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for December 1936
17
An Open Letter to Walt Disney from
DEAR MR. DISNEY: I write more in sorrow than in anger. I have recently seen your new "Silly Symphony," "Toby Tortoise Returns," and seeing it has made me madder than Donald Duck. I've been dodging the issue for some time now, hoping I was wrong, and you were right, as usual, in turning your incomparable comedies into more sophisticated entertainment. But I can't keep quiet any longer — and I'm not squawking just for myself, but for the movie audience I sat with who watched "Toby Tortoise" in a sort of uneasy silence, broken only by an occasional feeble chuckle. You see, I remember the howls of laughter that went up from the audiences at your "Three Little Pigs." I haven't forgotten the thrill it was to see that marvelous picture for the first time, and to realize proudly that something had come out of Hollywood swell enough to rank with "Alice in Wonderland." And then there were all the "Mickeys" of immortal memory, with "Mickey's Band Concert" hitting a new high in the comic saga of the beloved Mouse. Even when I saw "Mickey's Polo Team" I was only mildly alarmed — it was a grand idea to burlesque Hollywood celebrities. But then "Toby Tortoise" reared his ugly head — oh, I've nothing against Toby personally, you understand; he's all right in his way. But I resent seeing him join the select company of Mickey and the Pigs, Donald Duck and Pluto; because frankly, Mr. Disney, Toby and Maxie Hare just don't belong.
They don't belong because they smack too much of Broadway and Hollywood, instead of inspiration. They are professionals rather than glorious amateurs. They are smarties who know their way around. Not for them the sublime innocence of Mickey, the pathos of the Pigs, the exquisite rages of the thwarted D. Duck. No — Toby and the Hare are wise guys, see? They call upon firecrackers rather than character to help them out of their predicaments. They depend upon maewest wisecracks rather than wit. They are cleverly concocted, brilliantly executed colored cinema shorts; but they are not "Silly Symphonies" in the great Disney tradition.
After all, Mr. Disney, you and Chaplin have done more to make the movies an accepted art form than any other Hollywoodites. Mickey Mouse has girdled the globe and won for you the grateful laughter of millions. The feature on the bill might be heavy melodrama or sexy comedy; it didn't matter — "Mickey" was always welcome, just because he and his "Silly" pals stayed so quaint, so wilfully wholesome, so fantastic. Of course there's more to-do about "montage" and "mood" and double-entendre dialogue now than when Mickey made his bow; the motion pictures, as someone so brightly remarked, are no longer in their infancy. But Mickey must NOT grow up with them. Like Shirley Temple, when he does he's through. So let all the other producers in Hollywood be wise, be mae-westy, be brash or brazen. Let other stars learn all the answers. But let Mickey and Donald, and Toby alone, won't you? I think even Toby might be a pretty nice fellow if you'd let him be himself.
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