Today I went on a two-hour guided walking tour of Disneyland Paris. Normally this is a group thing, but I was the only one who signed up for the English tour that day.
My guide, Gabor, was a Hungarian who has been living in France and working at the resort for four years. Between his English and my French (his English was definitely better) we had some interesting talks. Things began rather formally, but after I explained my project and my level of historical knowledge about the parks, we shifted off-script. There were quite a few things Gabor told me that I didn’t know.
First of all, the general color palette of the park, which is very pastel with many reds and pinks. Why, he asked? Well, this region of France (slightly north and to the east of Paris) is either rainy or overcast grey 90% of the year.
The colors were intentionally designed to amplify whatever sunlight comes through, and provide a joyful palette to contrast with the mute surroundings. This is an excellent example of color setting mood in thematic design.
Color is the most emotive component of any visual communications medium, yet for theming it’s especially vital. Thematic environments need to be drastically mood-altering in order to work properly, and color is strongly tied to mood.
As opposed to Disneyland Paris, in Florida or California (where the sun beats down almost any time of the year), stronger colors in any design have to be intentionally desaturated, lest they get amplified out of proportion.
Gabor and I also discussed the backstory for Frontierland, which is quite extensive. What’s most interesting is that this story, save for a few allusions in Phantom Manor (their equivalent of The Haunted Mansion attraction), is never explicitly told to guests.
There is no, what I call, “hard narrative.” Some thematic environments do explain story elements literally, via placards or video and multimedia presentations. But most rely on what I call “soft narrative”—a sort of nonlinear, atmospheric approach to storytelling.
Despite the implicit nature of all the details, the design is somehow more cohesive and realistic as a result.
Disneyland Paris’ Frontierland is mostly comprised of ghost town called “Thunder Mesa.” This can be inferred from various signage around the area.
There is also a gold mine in the town, as evidenced by the “Lucky Nugget Saloon” and the “Big Thunder Mountain Mine Train.”
Gabor filled me in on the entire story (which is too long to recount here) and he also pointed out to me the various clues—which would totally escape the average guest—embedded in the theming that plays out this story.
Now why, if the story behind these details is unknown to the visitor, do the details somehow make for a richer experience? I didn’t have an answer for Gabor, but I’ve given it some thought since. Every environment with a history of human presence has a human back story—a history.
For example, I might be on a road trip somewhere in the Western United States, and I might drive into a small town to get a meal and a bed for the night. This town has a history—of boom and bust, of waves of settlers, of phases of development.
And that history, detailed though it may be, is only apparent to me indirectly, through obscure visual clues. Layering. Weathering. Signage.
I think because we are used to seeing the evidence of human history on space, we come to regard these small details at completely normal, so much so that we only notice when they are absent. Everyone loves that ‘new car smell’ but it just doesn’t wash for an environment. It feels false. These details, even if we know nothing of the tales behind them, ring true.
In adding so many details that comprise a back story the visitors probably will never know (like here, who is Rose?), the Disney designers are very compellingly approximating what real human history looks and feels like. Hence Frontierland feels more ‘real’ by virtue of its ‘real’ roots.