Read Online Chris Mitchell by Cast Member Confidential: A Disneyfied Memoir - Free Book Online Page B
Tags: United States, General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Travel, Journalists, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Biography, Photographers, South, South Atlantic, Walt Disney World (Fla.) - Employees, Walt Disney World (Fla.), Disneyland (Calif.), Amusement & Theme Parks
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fact that I was part of a theme park class structure, and I wasn’t at the top.
The bottom of the pyramid was composed of Cast Members who never got to interact with guests: gardeners and maintenance workers, janitors and ride operators—personnel who spent their time in the dark or behind the scenes, keeping the wheels of Disney’s mechanism in motion.
The middle class was made up of workers in the service sector. This included souvenir salespeople, food and beverage handlers, and anybody who stood behind a counter in a silly costume. These Cast Members performed basic Disney functions like smiling and directing people to the bathroom.
But the ruling class at Disney was the character department. Characters were the reason people came to the park in the first place, and they were the reason people returned year after year. The people who were hired to be a part of the character program were considered the most elite group on property. Character performers weren’t just Cast Members doing a job; they were pillars holding up the House of Mouse.
Even within the character department, there was a subtle hierarchy based on popularity. More obscure characters like Gideon (the cat from Pinocchio ) or Meeko (the raccoon from Pocahontas ) ranked lower than Disney’s superstars like Goofy or Captain Jack Sparrow. And fur characters ranked lower than face. But the absolute pinnacle of the Disney Cast Member caste was the most romantic group of all: the princesses.
For three generations, little girls dreamed of being Snow White, Cinderella, or Sleeping Beauty. These princesses embodied a kind of Old World femininity, which dictated that a woman’s worth was to be measured by the elegance of her gown and the grace of her curtsey. Then, in the 1980s, Disney introduced a new princess, a heroine who was resilient and strong and utterly lovable—the Little Mermaid, Ariel. She was, hands down, the sexiest character ever produced by Disney, and the character quickly became the most coveted role on property. Only the most beautiful girls could play Ariel, the ones with slender figures, natural C cup breasts, and perfect, white smiles. The antics of the animated character made her a favorite among little girls. The seashell bikini top made her a hit with chaperoning daddies.
It was widely understood that princesses didn’t date below their status, which, in Ariel’s case, meant Prince Charming or, at the very least, a mid-level manager—men who could afford to keep a princess in the lush trappings that her elevated status demanded. Somebody like me would never be able to score a princess. As a photographer, I was firmly embedded in the bottom of the class pyramid, somewhere between landscaper and hot dog vendor, not that I had taken a single photo yet.
My big career break came after a couple of weeks in the lab. One of the photographers called in sick, and Orville shoved a camera into my hand. “I don’t have time to explain. Just go out to Camp Minnie-Mickey and shoot guests with the mice, then come straight back here. Do you think you can do that?” Within five minutes of developing my first roll of film, Orville called a meeting.
“Look at the way he sets up the shot with a balanced background.” He used a Winnie the Pooh coffee stick to indicate different parts of my photos for a group of Cast Members in the lab. “The parents aren’t trying to throttle their little brats. Nobody’s blinking. This is how I want to see all your shots come in.”
It made me uncomfortable. It made somebody else uncomfortable too.
“This photo is underexposed.” The guy speaking was Pluto height, with dark, crispy hair and eyelids that looked like they were tattooed with permanent makeup. His voice had the serrated edge of a feisty Latin woman, thick with a lisping Puerto Rican accent. “Their faces are dark. He should have pushed it a third of a stop.”
Orville squinted at the print. “Good eye, Marco. These Anniversary
The bottom of the pyramid was composed of Cast Members who never got to interact with guests: gardeners and maintenance workers, janitors and ride operators—personnel who spent their time in the dark or behind the scenes, keeping the wheels of Disney’s mechanism in motion.
The middle class was made up of workers in the service sector. This included souvenir salespeople, food and beverage handlers, and anybody who stood behind a counter in a silly costume. These Cast Members performed basic Disney functions like smiling and directing people to the bathroom.
But the ruling class at Disney was the character department. Characters were the reason people came to the park in the first place, and they were the reason people returned year after year. The people who were hired to be a part of the character program were considered the most elite group on property. Character performers weren’t just Cast Members doing a job; they were pillars holding up the House of Mouse.
Even within the character department, there was a subtle hierarchy based on popularity. More obscure characters like Gideon (the cat from Pinocchio ) or Meeko (the raccoon from Pocahontas ) ranked lower than Disney’s superstars like Goofy or Captain Jack Sparrow. And fur characters ranked lower than face. But the absolute pinnacle of the Disney Cast Member caste was the most romantic group of all: the princesses.
For three generations, little girls dreamed of being Snow White, Cinderella, or Sleeping Beauty. These princesses embodied a kind of Old World femininity, which dictated that a woman’s worth was to be measured by the elegance of her gown and the grace of her curtsey. Then, in the 1980s, Disney introduced a new princess, a heroine who was resilient and strong and utterly lovable—the Little Mermaid, Ariel. She was, hands down, the sexiest character ever produced by Disney, and the character quickly became the most coveted role on property. Only the most beautiful girls could play Ariel, the ones with slender figures, natural C cup breasts, and perfect, white smiles. The antics of the animated character made her a favorite among little girls. The seashell bikini top made her a hit with chaperoning daddies.
It was widely understood that princesses didn’t date below their status, which, in Ariel’s case, meant Prince Charming or, at the very least, a mid-level manager—men who could afford to keep a princess in the lush trappings that her elevated status demanded. Somebody like me would never be able to score a princess. As a photographer, I was firmly embedded in the bottom of the class pyramid, somewhere between landscaper and hot dog vendor, not that I had taken a single photo yet.
My big career break came after a couple of weeks in the lab. One of the photographers called in sick, and Orville shoved a camera into my hand. “I don’t have time to explain. Just go out to Camp Minnie-Mickey and shoot guests with the mice, then come straight back here. Do you think you can do that?” Within five minutes of developing my first roll of film, Orville called a meeting.
“Look at the way he sets up the shot with a balanced background.” He used a Winnie the Pooh coffee stick to indicate different parts of my photos for a group of Cast Members in the lab. “The parents aren’t trying to throttle their little brats. Nobody’s blinking. This is how I want to see all your shots come in.”
It made me uncomfortable. It made somebody else uncomfortable too.
“This photo is underexposed.” The guy speaking was Pluto height, with dark, crispy hair and eyelids that looked like they were tattooed with permanent makeup. His voice had the serrated edge of a feisty Latin woman, thick with a lisping Puerto Rican accent. “Their faces are dark. He should have pushed it a third of a stop.”
Orville squinted at the print. “Good eye, Marco. These Anniversary
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