were present in the ride corresponded directly to the film - fewer still are mentioned in Grahame's book. The ride contained volumes of supplemental material in its depiction of scenes such as the gypsy camp - the origin point for Toad's canary-colored cart and Cyril - and also in Toad Hall's Trophy Room and Kitchen areas where the domestics and service workers (butler in the Trophy Room, ice delivery man and cook in the kitchen) were found in snapshots of Toad's home life. This was some rich territory being mined and much of it had to come from Toad's own sphere of reference. Accepting that premise, the ride has to be set sometime after Toad came into possession of his stolen motor car via the weasels he first met in Winky's Pub ... also after his ordeal with the law, imprisonment and escape involving a stolen locomotive. The telltale marks of his documented escapades are rearranged here in a loud, unreal melange, making the dream theory the only "rational" way to account for a motor car being driven down the river where Ratty's house is found, inside a prison cell or through Toad Hall itself. So, yeah, for two minutes you were wheeling around in the noise-drenched carnality of a rich frog's fracked-up nightmare. But it's immaterial whether you can overlay any semblance of reason atop the ride. It is, after all, ultimately derived from a tale about anthropomorphic woodland creatures involved in human-like discussions and events. So at its heart, it's what more delicate people would call a trifle. But, of course, so is Pooh.
In both subject matter and setting, there are many common threads between The Wind In The Willows and the Pooh stories. The characters themselves invite direct comparisons, with Tigger sharing Toad's exuberance and bravado, Piglet possessing Mole's quiet good nature, Rabbit appropriating Ratty's fussiness and Owl borrowing a portion of MacBadger's grandfatherly wisdom. A.A. Milne was a great admirer of Grahame's work and produced a variation of it for the London stage in 1930, with Grahame attending the debut performance. So there is little chance that the similarities in the books are coincidental (the first Pooh book was published in 1926). Milne was reportedly anxious about Grahame's reaction to the show, fearing that it would disappoint the elderly author, which it did not. Imagine how Milne might have felt to learn that a ride based on his characters would one day uproot one based on those of Grahame. If, that is, he cared about rides.
Both authors might have been disconcerted had they known the extent to which their creations would one day be known largely across the globe for what someone else did with them - the same way P.L. Travers' Mary Poppins is recognized almost exclusively as the province of Disney due to the immensely popular 1964 film of the same name and a more recent Broadway show. Travers attended the film's premiere and was dissatisfied, in particular, with Dick Van Dyke's portrayal of Bert the chimney sweep. Yet the Van Dyke Bert was not changed to satisfy Travers and will endure as the real Bert in the general public's collective consciousness, as he already has for over 50 years. Mr. Toad escaped this fate to some extent and has enjoyed several quality, non-Disney retellings since 1949, much like Alice in Wonderland. The Disney versions, however, doggedly persist in at least appearing definitive... especially to children.
What's sad about the way things worked out between Toad and Pooh at WDW is how each of the literary properties couldn't score equal in-park representation. There's no question that a Winnie-the-Pooh ride was a sensible addition to the Kingdom. But the crowds that Mr. Toad's Wild Ride drew were sufficient proof demonstrating its value to park visitors. As mentioned above, the ride underwent a 1993 rehab to alleviate that situation; the 36 original ride vehicles, each of which could comfortably sit two adults, were replaced by new models which could accommodate four adults. The change only slightly reduced the average length of each queue because so many people wanted to go on this ride repeatedly. One outcome of the adulation was the spat of public outbursts in 1998 from a group that had learned about the impending shutdown. They gathered in the park, some wearing green shirts with Toad on them, even though Mr. Toad is patently brown, carrying signs that read "Save Mr. Toad's Wild Ride." The Orlando Sentinel covered the "protests." WDW Employees got in on the act. It didn't matter - the ride closed for good on September 7 of that year.
Therefore the only remaining Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is at Disneyland, on the site of the original same-named attraction. It's not the same rudimentary Toad that opened there in 1955; that original attraction closed along with the rest of DL's old Fantasyland in 1981 and underwent a major renovation. The current version opened in 1983. While its exterior, the fully-dimensional Tudor-style Toad Hall, exceeds in presentation the original medieval tent entrance (and that of WDW's Toad), the Disneyland ride itself is a little compromised. I say that, of course, as someone who grew up with WDW's version. I'm sure people who grew up with the original DL Toad love the new one because it beats the socks off its predecessor. But WDW's Toad surpassed both DL versions in every manner except for the tent facade.
Not only was the WDW incarnation larger, with the aforementioned two tracks, but either half of the ride taken on its own was still a more involved and stylistically superior experience compared to the DL attraction. To a large extent, credit for this must be given to Disney artist Rolly Crump for his oddball, hyperchromatic design style. Crump's contributions to DL and WDW are fairly well-documented, with his most enduring work having been many of the toys and kinetic elements of both parks' It's A Small World rides, his wild tiki designs and several props for the Haunted Mansions*. Some of the character designs he came up for WDW's Toad evoke the character style seen in 1961's The Saga of Windwagon Smith. In that short film one sees the genesis of the some animals and people that came to populate Mr. Toad's Wild Ride in Florida. Molly Crum, who served drinks in the Star of the West Saloon, reminds me of the barmaid in Winky's Pub. The little dog that spazzed out when the windwagon rolled into town is a close cousin to the panic-stricken dog in MTWR's Town Square. And Mayor Crum shares nearly the same profile as the constable in the Jail scene. Only the characters that came straight from The Wind in the Willows film were not subjected to this treatment, and the blend of the two categories somehow worked.
* WDW's Toad ride was in fact the closest that any Disney attraction came to being a realization of Crump's "Museum of the Weird" concept. Although The Haunted Mansion saw a few of his prop designs come to life, MTWR was the first and only full-blown execution of Crump's 'Weird' color scheme married to architectural and design motifs on an serious scale.
Disneyland's 1983 Toad ride attempts to infuse its confined spaces with third-dimensionality through trompe l'oiel painting techniques and a few sculpted pieces added where space was available (it borrows the statue of Cyril and Toad that first appeared in WDW's Toad). But at Disneyland the scenic artwork overreaches in several scenes and the passageways often feel claustrophobic. WDW's Toad was much more open in terms of its floor plan, with larger rooms that enabled several twists and turns in any given space. Town Square alone was massive, with both tracks circling a grassy planter and leaving enough room on the outer perimeter for a wide range of townspeople caught up in the chaos.
The Florida ride's artwork was deceptively simple. Outside of the superb mural in the load area (with its warm, loving treatment of Toad Hall, the countryside and the ride's key characters), the ride was very much like driving through a psychedelic coloring book. Although there was plenty of detail, less effort went toward lending its flat plywood characters and scenery false shadows or extra dimension than was the case at Disneyland. At WDW a few key pieces were completely three-dimensional, but most of the ride achieved its depth by staggering flat pieces out closer to the track - a theatrical technique that worked amazingly well. Disneyland's Toad corridors are too narrow for this same effect to be given a chance to succeed. While some of the artwork inside is more detailed than was Florida's, it is unfortunately not as outrageous, fun and colorful as what Crump perpetrated in Florida. And Disneyland's generic human characters are missing the cohesive cartoon madness once found in the WDW version.
So unfortunately there's no longer a Disney attraction that truly matches the insanity WDW's Toad sublimely offered for just over a quarter-century. Without expecting to capture its glory in words, I'll try some further explanation of the ride's main aspects.
Approaching the attraction from any direction, guests could see past the entry facade and sheltered queue to the detailed Load area mural. At opposite ends of the mural were mirror image train tunnels from which emerged two neverending streams of motor cars, freshly returned from each track's satanic finale. Lining the bridge over each tunnel were the principal characters from the ride (Toad, Cyril, MacBadger, Ratty, Moley and Winky) along with some gypsies, weasels and bobbies. Leading away from the tunnels, past each track's Unload, Load and Dispatch points, was an idyllic depiction of the English countryside dotted with thatched-roof cottages and lush rolling hills. Throughout the Load area and queue echoed the lilting refrain of "The Merrily Song" (the only lyrical music from Disney's Toad film, written by Churchill, Gilbert, Morey & Wolcott) and the constant recorded instructions to "Step out to your right...when the car stops, step out to your right please." The focal point of the entire scene was stately Toad Hall, with its turrets, parapets and eleven (!) chimneys. Cars funneled into its central Tudor arch portal, where they separated and burst through the first of many walls in their catastrophe-bound journeys. Both tracks began in the Toad Hall scene, where they had their first of several near misses with both other cars and "obstacles" in their path. The marble statue of Toad swiveled toward the cars as if ready to crash, while opposite the statue the amicable Moley stood on a high-backed yellow chair and tipped his hat at riders.
From that point on the cars went their own way within the Hall and, as mentioned above, encountered unique situations along each route. Riders on Track A doubled back from the statue of Toad toward the doors leading to the Trophy Room and riders on Track B headed straight into the fireplace at the opposite of of the room, which gave way and allowed them into the Library. How the tracks played out scene by scene is charted above on either side of the ride map link.
A few of these areas, such as the two Blackouts and Train Tunnels on either track, were incredibly stark (the Blackouts were literally empty rooms with walls painted black). The Barn and One Way Tunnel scenes were also devoid of scenery save for, respectively, flying chickens and neon-colored warning signs. But most of the other rooms were rendered in full-circle, albeit cartoonish, detail. In the Kitchen, for example, there was a three-dimensional wood block table with a piece of steak and meat cleaver sitting on it...yet it was positioned in a spot that made it all but impossible for guests to see it. In the Jail scene, the walls were adorned with wanted posters for various Anglican rogues ... aside from Toad himself there were calls for "Liverpool Lill," "Picadilly Pete," "Malcolm the Mutilator" and others. The Town Square environment was stocked with storefronts that could scarcely be appreciated due to the speed and proximity of the passing cars.
Aside from the breakdown of separated scenes, there was a further curious dichotomy between the two tracks that may or may not have been planned. Track A, for example, was the only side with female human characters and it featured not one but five (six if you include the painting of Rapunzel on the north wall of Winky's Pub). Track B was the only side containing law enforcement figures. It was also the only side where MacBadger could be found, while Ratty only appeared along Track A (Moley appeared twice for Track A riders but only once - in Toad Hall - for those on Track B.)
Furthermore, Track A took riders through the Gypsy Camp before the Town Square scene, and right before Track A led out of Town Square into Winky's Pub there was a balloon vendor who looked just like one of those gypsies. Track B took riders across the Barnyard and Barn scenes - past a pig, bull and the aforementioned chickens - before Town Square, and the first building in Town Square that Track B riders passed by was a butcher's shop with a bull's head over the door, plus a suckling pig and chickens displayed in the front window. If those weren't deliberate echoes, it's a great set of coincidences. Rolly Crump stated in a 2003 interview that he had not engineered any sort of repeating motifs along those lines and thought that they may have been added later by other artists. The fact that the balloon vendor was an animated prop made out of metal, therefore not an easy addition as something would be if it were just painted in, suggests that it was an original design element. Crump may not have noticed the correlations, though, if they weren't done on purpose.
One thing he did intentionally, without question, was make sure that riders didn't have the same experience on both tracks. He said the reason for Toad's two tracks began with a dictate from Dick Nunis, then-director of park operations overseeing WDW's development, to build two Toad tracks side by side for Florida. Nunis requested this because Toad was the most popular dark ride at Disneyland (which helps to explain how it ended up in Florida) and he felt that double the capacity would be needed for WDW. Crump stated that he wasn't going to build two Toad rides but came up with the idea for one ride with two tracks that would provide guests with different scenery. If different members of the same family chose separate sides of the queue and compared notes later on what they saw, it wouldn't exactly match up. "I was playing with people's heads on it," Crump said, "that's why I wanted two different stories."
The most perplexing piece of minutiae for me, however, and surely one of the most fascinating things about the ride for anyone who knew about it, was found in the Library scene. On MacBadger's desk there sat two inkwells and a solitary spindle upon which were affixed a series of small note papers. Those who remember the first appearance of MacBadger in the film will recall that his time at the desk was spent tallying the various expenses that Toad's estate had incurred as a result of Toad's destructive countryside rampages in the gypsy cart with Cyril. In the ride, the top note on the spindle actually had a hand-lettered breakdown of one account that had to be settled in the amount of 100 pounds sterling. The damaged items were "1 Rowboat, 20 ft. clothesline, 1 Canary-colour Gypsy Cart and 6 Chickens." It would have been a stretch to have expected riders to notice the spindle in the first place, let alone ever detect that there was writing on one of the notes. But to actually have a straightforward listing of things Toad had demolished, in a place where no one could ever read it, was irrevocably brilliant. How did one find out about this kind of thing? You either A) walked through as an employee when the ride was shut down and took notice of it or B) jumped out of your car while the ride was open and ripped it off the spindle not expecting to find writing on it, but you did, and a few months later did it again when you were just as amazed to learn that the purloined note was replaced with another containing the exact same list of items. Either way, MacBadger's accounting process was immaculate!
The names of the cars, which repeated across the entire fleet, were Mr. Toad, Toady, Ratty, Moley, Mac Badger, Cyril, Winky and Weasel. The original cars were among the most visually appealing ride vehicles ever created: compact, clever and stylish one-seat roadsters that were perfect for whipping around tight corners and leaving chaos in their wake. The two-seater replacements that debuted in December of 1993 were, by comparison, oafish. All sense of delicate proportion and toylike charm was given over to boxy 'boats with wheels' that moved through the ride as if dragging anchors. In all probability the speed difference was negligible, but still noticeable to anyone who'd ridden the old cars ad nauseum. Not to mention the fact that it deprived the park of one more ride where you could be assured a modest amount of privacy with a companion for at least two minutes. Once the new vehicles arrived, your chances of getting paired with another couple or some unloved, sweaty single rider were virtually guaranteed if there was any type of line.
There were only a few other changes as a result of the 1993 rehab. Some of the three-dimensional animation didn't appear to function any longer: Moley in Toad Hall didn't tip his hat, the statue of Toad no longer swayed precariously on its pedestal and the smaller Toad statue on Cyril's hoof in Town Square had also ceased to spin. Many of the interior scenes were repainted to give off a more radiant black light glow. For a moment in time the cars bumped over "railroad ties" when first enterting the train tunnels, but that effect was quickly retired. Finally, the ride's original entrance facade and sign were rebuilt with a slightly more elaborate appearance (a statue of Toad was added within the marquee) and in the year following the ride's reopening, decorative planters were added to both sides of the main entrance arcade. The last of the discernable modifications to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride took place in 1995 and 1996 when the background music tracks in the Load area and Toad Hall, respectively, were updated to match the Disneyland Toad song. If it weren't for the new vehicles, though, most people wouldn't have known the ride was altered in any respect from its original version.
That is to say, the ride was still criminally fun even in those bulky cars. Anyone who failed to appreciate the appeal of careening headlong through room after room of menacing ridiculousness, all whilst in the guise of an obsessed amphibian, needed a head check. And anyone who would willingly opt to see Mr. Toad's Wild Ride gutted to make room for Winnie-the-Pooh would be just as suspect. Yet someone made the horrible final decision and let the demolition commence.
When rumors of MTWR's impending demise made The Orlando Sentinel's pages in 1997, the letter-writing campaigns and other efforts of earnest fans seemed like bittersweet exercises in futility. It was reassuring to discover how many people cared about the ride, but sad to feel as if its number was up just the same and that protesting would be in vain. And in many respects the park no longer deserved such a wonderful thing as Toad, having long since begun the process of expunging itself of magnificent curiosities. Fortunately, however, with the rumors and warnings there was ample opportunity for those who loved the attraction to set about preserving it in sight and sound. This at least ensures that it will perpetuate itself in multitude forms as time passes, making certain that in thousands of minds the ride will thrive as a source of fascination despite its physical absence.
Contemplating the ride from this standpoint is maybe a matter of more gravity than recounting the features of a closed Caribbean Plaza game room, because it means coming to terms with the fact that WDW, which in 1978 was the absolute coolest place on the planet, had in the span of 20 years divested itself not just of some relatively minor oddities but also some of the most fantastic attractions ever built by man, of which Toad was certainly one.
Arguing for the supremacy of one theme park ride over another borders on foolishness (or epitomizes foolishness - you decide), but on a site dedicated to ex-WDW attractions there's nothing too far "out there" where Toad's concerned. I can't actually prove to anyone that Toad was better than The Jungle Cruise, Space Mountain, Pirates of the Caribbean, If You Had Wings, Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, Horizons, World of Motion, 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea or The Haunted Mansion. I loved all those rides, but for me Toad edges them out because its combination of Crump's wacky design elements, two distinct tracks, highly unlikely subject matter and lack of adherence to a rational script made the experience something one step beyond any other ride I've experienced and also made it ripe for riding again and again and again. As a kid it took me a short eternity to remember which line to get into if I wanted to ride through Winky's Pub, and if I chose correctly I got to see that barmaid. If I was wrong, no problem, I helped weasels bust out of jail. Florida's Toad was the end result of Crump pushing the dark ride envelope as far as possible within the parameters of a budget and Disney source material. He worked beautifully with the former, using inexpensive flats to their best possible effect, and just riffed loosely on the latter ... creating supplementary characters out of thin air and making Grahame's own cast accomplices to a zany black light mindfuck. One's head spins thinking of what Crump might have done had the Oriental Land Company challenged him to top Florida's Toad in Tokyo, and why the Japanese missed out on that opportunity is a mystery for the ages.
Since Toad debuted in Florida, the Dr. Seuss Sky Trolley (Islands of Adventure, 2007) has been the only other Orlando ride to offer the kind of two-track duality first established in east Fantasyland. But for as great as the Sky Trolley is - and I love it - as a 90% outdoor ride it isn't able to throw the intense curve balls that bounced through Toad Hall and the various chambers beyond. It's not THAT kind of ride.
Probably I've spent too much time thinking and writing about Toad. but whenever I find myself realizing that in the grand scheme of things there are far more important things than dark rides (which is, in point of fact, potentially true), there are also reminders that some rides just plain mattered to me and a bunch of like-minded others regardless of whether they should or not. Toad was as familiar to me by the age of thirteen as a family member, and its rapturous effect on my impressionable mind made for a constant in my life: I don't get people who don't get Toad. I've met people little more than half my age who, when they find out I like old Disney stuff, bring up Toad independently as one of their childhood favorites; I automatically know they are good people. Then I've met people older than me who, if I bring up Toad to gauge their interest, laugh the subject off as unworthy of discussion; I automatically know those people are jerks! Just the same, I'd rather hear people laugh it off than say, "Well, I liked it but I can kind of see why they got rid of it." Come on! If you actually got to ride it, if you got to take in that dark, twisted fantasy firsthand, can you rationalize its destruction without killing a part of your soul? Don't do it while you're around me, at least.
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride will persist online and in the memories of those who loved it. Its removal from WDW will remain a black mark on the karmic record of those who caused it to vanish. No matter how strange its existence or how basic its execution, its destruction was completely avoidable. How could the same company who built this amazing ride not see, 26 years later, protesters upset about its impending closure as a sign that opportunities were being overlooked? Where was the Toad merchandise that would have tested park visitors' true affinity for the ride back when it might have made a difference? Where was the "Save Toad Hall" campaign allowing guests to buy a piece of Toad's estate in exchange for having their name etched on a plaque in the Town Square scene? Where was the argument that reversing the decision would have generated good will, especially after so many 20K fans were let down by the weightless statements Disney made about Nemo's subs returning between 1994 and 1996? Where was the realization that a long-term win/win was infinitely more desireable than short-term cost savings? And where, seriously, was the slightest indication that the company did not in fact hold Toad fans in contempt by not even giving Winky ownership of the former Round Table and Lancer's Inn next door ... the same way Toad ran a restaurant in Paris? I mean, Gurgi from The Black Cauldron could underwrite a snack bar but Winky couldn't?
That inability to detect something bigger afoot is sad, but what's done is done. So when new hires are walked past Pooh during orientation and asked if they can name five characters from Wind In The Willows (Alison Matthews could!) and then asked if they can name five Winnie-the-Pooh characters, which anyone can do, they get a sense of the thought process that allowed all this to transpire. Again, it's one of the unfortunate moments in life when the company that got rid of a ride this cool comes up with some kind of snarky, posthumous rationales for why it had to go down that way.
"One does not argue about The Wind in the Willows. The young man gives it to the girl with whom he is in love, and, if she does not like it, asks her to return his letters. The older man tries it on his nephew, and alters his will accordingly. The book is a test of character. We can't criticize it, because it is criticizing us. But I must give you one word of warning. When you sit down to it, don't be so ridiculous as to suppose that you are sitting in judgment on my taste, or on the art of Kenneth Grahame. You are merely sitting in judgment on yourself. You may be worthy: I don't know. But it is you who are on trial."
A. A. Milne
Bibliography (still being rebuilt from old site)
Florida's Disney Decade, 1981TV Special produced by Walt Disney World for broadcast in Central Florida
Married to the Mouse by Richard Foglesong, Yale University Press, 2001
Walt Disney and the Quest for Community by Steve Mannheim, 2002
Walt Disney Productions Annual Reports, 1970-1984
Credits (still being rebuilt from old site)
Among the sources and material contributors to this project over the years are Mike Hiscano, Dave Hooper, Jerry Klatt, Ross Plesset and Gerald Walker.
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