As with Italian food, it is only later in life that I have come to appreciate the virtues of the rodent-venerating theme park.
As a teenager I first visited the Magic Kingdom in California and as a young father it’s counterpart in Florida. I treated it before with some cynicism, like it’s narrative of relentless celebration was not so much disingenuous but just plain depressing when juxtaposed with Real Life. “It is capitalist fakery par excellence, a consumerist onslaught” I would think. “They’re selling dreams for a profit” I would surmise (along with other observations of as much depth as the facades erected in the theme park).
As a boy, visiting a theme park, ring-fenced into the make-believe, was always tinged with an unshakeable hint of melancholy: because I was just a visitor. Disneyland encapsulated, rather aptly, Cinderella’s perennial midnight bursting of the balloon (or 9:30pm to be more precise). The lights inevitably went out at the end of each night, the minimum wage hosts still hung up their costumes at the end of their shifts and clocked out. The guests were still ushered out to rejoin the grey reality outside the park turnstiles. “That’s All Folks! Come again!” (“Pay again!”).
But, as with all good stories, it so came to pass that it was because of that grey reality, and not despite it, that I came to appreciate what theme parks, Disney in particular, offered. It seems in early middle-age (sounds like an era in history…) I have lost much of that cynicism (or the energy to be cynical), because I recently visited Disneyland in Hong Kong and found it, not so much thrilling or mesmerizing, just comforting. In it’s very pretence I found a complete lack of pretence. It was an escape and it was churlish to judge it harshly for being that. It was all face value but, for once, I took it at that. And it worked.
You can rest assured that I haven’t guzzled too many gallons of the Disney nectar. On my last visit, my wallet appeared to have, unbeknownst to me, enrolled on a severe one-day weight loss program. This was aided and abetted by the park entry guest baggage searchers (I presume they have a pithier job title) whose key concern was, of course, the security of the guests followed very closely indeed by the security of the profits of the TMU (Triple Mark-Up) F&B offerings in the park. Sweaty palms at the entry turnstiles had more to do with cheese & onion flavour contraband than nunchuks and firecrackers.
Despite my enjoyment of the park that day, I recall when, wide-eyed, I purchased the World’s Most Expensive Popcorn, and my son’s hand descended into the modest bucket like The Claw from Toy Story groping a handful and spilling much of it from his grip onto the ground at the same time. And as I watched the caramel-coated equivalents of hard paper currency of the Special Administrative Region of Hong Kong splayed on the ground, I realized that the grey reality of the world outside had descended momentarily. This time, the unshakeable hint of melancholy was the knowledge that there was still plenty of time before the lights went out and Goofy had clocked out, and the kids would no doubt be hungry again.