Written by Michael Claxton
Harding is just one institution celebrating a centennial this year. In the fall of 1923, two brothers from Kansas City started a film studio in Hollywood, having little knowledge that it would become a dominant force in popular culture. Like Marilyn, Houdini, Chaplin and Elvis, Walt Disney was destined to be an icon — a name instantly known by millions across the globe, even six decades after his death.
The driving agent behind a sea of change in the art of animation, and one of the architects of 20th century America, Disney pioneered the animated feature film in 1937 with “Snow White,” merged classical music with dancing hippos in 1940 with “Fantasia” and breathed new life into childhood tales like “Pinocchio,” “Cinderella,” “Alice in Wonderland” and “Sleeping Beauty.”
The 100th anniversary of his entertainment empire made me curious to know more about the man. So, this summer I read a biography published in 2006 by Neal Gabler, who spent years in the Disney archives, reading every document in their extensive files. I am a sucker for biographies, especially of the creative giants who loomed large in my childhood, and over the past few years, I’ve read profiles of Jim Henson, Fred Rogers, Dr. Seuss and Jay Ward — the madcap genius behind Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Born in Chicago in 1901 to stern parents who scorned most entertainment, Walter Elias Disney spent his childhood in an idyllic small Missouri town, later moving to Kansas City. When he was in the seventh grade, he made money delivering newspapers and spent his free time drawing. A local barber enjoyed his art so much that he offered Walt free haircuts in exchange for original pictures to hang in his shop.
Too young to enlist in the army to fight in World War I, Walt lied about his age to join the Red Cross as an ambulance driver. He got to France after the war ended but still was able to serve in the aftermath. When he returned to the United States, he pursued a career in animation. It was a fledgling art form in those days, but Walt was determined to elevate it.
Some of his earliest experiments with mixing live-action and animated characters have not aged well, but the studio received a boost when Mickey Mouse made his debut in 1928 as a whistling boat captain in “Steamboat Willie.” That was followed by Disney’s next experiment — combining animation with original and classical music. The Silly Symphonies, as they were called, started with “The Skeleton Dance” and its spooky graveyard choreography. Check it out on YouTube.
One of those short films soon became an instant classic. “The Three Little Pigs” hit theaters in 1933 and immortalized the song “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” The following year, Donald Duck joined the Disney family. Voiced for 51 years by Oklahoma native Clarence Nash, Donald has since appeared in more Disney films than any other character.
He was especially popular in the propaganda shorts that kept the studio afloat during World War II. In “The New Spirit” (1942), the patriotic duck eagerly pays his taxes to support the war effort. But in “Der Fuehrer’s Face” (1943), Donald has a nightmare that he is forced to work in Hitler’s assembly line making bombs. Like other wartime fares, it unfortunately exploits ethnic stereotypes to mock the enemy. While of course, you wouldn’t expect sensitivity from such propaganda movies, this film certainly shows a more complex side of Disney than something like, say, “Pollyanna” (1960).
To describe Walt as driven is putting it mildly. As the studio he formed with his brother Roy grew, it became something of a cult of personality, with the eccentric genius Walt at the center. He was brimming with ideas and always restless to move on to something new. Yet he was unpredictable. He would be generous one moment and harsh the next. Disney pushed his animators to the limit, often looking over their shoulders as they worked. He was even known to tear someone’s drawing up on the spot, demanding it be redone.
But no one questioned that Disney was passionate. He used to act out his ideas for films in front of his staff, sometimes at great length. In the years it took to produce “Snow White,” Walt was known to walk through his vision of the film — frame by frame — in an impromptu performance that once lasted three hours. That’s twice as long as the film itself.
Sometimes shy and other times gregarious, a loving father but a distant friend, both nostalgic and future-obsessed, Disney was a difficult man to understand. Which explains why I’ll need two more columns to share his story. If you’re curious to learn more, come back next week. Or better yet, read Gabler’s book.
