Society

FROM THE CRANK FILE: An American (polymath) In (disneyland parc) Paris

James R. van Houtte

The former "Eurodisney" is your standard Magic Kingdom fare. Here’s a Big Thunder Mountain, Neuschwanstein-inspired castle in the middle, Main Street U.S.A., Space Mountain, Teacups, what have you. The All-American experience. That’s inside the parc. What happens outside of Disneyland Parc, well, that’s not so all-American.

Case in point, the IMAX theater at Disney was wallpapered in advertisements for the new Quentin Tarantino movie, Inglorious Basterds (sic). While a young man like me might enjoy the premise of Nazi scum getting their comeuppance, I kind of doubt the big mouse in Anaheim would allow 1) Swastikas or 2) Exceptionally Mild Profanity within spitting distance of “It’s a small world.” Rounding out the IMAX offerings was G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, so, it’s a balanced breakfast of asskicking at Disneyland.

Of course, this isn’t the only thing that’s a little bit off about Disneyland Parc. As you begin the long trip down to the parc from a parcing lot that, quite frankly, is larger than some arrondissements of Paris, you are treated to a cavalcade of Disney music. Randy Newman songs from Pixar flicks, the theme from the Mickey Mouse Club, etc. And of course, since we were there on the 4th of July, a quick run through “Yankee Doodle Boy.”

I have to admit, after walking among cheese and smoke-congested Parisians the day before, I hummed along. It was like the fans who chanted USA! USA! USA! during the Bret Hart (Albertan) -Yokozuna (Polynesian, pretending to be Japanese) main event at Wrestlemania IX: The World’s Largest Toga Party.

The transport was not the fat people carts Americans are familiar with, but rather a series of airport-style moving sidewalks. Not bad transport honestly. The reason I’m writing about this is not about the sidewalks, but what comes after. It’s about a half a kilometer walk from the last moving transport to the entrance of the parc. And in this space, all kinds of junk merchants unfold flipping mechanical puppies, light up tubes of various sorts, and other kinds of county fair crap. The Big Mouse would never have any of this.

It’s not that these guys are here on the down-low though. That much was clarified by the three RAID counter-terrorist paramilitary soldiers cradling FAMAS assault rifles at the parc’s entrance. The wife assures me that this doesn’t happen in Orlando or Anaheim.

If you’re particularly wealthy, and want to live near Paris, but not in Paris, there’s an American pavilion of sorts in nearby Marne-la-Valée, where there are quaint townhouses that replicate a wealthy street in Paris, with shopping, dining, and an American-style Mall. Most of the folks who swarmed this bedroom community for vacationers were genuine Europeans. Even some Danes, who didn’t care for my Swiss license plate and amazing ability to not want to go down the wrong way on a one way street. And why shouldn’t I have? In the words of Jerry Orbach as Lumière, “After all, this, this is France...”

I could harp about how Europeans aren’t doing Disney right, or how it’s all a big joke, but to be honest, it was a ton of fun. I like roller coasters, and Disney always puts more effort into theirs. It’s not that they do Disney wrong, it’s just that they’re trying really hard, and sometimes, too hard, to replicate America. Case in point, the tour groups wearing blue and gray cowboy hats and carrying Union and Confederate flags.

Tell me that would go over in Florida. They were two groups of French tourists. I have no other information at this time, other than instead of a wacky T-shirt or umbrellas or something, this group decided to reenact the war betwixt the states at Disneyland.

But imagine that France was an important country, and that our culture was somehow being assaulted by seven course meals and cycling tours. How would we remake France in our own image?

I can certainly say for damn sure we wouldn’t erect a barricade and sing on top of it at our Disneyland.

Red... the blood of angry men,
James