Killing the Goose and Chroming the Golden Egg
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While living and working in New York in 1986 I was unavoidably aware of the impending Centennial celebration of the Statue of Liberty. This reminded me that as a child my Father had given me the gift of a plastic model kit of the Statue that included an electrified torch. The plastic was tinted a patina green, and the base a mottled brown and gray and black. I had been given the model in anticipation of a trip we were making as a family to visit New York City later that summer in 1968.
Thinking back on that I grew nostalgic for the special way that long forgotten model with its tiny low-watt battery-powered bulb glowed on my nightstand. So, on a trip home I climbed into the attic of my parents’ house and sifted through boxes to see if I could find her. When I failed to locate her, I decided that upon my return to the City I would buy a new one, one of the marvelous replicas available all throughout every Borough. These were newer, and there were so many to choose from. In the end, however, I selected none. Why? Because they just didn’t seem special any longer. For one thing, everybody had one. Plus, I noticed the mistakes made by the manufacturers in a rush to cash in on the fever. Sometimes Lady Liberty was out of scale, the pedestal detail was inaccurate, the face somehow clumsily sculpted, there were fewer than 25 windows, plastic flashing was stuck to the spires of the crown, etc. etc.
Over a decade later, as a middle aged man I realized that the saturation of Liberty as common chachkie had numbed me against experiencing something pure; something that had been right outside my window out in New York harbor for all of the eighteen years I lived there. All that time I had been going to sleep by the light of her actual torch which was far greater comfort than any hastily re-produced bit of plastic could ever provide. It wasn’t until long after I’d moved out of New York, on a return visit a few years ago, that I caught sight of her out of the window of a plane one night approaching Newark Airport. "Wow!" I thought, "I’d forgotten how beautiful and truly special she is, and how special she makes New York City; how different she makes this place from any other place in all the world."
So, this failure to take care and invest in new ideas rather than pump out yet another spin on the old - all without regard to the best possible quality -- either has to be corrected or surrendered to. In my brighter moments I still believe it can be corrected. But in those darker moments - like the shock of watching the preview of "Jungle Book 2" - I’ll surrender if someone would just apologize to Ollie Johnston… and Frank Thomas, and the late Bill Peet, Eric Larson, Milt Kahl and Marc Davis and hundreds of others. Then I’ll shut up and go away.
But before I do, somebody at Disney also has to apologize to people like Kirk Wise, Gary Trousdale, Ron Clements, John Musker, and Glen Keane, Andreas Deja, and Ruben Aquino. It’s too late to apologize to Eric Goldberg or James Baxter and two dozen other talents who have left in disgust or distrust. And I’m not exactly sure what anyone could say to the late Howard Ashman, other than to acknowledge that his legacy so eloquently revisited by his best pupils appears to have fallen on deaf ears. Is this the fault of not having listened, but having only heard the sound of cash?
And if it doesn’t change, I truly hope the management who are responsible for fostering this watering down of the magic will have the courage to at least sit down and write a long letter to their children or their children’s children and their children after them and give full explanation as to why they lost their faith, and stopped believing in magic - in particular the magic that is unleashed only through honoring the source. And explain to them, too, how it was that they came to factor the equation of show business in their hearts so that the sum total of their integrity gave proof to quantity being more valuable than quality.
Yeah, yeah. I hear some of you. "Stop chewing the scenery," you’re saying. I agree. Hysteria just obscures the more practical reality of tomorrow’s Nasdaq, and I have to reign in the drama and look to the basics of good business. So, I look to Michael Eisner to do that job, and to honor his promise to all of us, including us stockholders - and honor his heart. Michael Eisner is very much still at the helm, and he deserves a chance to steer the full course he has charted. Lord knows I’m not qualified for it.
I turned off the DVD and got back to my work and had that meeting with the young animation artist. His five year old son came along with him so I fell into the trap of popping in "Beauty and the Beast" to keep him occupied while we looked over some work (I confess to having pumped the requisite cash into Mechanic’s cow.) But when the "Jungle Book 2" preview came on the boy announced to us "That’s not the real Baloo!"
"No," I said with delight, "I know the real Baloo, and you’re right, that’s not him. I’ve met the real Baloo, and the real Mowgli!"
"Dad, you know the real Beast don’t you!" he said with glowing pride.
And as his father nodded and smiled, I thought to myself, "Dear God, I pray we never forget them. Any of them. Ever."
Hey, Michael, are you still with me? Then before I sign off and you go home tonight, take a long hard look across the street at Riverside Drive and forget about ABC for just a moment. Look a little further east at that Sorcerer’s hat and ask yourself what you owe to over three quarters of a century of talent whose originality made it possible for you to find yourself entrusted with what you call your "dream job." Then think about what you want to write to Ollie Johnston in his birthday card.
Me? I’m going to stick by my favorite quote these days: "Dear Ollie, I can manage the despair; it’s the hope that I mind."
Anybody got a stamp?
Discuss It
-- Posted October 22, 2002