MTWR's 1998 demise was a clear signal that nothing was certain about original park attractions or their longevity, and also that devoted pleas wouldn't be enough to save other favorite rides from destruction. It also broadened the perceptible criteria for WDW management's justification of such action; an attraction didn't have to lose its sponsor, as had happened with If You Had Wings and Horizons, to find itself on the chopping block. It didn't have to cost a ton of money to staff and maintain, like 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, or suffer from low hourly attendance counts, like the Walt Disney Story or the Kitchen Kabaret in their later years. All it really had to be was a relatively easy give on the road to an alternate (somewhere in particular) destination. In the case of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, that end point was the Hundred Acre Wood. The company wanted to build a Winnie-the-Pooh ride in the Magic Kingdom - something to advertise, draw new visitors and "move" merchandise - and felt that the most economically apt starting point was within the walls of an aging, less tangibly valuable attraction. One of the unfortunate moments in life is the one where you realize that this is how many people at many companies think. It's rotten, but true: for a business-minded person who didn't grow up with the park, there's no metric for assigning something like Toad a value based on the artistry behind it, its inherent coolness or how many people stepped out of its motorcars forever 1% more puzzled about the universe. Instead, most of the time these decisions come down to things like 'return on investment' and 'value engineering' - terms that drive creative people insane. Most of the time it's just a sordid matter of the easiest way to save money, make money or make even more money.
So
MTWR ended up being the oddball tenant on a piece of commercially desirable
Kingdom real estate. Given the company's 1995 decision to do away with Main
Street's charming but sinister House of Magic (in order to use the space as part
of the new and infinitely less interesting Main Street Athletic Club sport
clothing store), the prospects for quirky old-timers in the path of
anything with busier cash registers was already grim. And in case you're
unfamiliar, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride was the largest quirky old-timer in the
park. For those fortunate enough to have experienced it in person, Toad's utter
weirdness made it one of the key things that defined a trip to early WDW - one
of the attractions that made the trip worthwhile. And it always had a line or,
rather, two lines, which often grew so long that in 1993 they replaced
the original vehicles with larger ones to increase its hourly ridership. In a
park where capacity is a paramount concern and visitation helps to justify
attractions' long-term prospects, how is a ride like that a candidate for
replacement? When its replacement is expected to be (at least) equally popular
and have a footprint that leaves room for a gift shop at the exit.
You could reason that, visitation aside, Mr.
Toad's Wild Ride above most other MK attractions was in a precarious spot from
the day it opened. Unlike Fantasyland's other opening-year dark rides, Peter
Pan's Flight and Snow White's Scary Adventures, MTWR did not draw from "classic"
Disney characters with a widespread popularity base. Mr. Toad, Ratty, Moley and
MacBadger hailed from a 1949 Disney adaptation of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind
In The Willows , a book which was first published in 1908. It introduced
those characters and others who dwelled along the river bank and the Wild Wood,
and gave an accounting of how their daily life was disrupted by their neighbor
Mr. Toad's insatiable thirst for motor cars. While the story grew to be
treasured in its native England, it never enjoyed far-reaching stateside
success. Disney's film treatment of the tale - while entertaining and in some
ways magnificent - did little to change that.
The first Mr. Toad's Wild
Ride opened at Disneyland in 1955. It was built when the film was only a few
years old, and absorbed a motif that was perfect for a Disney incarnation of old
amusement park dark rides: a manic spin in a motor car through Foggy London
Town. The ride was put together on a modest budget but became a park favorite,
no doubt due to its crazy singularity. Given the time period, everything about
it made sense.
What's inexplicable in hindsight is that Disney chose to build an updated version of MTWR when construction on WDW began fourteen years later. In 1969, Winnie-the-Pooh had already made (three years prior) his screen debut, was a household name and a formidable merchandising presence. It was clear by that time that Pooh's impact on American culture was heavier than that of Mr. Toad. As further evidence of this condition, none of the characters from The Wind In The Willows were given a spot in WDW's Mickey Mouse Revue, while Pooh, Piglet and Rabbit had places in the show's orchestra. So it's remarkable that Disney didn't choose to build on the hungry yellow bear's snowballing popularity by erecting a tie-in ride during Pooh's initial heyday...and even more so considering that Mr. Toad was, again, getting his own attraction. This doesn't even factor in the original three dark ride concepts that WED Enterprises planned for Florida, based on Mary Poppins, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Sleeping Beauty. Toad won out over those also. More than that, it wasn't even a copy of the Disneyland original, but rather a sprawling two-track version with numerous intricacies and details foreign to its predecessor and multiple scenes that could only viewed by riding each track separately. What other Disney ride ever offered that added dimension? Space Mountain, Mission To Mars, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Haunted Mansion and the Grand Prix Raceway had either multiple lanes, tracks, theaters, queue or pre-show areas, but WDW's Toad ride presented different scenes and different rooms based on which queue you chose. It was the only time in Disney park history this has ever happened, and it happened for Mr. Toad.
Given these facts, it makes the ride's 27-year existence a happy accident filled with odd stuff not found elsewhere in the dark ride world: a truckload of bobbies shooting it out with a carful of armed weasels, a bare-shouldered barmaid holding enough foamy beer to paralyze a horse, a full-blown gypsy camp in the midst of a musical celebration, a perplexed farmer dropping a bale of hay on riders' heads, an elephant trophy head that trumpeted loudly from its wall-mounted plaque, a scandalous painting of a nude woman and a suit of armor that toppled toward riders on cue. Toad Hall's first expansive chamber was both stately and bizarre - ceilings decked with banners of nonsense heraldry, oak paneling lined with priceless paintings (whose subjects bore more than a passing resemblance to the master of the estate) and as its focal point a teetering marble statue of Mr. Toad himself. Town Square, where previously divergent cars were reunited for a spin around the heart of a busy English village, was stocked with panicked citizens trying to avoid the motorized onslaught of vehicles circling another statue of Toad - this one spinning atop the upraised hoof of his horse friend Cyril. And the whole of the ride presented a constant uncertainty as to just how one's car would escape a particular environment: Would it be through the fireplace, a jail cell wall or a mountainous stack of barrels? No matter which way riders swerved or ducked, all roads ultimately led to a direct collision with a speeding locomotive in a pitch-black tunnel and an audience with Satan, surrounded by a horde of grinning red devils in the glowing volcanic bowels of hell.
Trying to quantify the beauty of
all that lunacy is futile. Making sense of it is nearly as tough. According to
the ride's own mythology (Disney has 'back stories' for every
attraction, regardless of their simplicity), the action that takes place within
is predicated on the conceit that it's all part of Toad's imagination, or in
their words, Toad's "crazy dream." It sounds weak at first but
has validity. Those who have seen Disney's film treatment of The Wind In The
Willows could easily discern that only a fraction of the settings and
characters that were present in the ride corresponded directly to the film -
fewer still are mentioned in Grahame's book. The ride contained volumes
of supplemental material in its depiction of scenes such as the gypsy camp - the
origin point for Toad's canary-colored cart and Cyril - and also in Toad Hall's
Trophy Room and Kitchen areas where the domestics and service workers (butler in
the Trophy Room, ice delivery man and cook in the kitchen) were found in
snapshots of Toad's home life that were never touched upon in Disney's 1949
animation. This was some rich territory being mined and much of it had to come
from Toad's own, personal, sphere of reference. Under that premise, the ride has
to be set sometime after Toad came into possession of his stolen motor car via
the weasels he first met in Winky's Pub ... also after his ordeal with the law,
imprisonment and escape involving a stolen locomotive. The telltale marks of his
documented escapades are rearranged here in a loud, unreal melange, making
the dream theory the only "rational" way to account for a motor car being driven
down the river where Ratty's house is found, inside a prison cell or through
Toad Hall itself. So, in point of fact, for two minutes you were
wheeling around in the noise-drenched highlights of a rich frog's messed-up
nightmare. But it's immaterial whether you can overlay any semblance of reason
atop the ride. It is, after all, ultimately derived from a tale about
anthropomorphic woodland creatures involved in human-like discussions and
events. So at its heart, it's what delicate people might call a trifle. But, of
course, so is Pooh.
In both subject matter and setting,
there are many common threads between The Wind In The Willows and the
Pooh stories. The characters themselves invite direct comparisons, with Tigger
sharing Toad's exuberance and bravado, Piglet possessing Mole's quiet good
nature, Rabbit appropriating Ratty's fussiness and Owl borrowing a portion of
MacBadger's grandfatherly wisdom. A.A. Milne was a great admirer of Grahame's
work and produced a variation of it for the London stage in 1930, with Grahame
attending the debut performance. So there is little chance that the
similarities in the books are coincidental (the first Pooh book was published in
1926). Milne was reportedly anxious about Grahame's reaction to the show,
fearing that it would disappoint the elderly author, which it did not. Imagine
how Milne might have felt to learn that a ride based on his characters would one
day uproot one based on those of Grahame. If, that is, he cared about
rides.
Both authors might have been legitimately disconcerted had they
known the extent to which their creations would one day be known largely across
the globe for what someone else did with them - the same way P.L. Travers'
Mary Poppins is recognized almost exclusively as the province of Disney
due to the immensely popular 1964 film of the same name and a later Broadway
show and sequel. Travers attended the 1964 film's premiere and was dissatisfied,
in particular, with Dick Van Dyke's portrayal of Bert the chimney sweep. Yet the
Van Dyke Bert was not changed to satisfy Travers and will endure as THE Bert in
the general public's collective consciousness, as he already has for over
50 years. Mr. Toad escaped this fate to some extent and has enjoyed several
quality, non-Disney retellings since 1949, much like Alice in Wonderland. The
Disney versions, however, doggedly persist in at least appearing
definitive... especially for those who grew up with them.
What's sad
about the way things worked out between Toad and Pooh at WDW is how each of the
literary properties couldn't end up with balanced in-park
representation. There's no question that a Winnie-the-Pooh ride was a
sensible addition to the Kingdom - even a necessary one by some standards. But
the crowds that Mr. Toad's Wild Ride drew were sufficient to demonstrate its
value. As mentioned above, the ride underwent a 1993 rehab to alleviate that
situation; the 36 original ride vehicles, each of which could comfortably sit
two adults, were replaced by new models which could accommodate four adults. The
change only slightly reduced the average length of each queue because so many
people wanted to go on this ride repeatedly. One outcome of the adulation was
a series of peaceful gatherings in 1998 by a group that had learned about the
impending shutdown. They gathered in the park, some wearing shirts with Toad on
them, carrying signs that read "Save Mr. Toad's Wild Ride." The Orlando Sentinel
covered the "protests." Cast members got in on the act. It didn't matter -
WDW closed the ride permanently on September 7th, 1998.
Therefore the only remaining Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is at Disneyland, on the site of the original same-named attraction. It's not the same rudimentary Toad that opened there in 1955; that original attraction closed along with the rest of DL's old Fantasyland in 1981 and underwent a major renovation. The current version opened in 1983. While its exterior, the fully-dimensional Tudor-style Toad Hall, exceeds in presentation the original medieval tent entrance (and that of WDW's Toad), the Disneyland ride itself is a little compromised. I say that, of course, as someone who grew up with WDW's version. I'm sure some people who grew up with the original DL Toad love the new one because it beats the socks off its predecessor. But WDW's Toad surpassed both DL versions in every manner except for the tent facade.
Not only was the WDW incarnation larger, with the aforementioned two tracks, but either half of the ride taken on its own was still a more involved and stylistically superior experience compared to the DL attraction. Credit for this goes to Disney artist Rolly Crump for his oddball, hyperchromatic design style. Crump's contributions to DL and WDW are well-documented, with his most enduring work having been many of the toys and kinetic elements of both parks' It's A Small World rides, his wild tiki designs and several key props for the Haunted Mansions*. Some of the character designs he came up for WDW's Toad evoke the character style seen in 1961's The Saga of Windwagon Smith. In that short film one sees the genesis of the some animals and people that came to populate Mr. Toad's Wild Ride in Florida. Molly Crum, who served drinks in the Star of the West Saloon, looks a lot like the barmaid in Winky's Pub. The little dog that spazzed out when the windwagon rolled into town is a close cousin to the panic-stricken dog in MTWR's Town Square. And Mayor Crum shares nearly the same profile as the constable in the Jail scene. Only the characters that came straight from The Wind in the Willows film were not subjected to this treatment, and the blend of the two categories somehow worked.
*
WDW's Toad ride was in fact the closest that any Disney attraction came to being
a realization of Crump's "Museum of the Weird" concept. Although The Haunted
Mansion saw a few of his prop designs come to life, MTWR was the first and only
full-blown execution of Crump's 'Weird' color scheme married to architectural
and design motifs on a serious scale.
Disneyland's
1983 Toad ride attempts to infuse its confined spaces with third-dimensionality
through trompe l'oiel painting techniques and a few sculpted pieces added where
space was available (it borrows the statue of Cyril and Toad that first appeared
in WDW's Toad). But at Disneyland the scenic artwork overreaches in several
scenes and the passageways often feel claustrophobic. WDW's Toad was much more
open in terms of its floor plan, with larger rooms that enabled several twists
and turns in any given space. Town Square alone was massive, with both tracks
circling a grassy planter and leaving enough room on the outer perimeter for a
wide range of townspeople caught up in the chaos.
The Florida ride's
artwork was deceptively simple. Outside of the superb mural in the load area
(with its warm, loving treatment of Toad Hall, the countryside and the ride's
key characters), the ride was very much like driving through a
psychedelic coloring book. Although there was plenty of detail, less effort went
toward lending its flat plywood characters and scenery false shadows or extra
dimension than was the case at Disneyland. At WDW a few key pieces were
completely three-dimensional, but most of the ride achieved its depth by
staggering flat pieces out closer to the track - a theatrical technique that
worked amazingly well. Disneyland's Toad corridors are too narrow for this same
effect to be given a chance to succeed. While some of the artwork inside is
more detailed than was Florida's, it is unfortunately not as outrageous, fun and
colorful as what Crump perpetrated in Florida. And Disneyland's generic human
characters are missing the cohesive cartoon madness once found in the WDW
version.
So unfortunately there's no longer a Disney attraction that
truly matches the insanity WDW's Toad sublimely offered for just over a
quarter-century. Without expecting to capture its glory in words, I'll try
some further explanation of the ride's main
aspects.
Approaching
the attraction from any direction, guests could see past the entry facade and
sheltered queue to the detailed Load area mural. At opposite ends of the mural
were mirror image train tunnels from which emerged two neverending streams of
motor cars, freshly returned from each track's satanic finale. Lining the
bridge over each tunnel were the principal characters from the ride (Toad,
Cyril, MacBadger, Ratty, Moley and Winky) along with some gypsies, weasels and
bobbies. Leading away from the tunnels, past each track's Unload, Load and
Dispatch points, was an idyllic depiction of the English countryside dotted with
thatched-roof cottages and lush rolling hills. Throughout the Load area and
queue echoed the lilting refrain of "The Merrily Song" (the only lyrical music
from Disney's Toad film, written by Churchill, Gilbert, Morey & Wolcott) and
the constant recorded instructions to "Step out to your right...when the car
stops, step out to your right please." The focal point of the entire scene was
stately Toad Hall, with its turrets, parapets and eleven (!) chimneys. Cars
funneled into its central Tudor arch portal, where they separated and burst
through the first of many walls in their catastrophe-bound journeys. Both
tracks began in the Toad Hall scene, where they had their first of several near
misses with both other cars and "obstacles" in their path. The marble statue of
Toad swiveled toward the cars as if ready to crash, while opposite the statue
the amicable Moley stood on a high-backed yellow chair and tipped his hat at
riders.
From that point on the cars went their own way within the Hall
and, as mentioned above, encountered unique situations along each route. Riders
on Track A doubled back from the statue of Toad toward the doors leading to the
Trophy Room and riders on Track B headed straight into the fireplace at the
opposite of of the room, which gave way and allowed them into the Library. How
the tracks played out scene by scene is charted above on either side of the ride
map link.
A few of these areas, such as the two Blackouts and Train Tunnels on
either track, were incredibly stark (the Blackouts were literally empty rooms
with walls painted black). The Barn and One Way Tunnel scenes were also devoid
of scenery save for, respectively, flying chickens and neon-colored warning
signs. But most of the other rooms were rendered in full-circle, albeit
cartoonish, detail. In the Kitchen, for example, there was a three-dimensional
wood block table with a piece of steak and meat cleaver sitting on it...yet it
was positioned in a spot that made it all but impossible for guests to see it.
In the Jail scene, the walls were adorned with wanted posters for various
Anglican rogues ... aside from Toad himself there were calls for "Liverpool
Lill," "Picadilly Pete," "Malcolm the Mutilator" and others. The Town Square
environment was stocked with storefronts that could scarcely be appreciated due
to the speed and proximity of the passing cars.
Aside from the breakdown
of separated scenes, there was a further curious dichotomy between the two
tracks that may or may not have been planned. Track A, for example, was the only
side with female human characters and it featured not one but five (six if you
include the painting of Rapunzel on the north wall of Winky's Pub). Track B was
the only side containing law enforcement figures. It was also the only side
where MacBadger could be found, while Ratty only appeared along Track A (Moley
appeared twice for Track A riders but only once - in Toad Hall - for those on
Track B.)
Furthermore, Track A took riders through the Gypsy Camp before
the Town Square scene, and right before Track A led out of Town Square into
Winky's Pub there was a balloon vendor who looked just like one of those
gypsies. Track B took riders across the Barnyard and Barn scenes - past a pig,
bull and the aforementioned chickens - before Town Square, and the first
building in Town Square that Track B riders passed by was a butcher's shop with
a bull's head over the door, plus a suckling pig and chickens displayed in the
front window. If those weren't deliberate echoes, it's a great set of
coincidences. Rolly Crump stated in a 2003 interview with Ross Plesset (into
which I inserted ridiculous questions) that he had not engineered any sort of
repeating motifs along those lines and thought that they may have been added
later by other artists. The fact that the balloon vendor was an animated prop
made out of metal, therefore not an easy addition as something would be if it
were just painted in, suggests that it was an original design element. Crump may
not have noticed the correlations, though, if they weren't done on
purpose.
One thing he did intentionally, without question, was make sure
that riders didn't have the same experience on both tracks. He said the reason
for Toad's two tracks began with a dictate from Dick Nunis, then-director of
park operations overseeing WDW's development, to build two Toad tracks side by
side for Florida. Nunis requested this because Toad was the most popular dark
ride at Disneyland (which helps to explain how it ended up in Florida) and he
felt that double the capacity would be needed for WDW. Crump stated that he
wasn't going to build two Toad rides but came up with the idea for one ride with
two tracks that would provide guests with different scenery. If different
members of the same family chose separate sides of the queue and compared notes
later on what they saw, it wouldn't exactly match up. "I was playing with
people's heads on it," Crump said, "that's why I wanted two different
stories."
The
most perplexing piece of minutiae for me, however, and surely one of the most
fascinating things about the ride for anyone who knew about it, was found in the
Library scene. On MacBadger's desk there sat two inkwells and a solitary
spindle upon which were affixed a series of small note papers. Those who
remember the first appearance of MacBadger in the film will recall that his time
at the desk was spent tallying the various expenses that Toad's estate had
incurred as a result of Toad's destructive countryside rampages in the gypsy
cart with Cyril. In the ride, the top note on the spindle actually had a
hand-lettered breakdown of one account that had to be settled in the amount of
100 pounds sterling. The damaged items were "1 Rowboat, 20 ft. clothesline, 1
Canary-colour Gypsy Cart and 6 Chickens." It would have been a stretch to have
expected riders to notice the spindle in the first place, let alone ever detect
that there was writing on one of the notes. But to actually have a
straightforward listing of things Toad had demolished, in a place where no one
could ever read it, was irrevocably brilliant. How did one find out about this
kind of thing? You either A) walked through as an employee when the ride was
shut down and took notice of it or B) jumped out of your car while the ride was
open and ripped it off the spindle not expecting to find writing on it, but you
did, and a few months later did it again when you were just as amazed to learn
that the purloined note was replaced with another containing the exact
same list of items. Either way, MacBadger's accounting process was
immaculate!
The names of the cars, which repeated across the entire
fleet, were Mr. Toad, Toady, Ratty, Moley, Mac Badger, Cyril, Winky and Weasel.
The original cars were among the most visually appealing ride vehicles ever
created: compact, clever and stylish one-seat roadsters that were perfect for
whipping around tight corners and leaving chaos in their wake. The two-seater
replacements that debuted in December of 1993 were, by comparison, oafish. All
sense of delicate proportion and toylike charm was given over to boxy 'boats
with wheels' that moved through the ride as if dragging anchors. In all
probability the speed difference was negligible, but still noticeable to anyone
who'd ridden the old cars ad nauseum. Not to mention the fact that it deprived
the park of one more ride where you could be assured a modest amount of privacy
with a companion for at least two minutes. Once the new vehicles arrived, your
chances of getting paired with another couple or some unloved, sweaty single
rider were virtually guaranteed if there was any type of line.
There were only a few other changes as a result of the 1993
rehab. Some of the three-dimensional animation didn't appear to function any
longer: Moley in Toad Hall didn't tip his hat, the statue of Toad no longer
swayed precariously on its pedestal and the smaller Toad statue on Cyril's hoof
in Town Square had also ceased to spin. Many of the interior scenes were
repainted to give off a more radiant black light glow. For a moment in time the
cars bumped over "railroad ties" when first entering the train tunnels, but that
effect was quickly retired. Finally, the ride's original entrance facade and
sign were rebuilt with a slightly more elaborate appearance (a statue of Toad
was added within the marquee) and in the year following the ride's reopening,
decorative planters were added to both sides of the main entrance arcade. The
last of the discernable modifications to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride took place in 1995
and 1996 when the background music tracks in the Load area and Toad Hall,
respectively, were updated to match the Disneyland Toad song. If it weren't for
the new vehicles, though, most people wouldn't have known the ride was altered
in any respect from its original version.
That is to say, the ride was
still criminally fun even in those bulky cars. Anyone who failed to appreciate
the appeal of careening headlong through room after room of menacing
ridiculousness, all whilst in the guise of an obsessed amphibian, needed a head
check. And anyone who would willingly opt to see Mr. Toad's Wild Ride gutted to
make room for Winnie-the-Pooh would be just as suspect. Yet someone made
the horrible final decision and let the demolition commence.
When rumors of MTWR's impending demise made
The Orlando Sentinel's pages in 1997, the letter-writing campaigns and
other efforts of earnest fans seemed like bittersweet exercises in futility. It
was reassuring to discover how many people cared about the ride, but sad to feel
as if its number was up just the same and that protesting would be in vain. And
in many respects the park no longer deserved such a wonderful thing as Toad,
having long since begun the process of expunging itself of magnificent
curiosities. Fortunately, however, with the rumors and warnings there was ample
opportunity for those who loved the attraction to set about preserving it in
sight and sound. This at least ensures that it will perpetuate itself in
multitude forms as time passes, making certain that in thousands of minds the
ride will thrive as a source of fascination despite its physical
absence.
Contemplating
the ride from this standpoint is maybe a matter of more gravity than recounting
the features of a closed Caribbean Plaza game room, because it means coming to
terms with the fact that WDW, which in 1978 was the absolute coolest place on
the planet, had in the span of 20 years divested itself not just of some
relatively minor oddities but also some of the most fantastic attractions ever
built by man, of which Toad was certainly one.
Arguing for the
supremacy of one theme park ride over another borders on foolishness (or
epitomizes foolishness - you can decide that for yourself), but on a
site dedicated to ex-WDW attractions there's nothing too far "out there" where
Toad's concerned. I can't actually prove to anyone that Toad was better than The
Jungle Cruise, Space Mountain, Pirates of the Caribbean, If You Had Wings, Big
Thunder Mountain Railroad, Horizons, World of Motion, 20,000 Leagues Under The
Sea or The Haunted Mansion. I love, or loved, all those rides, but for me Toad
edges them out because its combination of Crump's wacky design elements, two
distinct tracks, highly unlikely subject matter and lack of adherence to a
rational script made the experience something one step beyond any other ride
I've experienced and also made it ripe for riding again and again and again. As
a kid it took me a short eternity to remember which line to get into if I wanted
to ride through Winky's Pub, and if I chose correctly I got to see the barmaid
and weasels on barrels. If I was wrong, no problem, I helped other weasels bust
out of jail. Florida's Toad was the end result of Crump pushing the dark ride
envelope as far as possible within the parameters of a budget and Disney source
material. He worked beautifully with the former, using inexpensive flats to
their best possible effect, and just riffed loosely on the latter ... creating
supplementary characters out of thin air and making Grahame's own
cast accomplices to a zany black light mindfuck. One's head spins thinking of
what Crump might have done had the Oriental Land Company challenged him to top
Florida's Toad in Tokyo, and why the Japanese park missed out on that
opportunity is a mystery for the ages.
Since Toad debuted in Florida, the
Dr. Seuss Sky Trolley (Islands of Adventure, 2007-present) has been the only
other Orlando ride to offer the kind of two-track duality first established by
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. But for as great as the Sky Trolley is - and I always try
to ride it when I'm in the park - as a 90% outdoor ride it can't throw the kind
of intense curve balls that bounced through Toad Hall and the various chambers
beyond. It's not THAT kind of ride.
Probably I've spent too much time thinking and writing about Toad.
but whenever I find myself realizing that in the grand scheme of things there
are far more important things than dark rides (which is, in point of
fact, potentially true), there are also reminders that some rides just
plain mattered to me and a bunch of like-minded others regardless of whether
they should or not. Toad was as familiar to me by the age of thirteen as
a family member, and its rapturous effect on my impressionable mind made for a
constant in my life: I don't get people who don't get Toad. I've met people
little more than half my age who, when they find out I like old Disney stuff,
bring up Toad independently as one of their childhood favorites; I automatically
know they are good people. Then I've met people older than me who, if I bring
up Toad to gauge their interest, laugh the subject off as unworthy of discussion
and then I know those people are
jerks!
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride will persist online and in the memories of
those who loved it. Its removal from WDW will remain a black mark on the karmic
record of those who caused it to vanish. No matter how strange its existence
or how basic its execution, its destruction was completely avoidable. How
could the same company who built this amazing ride not see, 26 years later,
protesters upset about its impending closure as a sign that opportunities were
being overlooked? Where was the Toad merchandise that would have tested park
visitors' true affinity for the ride back when it might have made a difference?
Where was the "Save Toad Hall" campaign allowing guests to buy a piece of Toad's
estate in exchange for having their name etched on a plaque in the Town Square
scene? Where was the argument that reversing the decision would have generated
good will, especially after so many 20K fans were let down by the weightless
statements Disney made about Nemo's subs returning between 1994 and 1996? Where
was the realization that a long-term win/win was infinitely more desireable
than short-term cost savings? And where, honestly, was the slightest indication
that the company did not in fact hold Toad fans in contempt by not even giving
Winky ownership of the former Round Table and Lancer's Inn next door... the same
way Toad ran a restaurant in Paris? I mean, Gurgi from The Black Cauldron could underwrite a
snack bar but Winky couldn't?
That inability to detect something bigger afoot is sad, but what's done is done. So when new hires at WDW are walked past Pooh during orientation and asked if they can name five characters from Wind In The Willows (Alison Matthews could!) and then asked if they can name five Winnie-the-Pooh characters, which anyone can do, they get a sense of the thought process that allowed all this to transpire. Again, it's one of the unfortunate moments in life when the company that got rid of a ride this cool comes up with snarky, posthumous rationales for why it had to go down that way. It didn't. The people making the decisions had not two sticks of wit to rub together. That's it.
"One does not argue about The Wind in the Willows. The young
man gives it to the girl with whom he is in love, and, if she does not like it,
asks her to return his letters. The older man tries it on his nephew, and alters
his will accordingly. The book is a test of character. We can't criticize it,
because it is criticizing us. But I must give you one word of warning. When you
sit down to it, don't be so ridiculous as to suppose that you are sitting in
judgment on my taste, or on the art of Kenneth Grahame. You are merely sitting
in judgment on yourself. You may be worthy: I don't know. But it is you who are
on trial."
A. A. Milne
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