A Time For Mickey Mouse

I Remember Riverview. This vast amusement park was located on Chicago's North Side. It was magnificent, dangerous and thrilling. There were freak shows; there was the renowned Bobs roller coaster, built as the fastest in the world; there was the Rotor, a room-sized cylinder in which one stood back against the wall and was spun around, while the floor dropped away; there was the parachute jump, the symbol of Riverview and visible for miles.

There was illicit gambling, one could die on the rides, the place reeked of sex. A trip to Riverview was more than a thrill, it was a dangerous dream adventure for the children and for their parents.

My father took me up in the parachute jump. We were slowly hoisted 20 stories into the air, seated on a rickety board and held in place by a frayed rope. We reached the top of the scaffold, the parachute dropped, the seat dropped out from under us and my father said under his breath, "Jesus Christ, we're both going to die here."

I remember wondering why I was not terrified by his fear. I think I was proud to be sharing such a grown-up experience with him.

Black men in jump suits sat suspended over tubs of water. White men paid to throw baseballs at a target. When the target was hit, the black men were dropped into the tubs below. The black men Uncle Tommed the customers in thick assumed Southern accents.

The fix was in. Everyone was getting fleeced and shortchanged, to boot, at the ten-in-one. Hell, that's why we went there. This was a carnival--this wasn't a merry-go-round and cotton candy, this was a carnival--and we were making fun of the horror of existence, saying, "Fuck you; tonight I'm going to party". And this was our Family Entertainment.

Did it bring the family together? You bet it did. And 35 years later, I prize the memories, as does every other kid who went there with his family. As does everyone who ever went there, period. You got the bang for your buck that you were promised. Riverview: The very name is magic to a kid from those days in Chicago; as magic as the name of the first girl you ever laid, and that's the truth.

My family took me to Disneyland the year it opened. I was eight, the year was 1955, and it seems to me that much of the park was still under construction.

I went back with my five-year-old, 33 years later. And I remembered it all. I remembered the route from one ride to the next. I remembered where the hot-dog stands were. Nothing had changed. I was charmed to remember the Pirate Menus and how one punched out the ears and could wear them as masks. I remembered the souvenirs. I went on the Dumbo Ride, and my wife took a picture of me and my kid, and it looks just like the picture of me and my mom on the same elephant.

Leaving the park, we ran into a parade on the Main Street of Disneyland. The parade was commemorative of the 60th anniversary of Mickey Mouse. It was a lavish panegyric, designed to evoke feelings of fealty.

A part of the parade was musical variations on the Mickey Mouse Song: "M-I-C--see you real soon--K-E-Y--why? Because we like you ..." etc.; which I both heard and sang along with weekdays for the several years I watched The Mickey Mouse Club on television. I remembered Jimmie Dodd, the compère of the club, singing to us viewers, rather sententiously, and I remembered being moved by his affectation.

Well, here we were, kids and adults alike, smiling at that anthem, wishing Mickey well, 33 years later.

But I asked myself, What, actually, were we endorsing? What was it that we were wishing well? How, and to what end, was this warm feeling evoked?

Were we feeling "good" about wishing happy birthday to a mouse? It's not a mouse, it's a character in a cartoon. Were we wishing well to a commercial enterprise? For, surely, Disneyland is the most commercial of enterprises. It is the state of the art in crowd control; it is terrifying to reflect that one stands in line for approximately 55 minutes out of every hour on a moderately crowded day at the park, that a five-hour sojourn at the park contains 25 minutes of "fun." The turns and bends and sights in the waiting line are designed to create the illusion that it is shorter than it actually is. One sets one's sights and hopes on a crest up ahead, which, surely, must be the entrance to the ride, only to find, on reaching that crest, that yet another stretch of waiting is in store, that one must wait, further, until one passes under the arches up ahead, certainly not too long a time. But on reaching those arches, one finds, etc.

Why does no one complain? Why does everyone return? Are the rides that thrilling? No, they are enjoyable, and some are rather good, but they aren't any more thrilling than the run-of-the-mill traveling carnival rides. Is the atmosphere that enjoyable? No. I think, to the contrary, that the atmosphere is rather oppressive. It (concluded on page 155) Mickey Mouse(continued from page 110) is racially and socially homogeneous, which may, to a large extent, be a function of its geographical reality. But there is, more importantly, a slight atmosphere of oppression in the park. There is the nagging feeling that one is being watched.

And, of course, one is being watched. One is being watched by those interested in crowd control, both to extract the utmost in dollars from the visitors and to ensure their safety. The atmosphere and oppression come, I think, partly from this: that the park's concern for extraction far outstrips the concern for safety, but the regimentation is presented as, foremost and finally, a desire to care for the visitor--to protect, to guide, to soothe.

One creates for oneself the idea that things at Disneyland are being done for one's own good. And, far beyond obeying the rather plentiful signs forbidding one or another thing, one finds oneself wondering, "I wonder if this is allowed here ..."--"this" being, for example, smoking, eating in line, etc.

At Disneyland, one creates (with a great deal of help) the idea that Everything Not Required Is Forbidden. And so we see, as in any other totalitarian state, the internalization of authority and its transformation into a "Sense of Right."

We see the creation of a social Superego, which is sometimes a handy tool, but perhaps out of place at an amusement park. That is, (A) the Id says: "Well, hell, I'm going to cut in line and get to Space Mountain sooner"; (B) the Ego says, "Don't do it; they will get you and, in some way, punish you"; and so, to overcome the anxiety and humiliation of being subject to a superior force, (C) the Superego is created and says, "No, it is not that you are afraid of authority, not at all; you are just concerned with right and wrong, and you want to go to the back of the line because it is the correct thing to do."

And it is this feeling that one is celebrating, I think, in singing paeons to Mickey Mouse, the feeling that I am a good person. I am one of the good, and happy, people, and I would never do anything wrong. It is this feeling that is being sold in the park. As an amusement park, it just ain't worth the money--far from being Riverview, it's not as much fun as a video arcade. The Mickey Mouse phenomenon is compelling not in spite of, but because of, its authoritarian aspect.

A cow was born on a farm near my home in New England. We saw its picture in the local paper. The cow was notable for this: On its white side was found that conjunction of three black circles internationally recognized as the silhouette of Mickey Mouse. The silhouette was rather large, perhaps three feet across, and was perfect. Mention was made that representatives of Disneyland were coming to look at the cow.

I later saw a news item to the effect that the park had purchased and was displaying this wondrous cow, and that only a fair retail price had been paid for the creature.

My first thought was, "Well, that's as it should be." And then I thought, "Wait a second. What is going on here? That blankety-blank cow is worth a vast fortune to the Disney folks." As, of course, it is, and, I wondered on sober reflection, one, why in the world the cow's owner would consider parting with the beast for less than a vast fortune; two, why the Disney people would find a value in advertising that they (from another, and rather defensible, point of view) had stolen this cow; and, three, why I was going along with their plan and endorsing not only their purchase but their proud announcement of what they elected was the right thing to do.

The Disney people were telling me that in paying only a fair market price, they were protecting my interests. Absolutely. That's what they were doing, and that's how I took it. How? In what possible way were my interests being protected?

The Disney people bought the freak cow for its publicity value. It was going to create income for their company. If the cow were going to bring enjoyment to the visitors in the park (and, so, income to the company), in what way would that enjoyment be affected by the price the Disney company paid for the cow? Is it not in the best interests of show business, on the contrary, to proclaim, "Brought to you at Great Expense?"

Why was I asked to be an accomplice, finally, to a lie? What was I being sold? Not entertainment, not amusement, not a thrill, I was being sold the idea that I am a good, right-thinking person.

Well, I am capable of my own estimation of my own worth, and I don't need to be sold such an idea; and, difficult as it is--and it is rather difficult--I find that I have to admit that I don't like Disneyland; I think it is exceeding the job description for an amusement park to sell its product by appealing to--perhaps even by finally questioning--the self-esteem of the people who are paying the freight. There is no Mickey Mouse; and as to "Why? Because we like you!"--I'll be the judge of that, and thank you very much.

"The Mickey Mouse phenomenon is compelling not in spite of, but because of, its authoritarian aspect."