Europe’s “cultural
Chernobyl”, as one French critic called Disneyland Paris, is in
meltdown again. Falling attendance, overspending on a new movie-themed
park and those cursed terrorists are to blame. This month, it
announced it would have trouble repaying its banks and the doomsayers
are predicting bankruptcy.

Picture
(left): Small world: Disneyland Paris aims to bring the famous
formula to Europe.

For those who think Disneyland Paris has never been anything but a
Trojan horse pouring toxic American culture over Europe, its woes will
be a source of pleasure. French families who happily turn over their
euros to visit the moronic Parc Asterix north of Paris, but snobbishly
spurn Disney, will be delighted. Shame on them all.

It is clear by now that France never deserved Disneyland. It has never
embraced it. Politicians and intellectuals still hold it up as an
exemplar of the debased American culture.

Jean Baudrillard, the country’s pre-eminent philosopher, wrote a book
recently in which he ranted about “Disneyisation” and the “Disney
Connection” of global corporations moulding the world into a single
image. Disneyland is an easy target for politicians such as the former
minister and presidential candidate Jean-Pierre Chevenement, who calls
it a setting for “mass schizophrenia”.

But the French are hypocrites over Disney. They appear to despise it
and yet, since its construction, theme parks have become big business
in France. There is now Vulcania, a volcano park in the Auvergne;
Micropolis, an ant-themed park in Aveyron; Pescalis, a fishing park in
Niort, not to mention countless new water ride parks around the
country.

Every chateau seems to have its own mini adventure park and Sunday
afternoon jousting event. Since Disney arrived, the children’s parks
in Paris have been spruced up no end. Disney has forced them to do
better.

When you live in Paris, you can become blas� about its glories. I have
yet to go up the Eiffel Tower, for example, or visit entire wings of
the Louvre.

But Disneyland seemed unmissable. It is Europe’s number one tourist
attraction, after all; a vital means to understanding the modern
continent – the cultural lodestone for the new Europe. Nothing to do
with the awesome rides, you understand, or the great junk food, or the
fact that anything so loathed by the French must be worth a visit.

The first Disney park I ever went to was Walt Disney World in Florida
when I was six. Since it was a package trip, we had to go to Sea World
first and see the boring killer whales rolling around in their tanks
and watch seals jumping to catch fish.

But all I wanted was Mickey, Donald, Goofy and the gang, plushy toys
and zooming, splashy rides. Maddeningly, I was too small for the
rollercoasters so had to settle for It’s a Small World, Dumbo’s Flying
Elephants and the girly Peter Pan’s Flight.

So, the next time we were in America, five years later, I pestered my
parents to take me again. This time, we went to the Californian
Disneyland and I was all business. The night before, I ran through my
cool stuff at the Ramada Inn to make sure everything was in order:
sweat bands – check; plastic shades – check; hacky sack – check; tube
socks – check. We would arrive as the park opened, do everything and
stay for the parade at the end.

We started on the Space Mountain rollercoaster, which flung us around
so much my mother had to spend the rest of the morning in the recovery
room. To placate her, we did It’s a Small World again, before tackling
the Thunder Mountain Railroad and Pirates of the Caribbean. The parade
was glorious, all spinning lights and waving cartoon characters and I
went to bed that night knowing I had had one of the greatest days of
my life.

How would the Paris version compare? It was immediately striking how
many people there were. If the park is in trouble with this many
visitors, then something must be badly wrong with its accounting. The
hotels were full, the restaurants bulging, the rides all had snaking
queues.

The dominant languages we heard were English, Italian and German, with
only the occasional French curse thrown in. When you see a pair of
Italian parents smoking as they consult a park map with their
six-year-old and Dutch families ordering beer for lunch, you know
Disney has cracked the cultural problems of implanting an American
theme park in Europe.

Though I knew our six-month-old son would struggle to differentiate
between Mickey Mouse and the orange dinosaur on his play gym, I still
wanted to etch Disney on his mind. We try to do all those clever
sounding things for him at home: play classical music, look at Chinese
art books, recite irregular Greek verbs. But it was time, I felt, for
a great Crayola swoosh of pop. Time for the Dumbo ride!

“He’s never going to remember it,” said a child psychologist friend.
“You’re taking him as cover because you want to go.”

What about this etching theory, creating broad outlines on the stone
tablet of his brain, equipping him to deal with the pops and bangs of
modern life?

“He’s going to become commercialised,” my friend continued. “He’s
going to grow up to be a huge consumer. Or one of the Seven Dwarfs.
He’ll discover Disney sooner or later. Your job as a parent is to make
it later.”

Ignoring the risks, we stepped aboard our flying elephant and took
off. Up and down it went, our hair blew in the wind and we all smiled.
I had forgotten about the music, which bombards you at Disneyland,
different themes in the different sections of the park, an acoustic
miracle. As well as creating atmosphere, it drowns out the sound of
other people’s children.

We rode the paddle steamer from Thunder Mesa Riverboat Landing,
listening to the French version of ‘Uckleberry Finn; used the baby
switch option on the Thunder Mountain rollercoaster, which means
parents can take turns on the ride without having to queue twice and
ate barbecue chicken at the Country Cookout barn.

In the afternoon, we rode Space Mountain, Captain Nemo’s submarine in
Les Myst�res du Nautilus and, for old time’s sake, It’s a Small World.
Only this unsettled me – hundreds of identical dolls in costumes from
around the world moving jerkily to the tinkling music as we passed
through on a plastic barge. Augustus started to scream as we passed
the Red Indians and the praying Thais, evidently as disturbed as we
were by the acid trip sensation.

Over coffee in the Fuente del Oro Mexican Restaurante, I met Trevor
Fawcett, a tour organiser from Huddersfield, who was taking a break
from 30 parents and children. This was the final stop on a French tour
that had taken them to Monet’s house at Giverny and the main sites of
Paris.

“The children love coming here,” he said. “They’re never bored for a
minute and they always want to come back.”

Ed Prior, a father from South Carolina, had unleashed his three
children on the park in the middle of a two-week trip. “We’re getting
a few hours away from all that France,” he said, waving his hand at
the world beyond the park.

Halfway through our day, we were met by a Disney representative,
Stephane, assigned to help us with our visit.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked. After four hours at Disneyland,
we were still waiting to see Mickey, who, incidentally, turns 75 this
year. “Ou est le souris?” I asked. “La souris,” he shot back. “Souris
is feminine. I will find him for you.”

The Mouse appears at specific, unalterable hours of the day. We
spotted him once, driving in his open-top Mousemobile to his next
appointment, but he was being mobbed and could not stop for a picture.
We finally caught up with him at the bottom of Main Street, where he
was standing on a podium having his picture taken. His minders let him
come down to meet us and our son felt his nose.

You can hurl many accusations at Disneyland. It is expensive, the
merchandising is relentless, the food is no more than OK. But unlike
so many other attractions in France or Britain, it is not half-cocked.

Last weekend, a beam collapsed at the Loire chateau of Chambord,
injuring a party of visitors. The chateau’s managers said they lacked
the money to maintain it properly. If this happened at Disneyland,
imagine the gloating. The constant derision ensures much higher
standards.

Anti-Americanism in France is a reality. But it is also true that the
French are embracing American habits. McDonald’s is expanding faster
in France than in any other country in Europe.

Giant supermarkets such as Carrefour now dominate the suburbs and
countryside, though a law to protect small shopkeepers keeps the chain
from penetrating central Paris. Go to a Carrefour anywhere in France
and from the way people look and dress and shop, providing you bypass
the cheese and charcuterie sections, you could be in the Mid-West or
Essex.

They might take some convincing, but the French are no more immune to
American convenience and entertainment than anyone else. Which is good
news for Disney in the long term.

We waited that night for Tinkerbell to light up Sleeping Beauty’s
Castle with a firework display and saw the Fantillusion Parade, a
fairy tale of good versus evil told in illuminated floats passing
through the park. Everyone around us seemed enraptured. And this was
not trash. This was hi-tech carnival work, which deserves proper
appreciation.

We made it out of the park without buying a single piece of Mouse
merchandise. The crowds appeared lazily content. Our son seemed
fascinated by the colours and lights. The only thing that will
dissuade me that Disneyland deserves its top spot in European tourism
is if he comes to me in 20 years and announces he wants to be “une
souris”.