THE mythmaker is a primitive. He molds his fantasies out of primordial impulses that are common to all men. In an age of reality, he is a rarity, for he celebrates an innocence that does not mix well with the times. Walt Disney was such a man, molding myths and spinning fantasies in which innocence always reigned. Literally billions of people responded out of some deeply atavistic well of recognition, and they lavished their gratitude on him. Soldiers carried the cartoon-figure emblems of his creations on their uniforms and their war planes. Kings and dictators saw them as symbols of some mysterious quality of the American character. David Low, the great British cartoonist, called Disney "the most significant figure in graphic arts since Leonardo." Harvard and Yale gave him honorary degrees in the same year (1938); on his shelves were more than 900 citations, including an unprecedented 30 Academy Awards.
When he died last week of cancer at 65, Disney was no longer simply the fundamental primitive imagist (the psychedelic merchants preempted that role), but a giant corporation whose vast assembly lines produced ever slicker products to dream by. Many of them, mercifully, will be forgotten, but the essential Disney creations, the cartoon comics, the full-length animated features such as Fantasia, Snow White, Bambi, Pinocchio, Cinderella—even that fantasy-filled 300 acres of dream puff called Disneyland—will remain as monumental components of American culture.
It was in the early days of film animation—1928—that Disney labored and brought forth his Mouse. Mickey was the first situation comic: saucereared, squeak-voiced (it was Disney's voice on the early sound tracks), perfectly sensible, always cheerful, and eternally scampering in and out of trouble. He and the rest of the Disney bestiary were instantaneous hits with audiences primarily because they were anthropomorphic, hilarious because they were so incongruous. The loose-limbed, dim-witted dog Pluto was an unequal match for a piece of flypaper. Goofy was also a dog, but with more human attributes, who introduced each of his maundering reflections with a delicate hiccup. He starred in a series of "how to" films in which he lamentably embarked on the study of every sport from football to horseback riding. After Mickey, the most famous character was, of course, that choleric, put-upon, slap-stuck Donald Duck, easily the most ridiculously funny fellow ever put on film.