Forensic Stories

Forget Seinfeld--theme parks are unique in telling a type of story where nothing happens.

They feature neither dialogue nor action. There are no visible protagonists, objectives, or antagonists. The events began, escalated, and resolved long before we arrived.

These stories are forensic. They leave archeological clues that imply what happened, which lets us assemble the pieces together into a narrative.

GIF Stories

A GIF is an image that can support animation. Nothing too complicated, mind you, just a few actions. Roughly as much as we’d see, passing by an animatronic in a dark ride.

Here, for example, is a GIF of the clock from it’s a small world.

Just wait 'til the hour strikes.
Any minute, now.
...aaaaaany minute, now.

That’s all that clock does, all day, every day, rain or shine. There are classier ways to argue for theme parks as a valid artistic medium, but goddamn if that 8-bit image doesn’t capture what makes that clock as fun as it is in real life.

Some animatronics take their GIF-like movement a step further--by telling stories. There are fewer of these characters, but they enrich their surroundings immeasurably.

A ride populated with living characters who tell small-but-complete stories feels less like a narrative and more like a world. Everyone’s dealing with their own problems, but they’re all related to problems you’d find in the jungle. Or with ghosts, or pirates, et cetera.

Let's discuss the GIF story and some of the components that help it work.

The Definition of "Story"

Hi, kids! Wanna reduce art to a formula, and generalize the entire history of narrative structure with me? Cool!

I believe that every story is comprised of two sets of elements.

Part of Whose World?

Okay, this is an essay about a film on a blog about theme parks. Cut me some slack.

Like, seventeen of my degrees are in Film, Disney runs theme parks, the Little Mermaid has been adapted into oodles of attractions in Disney's theme parks, I completed an essay about the Little Mermaid today, and I haven't completed an essay about theme parks in ages. Plus, I'm giddy about this insight, and I wanna tell someone other than my family and girlfriend.

Care to hear?

The purpose of art.

We are weird.

You can’t blame us. We grew up in the Universe—a physical place with nearly nothing physical in it, and no physical boundaries to contain what little there is. It’s a sanctuary for life and love, whose doors are also open to death and suffering. It is interwoven with equal amounts of meaning and futility.

In short, the Universe is no place for small children. Unfortunately, it’s our home, and although we’ve tried our best, it was only a matter of time before we started acting out.

In a Short History of Nearly Everything, Bill Bryson observes some of the mixed messages we’ve learned from our upbringing.

“We don’t know which arrived first, a world that contained [Sir Isaac Newton’s] Principia or one that had no dodos, but we do know that they happened at more or less the same time. You would be hard pressed, I would submit, to find a better pairing of occurrences to illustrate the divine and felonious nature of the human being—a species of organism that is capable of unpicking the deepest secrets of the heavens while at the same time pounding into extinction, for no purpose at all, a creature that never did any of us any harm and wasn’t even remotely capable of understanding what we were doing to it as we did it.”

Like I said, we’re weird. And we're narcissistic. And that is why we have art.

We rushed into this blog.

Hey, you.

Let's be honest. We enjoy theme parks, and we're fascinated by narratology, and we love one another. That will never change.

If I was Excalibur, I'd deem you worthy.

But we don't know each other. Not really. If we’re gonna advance theme park theory—and there’s no one I’d rather advance theme park theory with—we’ve gotta get on the same page.

So let's bond. I'll start with an essay or two. Nothing complicated, just some trifles you oughta know about me.

You can respond however you like. Then we'll pick up where we left off.

There be squalls ahead, but we'll rough 'em together.

The EPCOT.

EPCOT is an acronym. It stands for "Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow."

Left alone, the phrase sounds like a Russian maguffin.

“Comrades, proceed to Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow!”
Perhaps this is a quibble, but it's easily fixed, and the solution could affect a lot of positive change.

What is Disneyland's theme?

Islands of Adventure is one of the most popular theme parks in the world. It has lands devoted to Dr. Seuss, high fantasy, Harry Potter, Jurassic Park, cartoons produced by Jay Ward, and Marvel Comics. What do these themes have in common?

Um. They all have lands in Islands of Adventure...?

Universal claims that the park’s theme is “places to adventure.” At best, that means, “places to walk around and go on roller coasters." At worst, it means, “whatever Universal can get the rights to.”

Nothing says "extraordinary" like mass-marketed franchises!
Without a theme to unify its lands, Islands of Adventure is not a theme park, but a themes park--or, more pedantically, "an amusement park with themed lands." That’s no great loss, because it’s still a lotta fun, and it doesn’t have much integrity to lose. It’s not like we're talking about Disneyland, here.

Say, while we’re on the subject, what’s Disneyland’s theme?

Uh oh.

Nothing’s coming to mind. Animal Kingdom's theme is “animals,” EPCOT is “a permanent World’s Fair,” Hollywood and Universal Studios are both “movies,” but Disneyland? I dunno.

How dispiriting!

Disneyland is definitive. When you hear the phrase “theme park,” you probably think of the castle. It’s so iconic, they’ve cloned it five times, on three different continents.

A mouse made the company, but he isn't its logo.
Surely the quintessential theme park is, indeed, a theme park, and not “an amusement park with themed lands!” Surely there’s a subject that unifies it!

...right?

Pardon our dust!

I'm applying to PhD programs, and it's gobbling up my time.

Fear not! There's plenty of forthcoming content. To whet your whistle:


There are four ride-throughs in the works.

Two dark rides for Beastly Kingdom: one about a dragon, and one about sirens.

A show for Hollywood Studios about directing.

A re-imagined Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea submarine ride for Tomorrowland.

There are also new ideas, causes, and philosophies gestating.

Figuring out what Disneyland's theme is, exactly.

Developing a new land for Disneyland.

The problem with--and solution for--Tomorrowland.

What to do with toddlers in the parks, and how we can broaden attractions to include them without excluding everyone else.

Why there hasn't been a great Brobdingnagian attraction.

Stay tuned!

Animal Kingdom needs a dark ride.

For years, Animal Kingdom’s advertisements insisted that it was “not a zoo.”

Nahtazu, n., A theme park infested with zoo animals.
The advertisers were so proud of what the park wasn’t, they forgot to tell us what it was. Not that their summary would matter. They were wrong.

It is a zoo. And it’s a magnificent zoo. The animals are glorious, and the theming is some of Disney’s most tasteful work. Animal Kingdom has nothing to be ashamed of.

...except its attractions. If I were advertising a park whose E-tickets are a raft ride about deforestation and a movie where a stinkbug farts on us, I’d insist that it is only a zoo.

We need more attractions.

Expedition Everest was a helpful addition, but it’s a thrill ride. If we meet the height requirement, a yeti tries to eat us. If we don’t meet the height requirement, a yeti tries to orphan us.

"Hi, kids! I'm adopting you! My stool smells like your birth parents!"
We need attractions for all ages. If possible, they should be dark rides, partly because dark rides are a Disney speciality, but mostly because they’re air conditioned.


Let’s work backwards. If we scrutinize Animal Kingdom's lands, maybe we can find a subject they haven't explored yet.