Dubailand – Dubai Update 4.

I’ve been so busy with travel lately that I haven’t had time to update this blog. Here are the last few posts from my notes on Dubai, before I move on with documenting the rest of my travels. After a full morning at Wafi City Mall, I took a long cab ride beyond the edge of the bustling city to the fringes of the desert, where the massive Dubailand parcel lies.

And by massive, I mean three billion square feet (278 km² / 107 mile²)—a site that will include 45 mega projects and 200 sub-projects. There’s not much out there right now, save for a snazzy visitor’s center chocked full of concept art and scale models—but once the four initial phases are completed sometime between 2015 and 2018, Dubailand will be twice the size of Walt Disney World near Orlando, Florida. Think about that for just a moment. Disney World is the largest private recreational property in the world, and it spans 47 square miles—about the size of San Francisco, or twice the size of Manhattan. Dubailand will be just over twice that size—107 square miles.

Everything sounded like so much marketing and developer hype as I read about it before leaving for my Dubai trip, but once I arrived at the visitor’s center and had a look at the impressive masterplan model (which took up its own entire room), I was a believer. True, the only thing moving about Dubailand right now (late spring, 2008) are the scores of heavy equipment pushing dirt around, but what is planned—and what major entertainment corporations from all over the world have pledged to invest billions in—is unprecedented, and it is the future of Themerica. Everyone from Dreamworks to Universal to Marvel to Busch Gardens to Six Flags have signed on.

What distinguishes Dubailand from other such projects—besides its sheer, unnerving scale—are two key concepts that began with Walt Disney World in Florida: the privatization of governing bodies (through  WDW's Reedy Creek Improvement District), and the extension of thematic design across multi-use developments. Disney World was, in effect, the merging of traditional modern urban planning with the immersive philosophy of theming—and all of it effectively privatized. Instead of merely controlling the visitor’s experience within an attraction, or a land, or a park, the control—and seamless unifying aesthetic—is manifested at even the infrastructural level. Walt grabs hold of you the minute you set foot in WDW, and your experience is a completely holistic (and Disney) one until the moment you leave the property.

The semi-autonomous status of Disney World has been troubling to commentators for years, who note that in an effort to provide Florida with a massive influx of tax revenue and jobs, state and local officials gave Disney practically everything they asked for. Amazingly, the company even has the right to build and operate its own nuclear power plant on the site—a right, like every other granted to Disney, that exists in perpetuity.

Dubai, however, is not a democracy by any stretch, and thus governance within the Dubailand complex is not likely to be an issue for its development (Sheikh Mohammed, ruler of Dubai, holds 99.67% of  the company that owns and will operate Dubailand). Most interesting is the emphasis on multi-use; landowners will be able to live within Dubailand, and thus live fully within the walls of a thematic environment.

Dubailand will include theme parks, hotels and resorts, entertainment complexes, golf courses, shopping venues, and commercial properties in addition to residential spaces in the form of luxury villas, smaller housing plots and higher-density apartments. The entire project plays with the traditional role of zoning—which separates land according to use to better balance overall property values.

What will life be like living in Dubailand? Where shopping, entertainment, sports, leisure and shopping are blended together into a single immersive environment, unified by the principles of thematic design? I would be very interested to return in ten years to find out.

Wafi City Mall – Dubai Update 3.

Yes, it has been over a month since my last post. The end of the semester was hectic as usual, so I’m compiling these last few entries on Dubai from my notes after the fact. This past week I was in New York City, and next week I leave for Tokyo and Hong Kong. Before those trips, however, I’d like to complete my thoughts on this past April.

On my second full day in Dubai I visited Wafi City Mall. This complex, rumored to be owned by the Sheikh’s sister, is probably the most luxurious and exclusive shopping mall in Dubai. The sprawling grounds feature high-end name brands and high-end theming to match. The message here is one of the past; predominately Ancient Egypt, although Greco-Roman and the Indian subcontinent are represented as well. The exteriors take their cue from the pyramids at Giza, the Valley of the Kings, and the ruins down the Nile at Luxor.

In this regard, i was reminded of the latter’s namesake hotel in Las Vegas, with its giant sphinxes and meticulously reproduced hieroglyphics. And just like the Luxor Las Vegas, the past as seen here has an extra layer of gloss—of bling—added on top. The use of gold and jewels is impressive, and is designed to appeal to a very discriminating type of consumer. Shoppers in Southern California’s Beverly Hills or Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue would feel very at home here.

Wafi City illustrates very clearly the nature of theming in Dubai. In Las Vegas, as in most other American thematic venues, the purpose is overwhelming escapism. Anything seen as exotic or foreign is perceived as most exciting, and thus most desirable. Tropical locales, European cities, and medieval fantasies—all find home in the deserts of Nevada. Not so in the deserts of the United Arab Emirates. Las Vegas wants you to forget—Dubai is desperate for you to remember her. Nearly every example of thematic design represents a very specific vision, a dream of glories past. Specifically Arabic culture, and Islamic culture (including the parts of Asia where Islam has spread and taken root) in general, is the focus.

This serves to provide Dubai with a past legacy that the city has never really had. Dubai, by any measure, is a product of the twentieth century. The area didn’t evolve from being a backwater port and pearl diving village until after the oil began flowing in the 1950s. Even then, most of the city as we see it today is less than twenty years old. Yet Dubai must have a past in order to secure a future, and that’s where theming comes in. The shopping malls, entertainment complexes and resorts tell a story that real ruins and actual artifacts cannot—they assert that Dubai somehow has the grand lineage of a city like Damascus or even Mecca.

One of the primary purposes in preserving the past monuments, artifacts and architecture of a culture is celebration. I assume that the message is just as strong for residents; as a visitor the impression is unmistakable. Dubai is resoundingly paying tribute to the Arabs—and all the Muslims—that came before it the way any other city in the region would, except she has no actual remains to offer up to the Museum Gods. She must craft them out of whole cloth, complete with parking garages and escalators.

DEAL 2008 – Dubai Update 2.

Wi-fi had been spotty in Dubai, so now that I’m back in the U.S., I'll start to post all the bits that I wrote while I was over there.

On sunday the twentieth I visited the DUBAI ENTERTAINMENT, ARTS & LEISURE EXPO (DEAL) at the Dubai World Trade Center. Sheikh Mohammed stopped by ever so briefly, as he is known to do all over Dubai without notice, shook some hands and left. His massive entourage (devoid of any explicitly visible security) passed right by me, though I can’t admit to being starstruck. The expo on the whole was something of a disappointment—there just weren’t as many representatives of the theming industry present as I had anticipated. Most vendors were manufactures of ride equipment, systems integration (ticketing, point-of-sale, etc), and waterpark attractions.

The few conversations I had, however, were very fruitful. I spoke with Brendon Poole, creative director at Cat Décor. A South African who has been living and working in Dubai for over five years, Brendon, like many thematic designers, got his start in the film industry. He began his career as a prop and set designer / fabricator, and then worked full time as a storyboard artist on such films as From Dusk 'till Dawn before starting his own company. Brendon re-affirmed my contention that the language of film—what Anna Klingmann calls “storyboard architecture”—is inexorably linked to theming. His comments were quite insightful.

I also met with Peter van Bilsen, Senior Vice President, Marketing and Sales for Vekoma Rides Manufacturing. The designer of most of the world’s premiere roller coaster and thrill rides (here is a comprehensive list), Vekoma is based in the Netherlands, and is known for its tight collaboration with Disney in producing many of the attraction ride systems for their theme park. Mr. van Bilsen was kind enough to elaborate on how the creative process operates between the two companies. The fact that they have worked together on so many different projects over the years—a relationship spanning over two decades—has lead to a very streamlined and tight collaboration.

As Peter put it, when a new ride is given the green light by management, the Disney folks “know exactly who to call” at Vekoma, and the production meetings are set almost automatically. In speaking with Mr. van Bilsen, it became even more clear to me how secondary the engineers and are to the overall thematic creative process. Only after the narrative has been developed, the concept art, storyboards and models built—are the “math people” called upon to make the rides actually work, and the structures actually stand.

Another interesting conversation I had was with the folks at Theme World, the Gulf representatives for U.S.-based Biscayne Aquaculture. Headed by Gordon Cruickshanks, who actually worked on the famed Lost City theme park in South Africa, Theme World specializes in “recreating natural and historical environments.” Their parent organization, biscayne, had worked for years to produce rockwork, water features, and landscape architecture in the states, for many notable projects, both private residential and large scale. I spoke with both Mark Bryan, who noted that the demand for themed projects in Dubai is “unprecedented” and Lynette Widmeyer, who offered some fascinating insights into her personal philosophy of placemaking.

“Not only does the theming of natural and historical environments take visitors away from the everyday,” she told me, “these spaces cause people to remember who they are…to return to where they should be.” Theming, in her view, is not about escapism, but rather about affirmation of identity. Water in landscaping, she felt, was especially key to this process. “Water is the most natural, tranquil, serene substance on our planet. It refreshes, revitalizes—and to see and hear it in motion is a spiritual experience.”

Along the lines of water, I also spoke with John Cussen of Amusement Whitewater, a firm that has perhaps the most thorough resume for themed water projects in the Middle East, in addition to a long list of stateside projects (including several at Walt Disney World). They completed partial design, fabrication and installation of the Egyptian section of Ibn Battuta Mall, Wild Wadi Water Park, Ski Dubai, and most recently Atlantis The Palm—a sister resort to Atlantis in the Bahamas—opening in September as the gateway to the Palm Jumeirah.

Even though I had hoped for a greater representation of the theming industry at DEAL 2008, the contacts I did make were valuable and I hope to follow up with most of the kind folks I talked with and perhaps interview them more formally in the future.

“Modern Antiques” – Dubai Update 1.

I’ve been in Dubai for two days now and it is delightful and overwhelming all at once. After meeting up with family friends for a drink at Barasti (a beach bar beside the Palm Jumeirah) the night I arrived, I started my first day at the Ibn Battuta Mall. Named after the 14th century explorer, the massive mall is divided into six areas called courts.

Each is themed as a different region of the Islamic World where Ibn Battuta traveled: China, India, Persia, Egypt, Tunisia and Andalusia (Moorish Spain). The architecture is very Las Vegas-esque, with a sky-painted ceiling that appears to move if you stare at it long enough. Winding streets and alleys with forced perspective rooftops and second stories complete the illusion. Perhaps predictably, the Arabian regions have a far more authentic feeling.

The China court is the most kitschy; straight Chinatown Hollywood gloss. It seems the further you get from Arabia, the closer you get to Hollywood representations. The stereotypes seem universal—the China here is done the same way China is branded in the U.S. at restaurants, etc.

There is a strong educational focus at the mall, with elaborate displays related to each culture, showcasing early technology in the age of exploration (shipbuilding, early flight, navigation and mathematics, etc.). This exemplifies how commerce blends seamlessly with education, religion and entertainment in Dubai. There is no clear line between shopping, learning playing or praying on this liberalized, Western, secular island. It’s all one big mix.

after spending several hours at Ibn Battuta, i moved on up the coast to Madinat Jumeirah, a themed luxury resort complex of considerable size. The design replicates ‘Classic Arabia’ and provides the feeling of older, more authentic cities such as Cairo, Mecca or Damascus. Because Dubai was a fairly small and unremarkable town until oil was discovered in the 1960s (which began the region’s rapid growth), and also because nearly anything of historical value has been destroyed or displaced by the building craze of the last twenty years, there is very little original, classical Islamic architecture here.

As a result, Dubai is somewhat insecure about its lack of roots. Most, if not all, the major resort developments are themed to provide a history that many feel does not exist. The illusion has become the surrogate. Thematic design providing historical context in the absence of a real past is nothing new. However, an Old Dubai still exists here, in the form of Deira and Bur Dubai, the two oldest neighborhoods that border the creek and comprise pre-oil Dubai. This is the older, more authentic part of town that these newer, thematic resorts are trying to replicate in a very romanticized form.

The older and more authentic parts of Dubai are often shunned by the elite traveler in favor of the themed replica. It’s not that these places are shady or poor, either—by all accounts these neighborhoods are perfectly safe for tourists. But there is a certain packaged, predictability to the themed resorts that the richer tourists seem to crave. In visiting both, I will be able to directly compare the theme to the original source—something that can rarely be done at the same location.

There was a sign at the Ibn Battuta Mall that you could only find in Dubai—the sort of oxymoron that typifies the real and the ersatz living side by side. The proprietor of a small cart offering lanterns and other trinkets proudly proclaimed himself to be selling “Modern Antiques.” And I think that’s the best shorthand for Dubai that I’ve seen so far—seeking to look and feel ancient, yet so proud to embody a futuristic urbanity. Seeking both a future, and a past.

Dubai: The "Genuine Fake."

I'm off for Dubai next week to attend the 14th annual DUBAI ENTERTAINMENT, ARTS & LEISURE EXPO (DEAL) at the Dubai World Trade Center, which is pretty much a trade show for theme park developers. Dubailand, if you haven't heard about it yet, is a multi-phase development project that, when completed, will be larger than Walt Disney World. Twice the size of Manhattan—larger than the city of San Francisco.

The Dubailand Wikipedia entry has some pretty good information on the project. The area is planned like a full-scale city, with multi-use residential, shopping, commercial and entertainment districts. Six Flags, Paramount Parks (now Cedar Fair), Universal Studios and Dreamworks have all signed on to design and develop parks, with Dubai Holding, the parent developer, picking up the construction costs. there are four initial stages planned, with full project completion due sometime between 2015 and 2018.

I’ll have five nights and six days to take in the city. Apart from attending the conference and meeting some folks involved in the theming industry, there are several venues I plan to visit and photograph, and—wi-fi willing—I’ll be able to post some observations every night. Internet in Dubai can be spotty, I’m told (due to proxy servers censoring sexual and political content). After meeting with my thesis advisor this past week, we roughed out a plan of attack for my visit. The theming conference runs for three days, and i’ll have a day and two nights in the city before that begins. I will probably start by checking out some of the more famed themed shopping districts, like the Ibn Battuta Mall (their website is currently undergoing maintenance, but the mall's Wikipedia entry is pretty good). Ibn Battuta is divided into six elaborately themed geographical areas; China, India, Egypt, Tunisia, Andalusia and Persia. Interestingly, the mall has an educational agenda for visiting westerners as well—intricate museum-quality historical displays on each culture are peppered throughout.

After attending the conference, I'll have a few more days left to poke around. I think it's wisest to save the major theme parks until after the event, because anyone I talk to will probably inform my observations for the better. I'll be hopping on the slopes at Ski Dubai, which claims to be the largest indoor skiing facility in the world. The massive structure is part of The Mall of The Emirates, one of the world's largest shopping complexes. I also plan to go to the Wild Wadi Water Park, at which the theme is the voyages of Sinbad the Sailor—exquisite artificial rockwork and landscaping abound.

I listened to an interesting interview the other day on NPR, available here, with a New York Times travel writer who recently did a "36 hours in" feature on Dubai. One of her most insightful comments was that as she walked through the marketplace stalls selling knock-off designer goods, the vendors were shouting “genuine fakes!” She felt this summed up the entire city, and I couldn’t agree more. Dubai is where theming intersects with lifestyle, where brandscape meets simulation. It’s the future of thematic design—as much a departure from Disneyland as a descendant.

L. Frank Baum and Prop Vignettes.

I was very surprised to learn that the author of the famed Oz books, L. Frank Baum, began his career in theatrical production and retail marketing. The same year that he published The Wonderful World of Oz, 1900, Baum wrote The Art of Decorating Dry Goods Windows and Interiors. According to Woody Register (see my last post on his Fred Thompson biopic) it was “the first book on the subject, and one widely valued among urban retailers.”

A successful window display is a stage on which objects tell some legible story.” — L. Frank Baum

At first, this seems trivial—a man leaves the worlds of entertainment and commerce to write children’s books. Yet stage production, retail decor and fantasy narratives all intersect at a versatile device in the thematic designer’s toolbox—something I’ve been calling prop vignettes. I’m choosing to use the term vignette in the literary sense, as in brief scene centered around one moment.

According to William R. Leach in his Land of Desire: Merchants, Power, and the Rise of a New American Culture, Baum seems to have been the first to write about the appeal of window displays and their usefulness in drawing consumers into retail spaces. He essentially invented something we take for granted today (especially at Christmas time)—the department store window diorama.

The fact that Baum was a natural-born storyteller says much about his ability to design and decorate consumer spaces. As Woody Register put it, “the integration of his imagination into the urban marketplace and the new art of displaying goods cannot be separated from his literary fairy tales.”

As I have come to define them, prop vignettes are like theatrical stage sets in miniature, and they are used to establish “soft” narrative (atmospheric storytelling). Usually consisting of a tightly arranged composition of static elements, prop vignettes literally ‘set the stage’ for thematic environments.

They establish mood and convey meaning at a level of detail that architecture alone cannot—in this regard they belong more to the tradition of interior design.

A classic example is the stack of barrels framed by a ladder or the mining equipment, ore cars and rusted gears and metalwork commonly found at venues in the wild west theme.

The examples pictured here are all from my recent trip to Disneyland Paris, and represent typical such displays.

The two most common settings for prop vignettes are in themed restaurants and in the cues of amusement park attractions, particularly those designed by Disney. This is actually quite interesting—both areas entail substantial waiting at times.

This leads me to believe that designers actively employ them to give guests and consumers something to look at while they are idle; the atmospheric qualities of prop vignettes are best admired at length. More on this later, but suffice to say that this design technique is instrumental in developing successful thematic environments.

Fred Thompson and the Birth of “Amusement Architecture.”

I’ve just finished Woody Register’s The Kid of Coney Island, an excellent historical biopic of Fred Thompson, the visionary behind Luna Park. Opening at Coney Island in 1903, Thompson’s brainchild was arguably the first twentieth century american thematic environment. I discovered in Register’s incredible read that Thompson actually coined the term “Amusement Architecture” as the title of an article he wrote for Architectural Review 16 in July, 1909.

I was able to find the entire piece at archive.org, in which Thompson admonishes ‘traditional schooled architecture’ and makes the case that those without formal training are better suited to designing thematic spaces. “The schemes of such a man must be fantastical, even sometimes to an extreme,” he wrote, “for his is more the undertaking of an artist with imagination than of a craftsman whose efficiency is restricted by his subservience to a triangle and a t-square” (emphasis is mine).

The extent of Thompson’s architectural education was off-an-on again work in his teens at his uncle’s firm in Nashville, Tennessee. He never mastered formal skills, and later tried a year of illustration classes at the Cincinnati Art Academy, but grew restless and left. He always referred to himself as a “showman” or an entertainer—never an artist or an architect—yet a generation before Walt Disney, he began the tradition of illustrators and designers developing spaces and thus challenging the primacy of the architect.

“Theatrically speaking, architecture is nothing more nor less than scenery,” Thompson declared to his readers (emphasis mine). He scolded “carefully trained architects who endeavor to make triangles and t-squares do the work of brains and imagination” for not being able to conceptualize entertainment venues for the consuming public. “Straight lines are as hard and serious as baccalaureate sermons…buildings can laugh quite as loudly as human beings…and a beautiful but excited skyline is more important in an exposition [than formality].”

The groundwork for departing from architectural formalism was laid by Fred Thompson at Luna Park. His unwillingness to confine his work to the “triangle and t-square” and his emphasis on an imaginative, illustrative approach to conceptualizing environments is the cornerstone of thematic design as it is now practiced. Thompson’s methodology is the missing link between the Tivoli Gardens and World’s Fairs of the nineteenth century (the latter of which Thompson won an award for architectural design) and the work of the Disney organization, which injected the experience and personnel of Hollywood movie magic—the language of cinematics.

Transition Zones. Brandscapes Clashing with Pure Simulation – Disneyland Paris Wrap-Up.

I’ve been home for a week now, and I’ve been going through my copious notes reflecting on my time spent at Disneyland Paris. Most observations align quite well with what I’ve seen elsewhere. Successful thematic design—like architecture or graphic design—is remarkably consistent. Similar grammar, techniques, thinking, etc. What works, works. And on that same note, what doesn’t work (see my earlier post on the Walt Disney Studios park) just doesn’t.

Altogether, the Disneyland Paris park is the most remarkable example of thematic design I have seen in my research thus far. Tokyo DisneySea, which I visited once in 2003, is definitely on par, but I was looking at it back then through the eyes of a tourist and not a critic. When I return to Japan for research in June, it will be interesting to give it a second, serious pass (and in direct comparison to the Paris park). Again, much of this is owed to the fact that the Disney organization felt compelled to top themselves in order to win European audiences. And top themselves they did.

In going back through my field journals, I have highlighted some specific observations. I will discuss two of them here. First of all, transition zones. All Disney parks are composed of multiple thematic environments, usually delineated by ‘lands’ or sub-lands. When two or more themes bump into each other, there are specific design challenges as to how guests experience the transition in between. Above all, it cannot be jarring. Any cause for pause can disrupt the illusion and the guest’s place in the story. Beginning with the original Disneyland park, the designers have paid special attention to these areas.

For example, a building between two lands shares a roofline, evenly split down the apex from one side to the other, or the style of pavement morphs from brick to cobblestone.

The most remarkable such transition I’ve seen was pointed out to me by Gabor, my private tour guide, on our two-hour stroll through the Paris park. Take a careful look at these next two pictures—the first being Adventureland and the second, Fantasyland.

The two lands are separated by a small covered bridge. All of the bodies of water are connected, underground or otherwise. So on the Adventureland side, the theme is tropical paradise. The waterways are rough and rocky, with many flowing streams and rapids. The foliage is wild and overgrown.

The Fantasyland side is extremely groomed in the orderly nature of an English garden; it is a medieval fantasy theme, yet of a very particular type—the complete opposite of its neighbor, essentially. The Disney designers have used this covered bridge as the barrier between the two themes. So the moment you cross over, the very same moving body of water transforms, almost by way of magic, from the wilds of the tropics to the tame serenity of a classic European estate. Maintaining proper transition zones is essential to preserving the illusion of multiple themes integrated within the same environment. What Las Vegas often does poorly, for example, (by way of multiple owners and a varied development model) Disney produces very, very well (by exercising complete creative control).

Second among these journal notes pertains to the Disney Village retail and dining complex, designed by renowned contemporary architect Frank Gehry. It’s not that the environment (or rather, environments) is poorly designed—in fact, as to form and function, it succeeds both aesthetically and commercially. However, Disney Village was very revealing in how the two extremes of my thematic vector—pure brand and pure simulation—interact.

Disney Village sits more on the brandscape side of things; this stylistic row of shops and restaurants is much more akin to Jon Gerde’s Universal Citywalk than Disney’s park next door (which is more pure simulation). In addition to the retail spaces enclosed in Gehry’s rather avant garde structure, the space includes a number of what I would call ‘traditional’ thematic venues:

  • Annette’s Diner – An American burger joint in the 50s nostalgia theme
  • Rainforest Café – A popular chain in the tropical paradise theme
  • Planet Hollywood – one of the last remaining locations of the ailing, bankrupt chain, themed in Hollywood memorabilia
  • King Ludwig’s Castle – A german steak, sausage and beer restaurant in the medieval fantasy theme
  • Billy Bob’s – A restaurant, saloon and music venue in the wild west theme
  • Hurricanes – An all-night dance club in the tropical paradise theme
  • The Steakhouse – a restaurant in the Wild West theme, but more of the Great Plains and Chicago than the far West

Standing alone, the Disney Village does an excellent job as an upscale, varied shopping and dining complex. It is a perfect brandscape in the Jerde tradition. However, next to the pure simulation of Disneyland Paris (and, to an extent, the Walt Disney Studios) it falls flat. I think that brandscapes in direct comparison to ‘traditional’ thematic spaces create an uncomfortable juxtaposition—one that derides both formats. Each style of thematic environment operates on different assumptions, and asks different things of their audiences. In designing Universal Citywalk, Jon Jerde specifically stated that he wanted to avoid pure simulation in the Disney vein, and instead present a collage pastiche of inflated iconography. His Citywalk reads like a daydream of Los Angeles; the design hints at much, yet resists referencing anything specific. Disney Village was conceptualized on very similar terms.

On the contrary, the Disney vision of pure simulation (again, what I call ‘traditional’ theming) thrives on the specificity of its design references. The Disneyland park model is a holistic design concept that envelops the guest in the narrative, using cinematic cues to construct a tightly controlled (and thus a very heightened) experience.

The Disney Village in contrast presents itself to the viewer much as a traditional architectural program does—one is not enveloped or involved, rather one is forced to respond in a subject/object relationship.

As a result, to stroll from one to the other is jarring, and raises the kind of awareness that removes the guest from the illusion that theming is trying to convey. Disneyland park looks too cute, too kiddy, not serious enough, next to Gehry’s architecture.

And Disney Village, in turn, looks like a stern taskmaster in the face of Disney’s openness and gaiety. Designers of thematic environments would do well to separate the two—within the same user experience they both lose their luster.

Anywho that’s it for now on Disneyland Paris. Next stop is Dubai.

Typography on Main Street – Disneyland Paris Update 4.

Main Street U.S.A here in France has really got me thinking about the specific role that graphic design plays in theming. The examples I have seen are truly astounding. Disney in general has always had a good handle on vernacular re-creation, and the Parisian park’s Main Street is no exception.

However, although the parks stateside do a solid job, the designers have outdone themselves here. The reasons are twofold. First, Disney was given the specific mandate to impress European audiences. And second, creating a Main Street that made sense to the European conceptions (or misconceptions) of American culture and history required that the basic formula be rethought.

So, not only did they have go above and beyond, but Disney’s creatives needed to innovate. And in graphic design, impressing and innovating produces really stellar work.

The original Main Street U.S.A. in California is all about a nation in transition—from gas to electricity, from horse to automobile, from telegraph to telephone. This basic theme is repeated in Paris; however, the commercial (read: capitalistic) aspects of American society are grossly amplified. For the first time, billboards and advertising broadsides of all kinds are peppered throughout main street, becoming as strong a design voice as the architecture itself.

Which means some truly spectacular examples of period-piece graphic design.

What I love about the work, however, is even though it is designed in general for a lay audience (read: European middle-class tourists and their families), Disney researched the material so thoroughly that the various specimens hold up even to serious scrutiny.

Designers often decry the Hollywood misuse of typography in period films—blatant inaccuracies abound. Not so here.

Typography has an important role in thematic environments. First of all, it can convey “hard narrative”—that is, it can directly tell a story through signage, placards, wayfinding, etc. Second, it adds a vital level of detail to historical representations.

Type has been with us for quite some time, and most conventions of certain historical eras are readily identifiable, even to the untrained eye.

We know a lot about typography, even if we don’t, simply because it surrounds us in our daily lives. Adding type is yet another shortcut to comprehension in the thematic designers’ toolbox.

You could argue that apart from a few signs for the bathrooms, all of the typography on Main Street U.S.A. is completely gratuitous. And I’d agree.

But it is this gratuity that adds an extra dimension—another level, yet another read—to this thematic representation of turn-of-the-century america, imagined for european audiences.

One feels overwhelmed at first glance, but then compelled to take a closer look. If all this detail is here, what else is there to see? What else might I be missing?

These small nuances encourage the visitor to take their time and examine the scene more closely. Closer examination equals immersion, and immersion is what theming is all about.

All graphic artwork © Disney Enterprises.

Being Taken ‘Into the Movies’ – Disneyland Paris Update 3.

Today I started my research at the Walt Disney Studios. This theme park, which opened in 2002, pays tribute to Hollywood and movies of Walt Disney, in the vein of Universal Studios or the similar Disney's Hollywood Studios park in Florida and the backlot area of Disney California Adventure.

The entrance plaza is designed to resemble the front gate at a movie studio backlot, and the rest of the park looks like such a lot, with large open spaces and massive buildings labeled ‘Stage 3’ or 'Main Stage.’ Park services and maintenance even ride around in those little golf carts with the tassel rooflines.

The park, especially when compared with Disneyland next door, is a travesty. Really just a horribly disappointing experience. I think I was there for about an hour and a half before I decided that my time was better spent next door.

The only worthwhile experience was the Twilight Zone Terror of Terror, and that's lifted directly from the stateside parks (the French version is an exact clone of the one at California Adventure). It’s not just that Disney spent too little on design and development (though they most certainly did; probably the suits are cautious after the resort’s harsh first few years), the problem also is that certain thematic design decisions just don’t work. As is the case with California Adventure, it seems many creatives at the company need to relearn the techniques that made Disney theme parks wildly popular in the first place.

Overall, the park lacks feeling. It comes across as shallow, boxy and cheap. Something i’ve come to expect from Universal or Six Flags, but not Disney. I think this problem stems from Disney’s decision to not embrace pure simulation. If the park is supposed to resemble a Hollywood backlot, then the appropriate solution is not to just suggest it, but to do it, all the way. Main Street U.S.A. or Frontierland work because they embrace the thematic extreme of pure simulation. This has its own drawbacks, and precious care must be taken to preserve the representation from being shattered by the outside world, but overall it’s a much stronger experience. Walt Disney Studios tries to walk the line between suggesting and simulating. Is it a joke? Is it for real? The impression is one of confusion. However, there are some interesting things going on, and although as a visitor I’m not particularly moved by them, I think I can read the design intent.

The entry building, after you cross the studio courtyard, is a massive studio warehouse. You enter through the doors onto a ‘HOT SET’—the classic lighting rigs and unpainted plywood walls with 2x4 framing are instantly recognizable.

Inside this stage building is a mock set of Hollywood and general Californian / American iconography.

There is a Brown Derby, a tropical place called ‘Liki Tiki,’ a classic retro gas station, the 'Hollywood and Vine’ department store etc.

Now this is where it get weird—the explicit metaphor of a set is carried throughout, so all these stage fronts are intentionally facades, bare wood backs and all. No matter which doorway you walk through, however, they all lead to one large area ‘backstage.’ On the left is one long retail space, and on the right is a fast food court.

I’m not sure how to feel about this. I get what they’re trying to do. This building is supposed to be a gateway that is taking you, literally and figuratively, ‘into the movies.’ So I can understand why the false fronts are false—to be consistent with the pure simulation of the stage set buildings (which is done rather well).

The problem is, the designers are explicitly telling their audience that this is all fake. This admission of illusion makes it very difficult to suspend disbelief, and take the whole thing seriously. And by that I mean, to take theming seriously you have to not look at it seriously.

Any crack in the façade is detrimental, and by showing the audience that it’s indeed all ‘just a show,’ a thematic environment can’t function the way it’s designed to.

It would have been better if these stage sets were designed to accompany the environments, as background elements. But walking through and inhabiting them fundamentally separates the audience from the simulation. And for thematic design, that’s the death knell.

The Power of Color and Backstory – Disneyland Paris Update 2.

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.

Frontierland and the Role of Scope – Disneyland Paris Update 1.

After taking a shuttle motor coach direct from CDG airport, I checked into the Hotel Santa Fe. There are several hotels on property or near the Disneyland Paris Resort.

The Hotel New York reflects a Manhattan theme, although more modern and abstract than Las Vegas’ New York, New York simulacrum.

The Sequoia Lodge suggests Frank Lloyd Wright crossed with the famed National Parks lodges built by FDR’s Public Works Administration.

The Newport Bay Club is pure, concentrated New England old money.

The Hotel Cheyenne is a Ghost Town replica in the vein of Tombstone, Arizona—albeit far more kitschy and Hollywoodized.

Lastly my residence—the Hotel Santa Fe—is a sort of a postmodern remix of Southwestern style, with a good dose of motel-chic thrown in. What I’ve found interesting is that the amount and extent of the theming is directly tied to the accommodation’s sticker price. The more upscale the hotel, the more subtle (and modern/abstract) the design approach. I can only afford to stay in ‘kitcheville,’ where the Hotels Cheyenne and Santa Fe sit across from one another, separated by the ‘Rio Grande’ river.

My first impression upon entering the Disneyland park, despite my extreme fatigue and jetlag, was awe. The level of detail and craftsmanship is unparalleled, even for Disney. It’s a well-known fact that the Disneyland Paris Resort failed to post profits and struggled its first few years—what’s rarely mentioned is that this was due less to lack of demand (families from all over Europe adore the place) and more a result of the outrageous sums Disney Imagineering spent concepting, designing, and constructing it.

The park is massive compared to what we have stateside, even larger than the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World (which is itself significantly larger than the original Disneyland in Anaheim).

This can be seen a couple of ways. On the one hand, the sense of intimacy that makes Disneyland a special place for so many is lost somewhat. This is a complaint often leveled at Orlando’s Magic Kingdom—the castle is so tall, Main Street is so large. Yet viewed another way, here in Paris the use of scope and land area serves to strengthen specific themes.

Frontierland is by far the largest area of the park, and with good reason—the French (and the rest of Europe, for that matter) might have quibbles with us in recent times, but they absolutely love our American western heritage.

The closing of the frontier, cowboys and Indians, gold rushes and ghost towns—all these are appreciated largely due to the influence of cinema. The shoot-em-up films of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, the epics of John Ford, the spaghetti tradition of Serge Leone—all are as popular as ever.

In making Frontierland this large, Disney acknowledges the theme’s popularity, yet the size serves the theme itself—perfectly. The original Frontierland in Anaheim is intimate, to be sure, but overly so. What made the original West so compelling was its vastness. The idea of a wilderness ‘untamed and untapped’ (except for a ‘few’ pesky Indians, of course), the challenge of settling it, the pleasure in moving about it, the glory of so much space between fellow humans.

In analyzing thematic design, I’ve often looked at the use of scale; forced perspective and other tricks of the film trade heavily influence how these spaces are built. Yet scope is just as important as scale, and in giving Frontierland room to breathe, it becomes many powers more real. The endless trails, dead spaces, and the pacing with which sites and landmarks are spaced give a true taste of the openness of the American West.

On My Way to Disneyland Paris.

Despite numerous travel delays (I was bumped by my airline to another carrier) and technical difficulties that have left me stranded at Chicago's O'Hare airport for the night, I am on my way to Disneyland Paris for a week-long research trip. Five days of photography, sketches, notes, observations and conversations. Just trying to immerse myself as much as possible. Because of the perceived 'higher standards' of a European audience, Disneyland Paris was designed completely from scratch. The familiar hub-and-spoke 'Magic Kingdom' model remains, as do most of the signature attractions in one form or another. Yet unlike Tokyo Disneyland (a near perfect combination of the original Disneyland and Orlando's Magic Kingdom) or Hong Kong Disneyland (which replicates Anaheim's original Main Street and castle with exacting detail), the French demanded a high degree of originality in their version. Accordingly, nearly every design element is cut from whole cloth, despite being influenced by past iterations. Familiar icons such as the central castle, Main Street, and entire lands (Tomorrowland is a bold, steampunk-esque Victorian 'Discoveryland') are markedly different and in some cases unrecognizable.

I look forward to soaking all this in over the next several days. Hopefully (and public wi-fi willing) I will have nightly comments and photos up. If i ever leave Chicago, that is.

2008 American Anthropological Association Panel – San Francisco.

At the kind invitation of Scott Lukas at Lake Tahoe College, I've been asked to participate in a panel on experiential / lifespaces and culture at the 2008 Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association.

The event will be held right here in San francisco at The Hilton from November 19–23. Scott has asked that I speak about Themerica and my upcoming April trip to Dubai. “The panel will address a number of new trends in this arena, including the experience economy and its connection to urban renewal, the idea of the third place—an organic, albeit consumer, space of civics—the idea of brandscapes, and the new concept of the lifestyle/flagship store. This panel will address these trends and suggest a new integration of architecture and anthropology.”

I look forward to this exciting opportunity to meet other scholars interested in theming and discuss my project.

Stage Sets of Somewhere Else.

A classmate sent me an interesting article the other day, from his alma mater's magazine at Washington State University, called Meditations on a Strip Mall. The author David Wang, Professor of Architecture at WSU’s Spokane Interdisciplinary Design Institute, makes some interesting observations about the often arbitrary theming of strip malls in his home of Eastern Washington. "The everyday buildings we build around us want to be anything but everyday. They want to be stage sets of somewhere else. and their proliferation seems to suggest that everywhere we Americans go, we want to be somewhere else," Wang writes. This is a primary characteristic of thematic design, and one of the criteria which I use to distinguish thematic environments from branded spaces and other forms of entertainment architecture—the ability to transport the visitor to another time and place. Niketown may feel like Nike, but it doesn't take its audience away from the city and year that it sits in. I would use the same criteria to call Rainforest Cafe, but not Hard Rock Cafe, thematic design. both project themes in a sociological sense, but only one is theming in terms of design language.

"Why has architecture become an exercise in stage set building?" Wang asks. His answers echo my own sentiments when he talks about industrialization and modernism as stripping space of the symbolic purpose it once had in human society. He calls classical spaces "transcendental," and then argues that the industrial revolution pushed us to crave the "natural." Whereas in the twentieth and now twenty-first century, our reaction to modernism has made us crave the "virtual." Hence the explosion of—in Wang's strip mall examples, nonsensical—theming in every aspect of american society.

What wang doesn't address—and I will with Themerica—is not necessarily why architecture become an exercise in stage set building, but how. It's been a long road since Walt Disney's rejection of the Luckman & Pereira masterplan for Disneyland in 1953 (hiring Hollywood art directors to do it instead)—and Themerica will chart that road.

Mood Board - The Wild West.

Here is the second mood board in my thematic archetype series—The Wild West. I'm finding that as I do these, some conventions are taking shape. The 'roofline' approach—here with a wooden shed, before with a thatch hut for Tropical Paradise—really serves to frame each piece as an architectural exploration. Also, when all seven of them are completed and displayed together, there will be some visual unity. For this board I drew primarily on Disney's Frontierland vision, Knott's Berry Farm (Buena Park, CA), ghost town attractions of the Southwest, Dollywood (Pigeon Forge, TN), restaurant chains such as the Claim Jumper, and various Las Vegas casinos, some long since demolished—The Frontier, The Westerner, El Rancho, The Silver Slipper, The Pioneer Club, et al.

Besides the main shed roofline at the top, I built in some smaller roof elements—Spanish tile and steel shed—to showcase the diversity of the Western image. In discussing the mood board yesterday with my thesis advisor, we hit upon an interesting observation. More so perhaps than any other archetype, the visual cues for the Wild West are often typographically driven. There is a plethora of signage on this board, owing to the fact that nearly every example I found was replete with mimicked wood typography from the late 19th century. I became fascinated with this style of lettering when I produced a research book on the topic for a typography class in my first year of grad school. What grabbed me is that wood type seems to have left an indelible mark on American culture, far beyond the reaches of just a design audience. Although the layperson would be hard-pressed to identify the distinctions between a transitional and a humanist typeface, you can grab nearly anybody and point to a slab-serif or extended bold clarendon and get “Old West” immediately.

In any case, to theme 'The Old West’ properly requires wood type, and a whole lot of it.

Mood Board – Tropical Paradise.

Part of my visual exploration of theming for this project is a series of mood boards. Many creative professionals—from architects to interior designers to illustrators—use mood boards as an opportunity to brainstorm about the look and feel of a particular subject matter. I have just completed my first mood board study, “Tropical Paradise.”

Mark Gottdiener, in his The Theming of America, identifies several 'thematic archetypes'—that is, themes that recur again and again in our culture. As a designer rather than a social scientist, I am not visually exploring all of Gottdiener's archetypes. Instead I am focusing on those that I think best exemplify the design language of Themerica. These are my archetypes, as modified from Gottdiener:

 

  • TROPICAL PARADISE
    This theme encompasses everything that is ‘exotic’ to a Western audience—from Asia to South America, Africa to the tropics. Common applications evoke the jungle (Rainforest Cafe), exploration and colonialism (Disneyland’s Adventureland, Disney’s Animal Kingdom), the beach and its physical features (Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas, Disney’s Typhoon Lagoon, Hawaiian resorts), and native islander culture (the entire tiki bar phenomenon, including Trader Vic’s).
     
  • THE WILD WEST
    A very powerful theme in American culture, remembering roughly the years from California’s Gold Rush in 1849 to the turn of the twentieth century. The cowboy, the ghost town, the gold mine—all are here. Popular uses include restaurant chains serving ‘western’ style food (the Claim Jumper), replicas of ghost towns and frontier towns (Tombstone, Arizona; Knott’s Berry Farm; Disneyland’s Frontierland), and numerous vegas casinos over the years (the original El Rancho, et al).
     
  • CLASSICAL CIVILIZATION
    Ranging from Greek to Roman, Aztec to Egyptian, this theme embodies the ‘glories of old’ from civilizations that no longer exist. Gottdiener suggests that this theme is in decline, because most American government and institutional architecture is Greco-Roman influenced, thus associating the theme with the state. It remains popular in Las Vegas though (Caesar’s Palace, the Luxor).
     
  • MEDIEVAL & ARABIAN FANTASY
    This theme is about the power of former feudal societies in Europe and the Middle East. Princes and princes, kings and sultans, knights and warriors, wizards and genies, castles and palaces. Gottdiener doesn’t add medieval (only citing arabia), but I feel they go hand-in-hand from a design perspective. Examples range from theme parks (Disney’s Fantasyland, Tivoli Gardens) to restaurant chains (Medieval Times) and casinos (most of the mid-century Vegas casinos: Aladdin, The Dunes, The Sands, The Sahara; the current Excalibur).
     
  • AMERICAN NOSTALGIA
    This is a very wide-reaching and diverse theme; anything American from the turn of the century (when the Wild West theme ends) to about mid-century (where modernism and progress take over) is fair game. Examples are best seen at theme parks (nearly anything Disney touches; Main Street U.S.A., Disney’s Hollywood Studios), in restaurant chains (50s diners such as Ruby’s) and in residential developments and downtown district redesigns (Disney’s Celebration, et al.).
     
  • MODERNISM & PROGRESS
    This theme is also very broad, and is rooted firmly in the twentieth century. Anything evoking either the ‘future as now’ or the ‘cutting edge’—technology, computers, space travel, and modernism in the architectural sense all belong here. Examples range from projections of the future (the World’s Fairs, Disney's Tomorrowland) to contemporary as modern (anything slick or new, or purporting to be slick and new).
     
  • CITYSCAPES (URBANISM)
    This final theme is broad as well. Most Americans now live in the suburbs, and for them visiting an urban environment—with its energy, noise and large spaces of public interaction—can be quite exciting and exotic. Any representation of an urban-like quality—and especially entire replicas of famous cities—qualify. Examples include retail shopping districts (Universal Citywalk, Horton Plaza, The Grove) and of course, many famous casinos (NY,NY; Paris, The Venetian).

As the spring term continues, I will post any new mood boards I create.

A Question of Criteria.

I just picked up a new read, The Themed Space: Locating Culture, Nation, and Self. The volume is collection of essays by scholars of a variety of backgrounds from around the world, edited by Scott A. Lukas of Lake Tahoe College. Most of the content comes from the social sciences, and there is a solid glossary of terms used throughout the book. Reading it has raised an important issue for this project—given the wide body of work on theming from a sociological / anthropological perspective, how will the vocabulary and criteria differ from a design-centric discussion of theming?

For example, someone in the social sciences might consider particular 'themes' that I would dismiss, or group spaces in with thematic environments that I reason—from a design perspective—don't really belong. A good example of this is what sociologist Mark Gottdiener at University of Buffalo calls "representing the unrepresentable." In his seminal book, The Theming of America, Gottdiener outlines several archetypal themes—those that occur over and over again in our culture, such as the "Wild West" or "Tropical Paradise." Along with these he counts abstract spaces that tell a story not as a literal narrative, but more as a metaphor; among his examples are Maya Lin's Vietnam Wall and the Jewish Museum Berlin. By the standards Gottdiener uses as a sociologist, both places do convey themes—mourning, loss, redemption, remembrance, etc. Yet I don't consider either site to be a thematic environment, or to be an example of thematic design.

As I get deeper and deeper into my criteria and terminology for the design language of theming, I think it is quite important to make these distinctions. Theming is obviously thought of in a much broader sense in the social sciences, and it is by no means a universally described phenomenon. What constitutes a theme and a thematic environment is bound to vary widely—even between creative professionals. An architect, an environmental graphics designer, and an urban planner may not be able to agree on what is and is not theming. One of the goals of this thesis is to clarify thematic design as a movement with its own language, and provide designers with a framework for identifying, evaluating, and appreciating theming.

Queue Up.

A good friend sent me an article from the venerable Mouse Planet the other day about how the Disney Parks handle the queues for various attractions. The author lists a variety of techniques that Disney employs at its parks to alleviate not only actual wait times for attractions, but the perception of waiting. He points to a few basic principles about waiting in line, chief of which is “unoccupied time feels longer than occupied time.” The idea is that by designing the cue area to be an integral part of an attraction’s storyline, patrons feel like they’re “part of the attraction rather than waiting for the attraction.”

One might think that Disney has always done this, but in fact the first attraction to have an integrated, themed queue area was Big Thunder Mountain, which opened at Anaheim's Disneyland in 1979. Since then, all major Disney attractions feature a storyline tightly woven throughout the queue, unifying the attraction with the accompanying wait into a seamless—and pleasant—experience. An excellent example of this unified queue design is Disneyland's Indiana Jones Adventure. Themed after George Lucas and Steven Speilberg's popular film character, this wild exploration of an ancient indian temple begins not as riders board, but at the moment they line up well outside the structure. The story of how Indiana Jones' expedition came to find the temple and the role guests play in "finding Indy" is told entirely through the line, so that once the actually physical ride gets underway, guests already have been briefed on an extensive backstory. The narrative is sometimes overt, yet sometimes very, very subtle; cryptic messages are carved along the way in a custom alphabet, and guests were given a 'decoder' card to read them when the attraction first opened.

If the Indiana Jones adventure cue represents the evolution of this type of thematic design, then Expedition Everest, at Disney's Animal Kingdom (Walt Disney World, Orlando, Florida) may well be the state of the art. When I visited and first rode this thrilling, themed outdoor roller coaster in October of last year, I was astounded. Of course, lines are always longer at the latest and greatest attractions, and Expedition Everest is barely a couple of years old. Disney knows this, so they planned an extensive and lengthy queue area.

The backstory of Expedition Everest is that a old railroad line has been converted into a tour company to take explorers into the mountains of the himalayas. The recent disappearances of visitors suggests that the yeti (“abominable snowman”) may be responsible. This entire narrative is conveyed through the designed spaces that the queue weaves through—first Nepalese temples, then the tour company storerooms and finally a yeti museum. The resulting effect is spectacular. Once I boarded the train, I felt a number of things just from having gone through the queue. Firstly, the wait didn’t seem as long as I thought it was going to be. Secondly, I was completely immersed in the setting of the attraction—I was in Nepal. The heat and humidity of central Florida was but a distant memory. Thirdly, I also knew, with fair certainty, why I was in Nepal, and what was in store for me. Lastly, knowing all this, I was greatly anticipating my encounter with the yeti.

Expedition Everest clearly demonstrates that thematic design as it applies to amusement park queues is about four key things:

  • Occupying and entertaining (thus lessening the perceived wait time)
  • Acting as a transition zone that helps to immerse guests and suspend their disbeliefs
  • Establishing a back story for the attraction
  • Building anticipation and/or suspense

The Kid of Coney Island.

I just picked up a new read—The Kid of Coney Island: Fred Thompson and the Rise of American Amusements by Woody Register. It's a historical biopic that tells the story of a man who reinvented the amusement industry at New York's Coney Island during the turn of the century. Although a generation before Walt Disney, Thompson shares much in common with his desire for a holistic experience. Luna Park, which Thompson (along with Elmer "Skip" Dundy) designed, is often referred to as "Disneyland before Disney" and there's certainly reason for this—Luna Park may well represent the first American thematic environment of the twentieth century.

Thompson was obsessed with vernacular architecture as a means to transport his audiences to another time and place. Luna Park featured some of the first architectural collages that later became popular at theme parks from Japan to Dubai (and let's not forget Epcot's World Showcase.) Thompson designed two popular attractions for Luna Park based on the writings of Jules Verne, A Trip to the Moon and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Sound familiar? In fact, both tales were later given their own interpretation at Disney Parks. Walt Disney World's 20,000 Leagues Submarine Ride ran from 1971 to 1994, and was themed based on the art direction of Harper Goff for Disney's 1994 live action adaptation of the novel. An entire land at Tokyo DisneySea is based on the writings of Jules Verne, with attractions based on both Journey to the Center of the Earth and 20,000 Leagues. over at disneyland paris, space mountain was envisioned as a trip from the earth to the moon.

As I read on about Thompson I'll have more to say about his contribution to the history of theming. While most of Coney Island's attraction areas over the years were not themed, it's clear that Thompson's Luna Park was a milestone in thematic design, sort of between Tivoli Gardens and Disneyland.