#response papers

Recently I took a trip to California for Grad School. I was asked to write a reflection on how storytelling is realized in the Disney Parks, and I ended up just critiquing the parks a whole bunch. But I’m really proud of my paper, so I thought I’d post it here!

So here goes:

When analyzing how theme parks craft a story, it is essential that one begin with The Walt Disney Company and its properties. Disney very much created the idea of a truly “themed” park: one in which every element is designed to create a world unto itself, and to allow its patrons to forget the world outside the park gates. However, Walt Disney never would have been able to create such a place if he hadn’t first animated stories that became ingrained in the childhood memories of the majority of Americans. Walt Disney Studios gave fairy tales new life by fleshing out their characters and plots for the silver screen- and audiences craved the opportunity to step inside those fairytale worlds for themselves. John Gardner wrote that plot “transforms [a character] from a static construct to a lifelike human being,” and in many ways this is precisely what Walt Disney Studios did with the mostly flat morality tales of the Brothers Grimm in the early days of animation. It’s a shame, however, that the Walt Disney Company’s ability to flesh out character and plot hasn’t truly materialized in its parks.

There is no main character, and thus, no main plot, in the world of Disneyland. I believe the biggest risk that Disneyland takes in its theme park storytelling is combining all of their intellectual properties into one park. While one could argue it may be the most economical and profit-yielding way to do it, I found during my walk-throughs of the parks that it becomes impossible to be engrossed in a story when there are too many stories happening at once.

The greatest mythos that Disney created in Disneyland was Mainstreet USA. In many ways, the true attraction of Disneyland is the land itself: the environment in which all the attractions reside. The reason why Mainstreet USA is so successful in its world creation is because it creates the setting in which you- the audience- are also the main character. This land is your chance to explore, and create a story for yourself: your day at Disneyland with your family. It is the entrance of the park: and it immediately integrates the parkgoers into a fantasy: what it’s like to be the American Dream-er ä living the American Dream ä, which becomes essential in crafting one’s enjoyment of the park. A true American is a consumer, a dreamer, and doesn’t think about the day-to-day struggles of the world beyond. Mainstreet USA gives you permission to inhabit “the very life of fiction” as Gardner puts it, and Disneyland is your setting, and your plot is what you choose to make it as you wander through the park.

But once you leave the beautiful and uniformed simplicity of idealized Americana, your position as the lead character in your own story begins to disintegrate. Perhaps this is influenced by my own experience with the parks, attending only as an adult and never as a child, but as the worlds focus more and more on the intellectual properties of The Walt Disney Company, the less I, as an attendee, am able to see where exactly I fit into the story. I find myself asking, who lives here? Who is the main character of this world? I lose the story when I lose my place within it: I found myself most enjoying the areas of the park without rides or attractions or stores: the transitional walkways. They were the places in which I was able to return to the lead character in my own Disney movie, instead of a bystander in someone else’s. Which begs the question: am I doing it wrong? In which story am I supposed to be participating when at Disneyland?

One of the factors contributing to this identity crisis is the distinct design difference between the original areas of Disneyland and the newer renovated lands of the park. Although themed differently, the four original lands of the park excel in their ability to present a “main street” of their own: a familiar orienting point of reference from which attendees can appreciate the differences between each land. We recognize the paved or cobbled walkway, the stores and buildings to either side, the bridges crossing the stream. We can observe and imagine from the safety of the path before embarking on the next “adventure,” when we transport ourselves into a ride or a store. And even then: the rides and stores are integrated into the main path. Each patron in line can see the Pirates of the Caribbean boats curve their way through New Orleans, The Mark Twain steamboat and the Jolly Roger sail by Frontierland, allowing the guests to observe one another. The best way in which Disneyland expands the worlds of its characters and properties is in setting creation: once you cross any threshold in Disneyland, you are truly transported to a new chapter of your story. However, it can be almost disorienting to find yourself in a new place each time you cross under an archway- which can also dull the “vivid and continuous” dream Disney has created. Where am I now? Am I lost? How do I get back?

What I appreciate about the older areas of the park is their size: the smaller stores and walkways allow us to keep tabs on where we are in relation to the street, and our group, and the other guests: as the lands expanded into the newer areas of the park it became harder to keep track of where exactly I was. It became easier and easier to get lost in the stores- as they continued to grow and fill with increasingly repetitious merchandise. All of which was centered around equally repetitious intellectual properties. The most clear indication of the story I was entering was whichever story’s merchandise was lining the shelves around me.

This brings me to the newest land attraction to Disneyland: Galaxy’s Edge. Dwarfing the scope of every other land in the park by about 50%, the environmental design is remarkable. Like the other lands, it too has its “main street”, shrouded from the California sunlight by other-worldly faux rock structures, making one truly feel like they are on another planet. It was easy to see why Star Wars fans were smitten with the very streets in which they stood: at last, there was a setting in which they could safely explore the terrors of their favorite fantasy world. I’d argue its easier for an adult to pretend to be Luke Skywalker, beginning his journey as a virtual nobody in a harsh world, than say… Peter Pan or Cinderella, if given the appropriate setting. And I feel Disney has taken a huge leap in creating a world that can “enable our ‘vivid and continuous dream’” and “satisfy the transmedia appetite” of adult consumers- and not just children. The scale of Galaxy’s Edge indeed gives away its core audience: while Sleeping Beauty’s castle or the forced perspective of Main Street USA may be imposing and grand to a 5-year-old, it’s merely cute to someone who has grown past four feet tall. There is nothing “cute” about the imposing red cliffs of Galaxy’s Edge.

But here is where, analyzing the worldbuilding and storytelling of Disneyland, I’m torn. Whereas the world design of Galaxy’s Edge was some of the best in the park (even the bathrooms— I excitedly exclaimed to the cohort upon exit— fit the theme of the park!), the storytelling was some of the weakest. Our entire group was disappointed in the main ride of the challenge (based on piloting the Millennium Falcon). While cool in concept, assigning tasks to the riders served better to take us out of the world than to welcome us into it. We were distracted from the story of the ride and faced with our own inadequacies as players of the ride, which began to gnaw at the suspension of my disbelief. I would have been happier to merely explore the Millennium Falcon as a world in itself, much like a museum attraction, rather than slap some light-up buttons on a pastiche with a CGI movie of knock-off characters playing in the background. Again, I was no longer the main character of my own Star Wars-themed story: I was an afterthought in Han Solo’s. While Disneyland excels in its worldbuilding, it fails spectacularly in its expansion of its properties through story rides. Half of Tomorrowland is home to giant, vacant buildings that once held rides that are too expensive to reimagine. Disney’s most famous thrill ride (Space Mountain) takes place in a black hole— literally just darkness and fairy lights, unrelated to any of Disney’s actual IP’s. Which perhaps might be why some of its most-loved attractions serve to chauffeur you through its worlds (Pirates of the Caribbean, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, It’s a Small World, etc.) rather than create a narrative in which you can take part. These rides, in which you can point and laugh, absorb and share with family and friends: these fit into the narrative you created for yourself in Main Street USA. Being ushered through a Guitar Hero-esque series of button prompts in a facsimile of the Millennium Falcon… just doesn’t.

The designers of Disneyland may be brainstorming how to fix these bugs in California Adventure. My favorite rides of the day: Guardians of the Galaxy, Cars, and the Incredicoaster, all did a great job of telling a story within a ride, and using the ride itself to tell the story. In the Cars ride, you find yourself speeding through Lightning McQueen’s story, while getting to appreciate the beauty of Radiator Springs and the thrill of the race: the ride uses the fact that it is a ride to better illustrate the plot of the story, even ending with a photo finish and Lightning McQueen saying that he’ll always have a soft spot in his heart for Radiator Springs. Like Mainstreet USA, the Cars “land,” while a cut-and-paste recreation of the town from the movie, nods its head once more to an idealized American town (albeit from a very particular part of America’s history and culture). You can tell it was designed by the same team that forged the cliffs of Galaxy’s Edge, but you’re also given glimpses of main characters’ perspectives and engrossed in their livelihoods throughout the park AND the ride— something Galaxy’s Edge never quite nailed.

Likewise, the Guardians of the Galaxy skin imposed onto the former Tower of Terror perfectly incorporates the physics of a drop ride into an escape narrative. As a rider, you become privy to an escape heist in the elevator shaft of the villain’s secret lab/factory/lair. The ride puts you inside the story of the characters you already love; and digs a little deeper into the greater world of the story’s villain, which is something audiences are always hungry for. And, because it’s Guardians of the Galaxy, which in itself centers around a pretty rag-tag bunch of heroes, the slap-dash escape with a few “bumps” along the way makes sense from a story perspective. At no point did the story distract me from the ride, or the ride distract me from the story— the story enhanced the thrill of the ride.

And the Incredicoaster is one of the few rides that truly gives us “something new:” an adventure with Jack-Jack as the family attempts to rescue him from himself. The coaster designs its “dark ride” elements to incorporate characters from the franchise, while you twist and turn your way through being tossed between Mr. and Mrs. Incredible and the kids. It’s a light touch of storytelling, but endearing to fans and perfectly fitted to an enjoyable thrill ride. It gave me a perspective I didn’t have upon entry: turning riding a roller coaster into experiencing the fast-cuts and high-speeds of an action superhero movie from the super’s perspective. If that isn’t an example of filling my transmedia appetite, I don’t know what is: feeling what it’s like to be part of a SuperFamily.

These are all examples of how a ride can properly drop you into a pre-existing narrative, while surviving within your own personal narrative of your trip to Disney. However, Cliff’s criticisms of California Adventure ring true: the rest of the setting of the park feels cheap, hollow, compared to the complete immersion of Disneyland. You can see every land from everywhere: you’re never truly “immersed” into any one place. The world-building was also half-hearted and lazy: the homages to the California state parks and Hollywood, plastic and two-dimensional, just made me wish I was in a real state park, or Hollywood. And as we wandered through the long stretches of Californian pastiche, I felt an echo of nostalgia… overshadowed by the suspicion that my nostalgia was being milked for profit. A sentiment that became all too familiar walking through every post-attraction gift shop— in both parks. Despite these obvious flaws, I believe that the makings of a perfectly immersive and engaging park are there in Anaheim: but one needs to dig into what makes each element of the parks great to get there.