THE MORNING I returned to my office in Glendale I didn’t have a minute to settle in before I was called to help brainstorm new ideas for the proposed expansion of the recently opened Disney-MGM Studios in Walt Disney World. In its initial concept, that park wasn’t actually supposed to be a park at all, because it was originally intended to be a land in Epcot. Michael Eisner always had a keen interest in how things were made, and his original request to Imagineering was to create a large pavilion or land that would provide a place in which guests could learn how movies were made. Before long the concept outgrew the proposed site in Epcot and evolved into a separate “half-day park” with only enough content to entertain guests that had other plans for the evening or were heading back to the airport later in the day.

On opening day, however, the Disney-MGM Studios offered more things to see and do than was previously planned, which ended up working out well, because the park was instantly popular. But it still didn’t offer enough entertainment opportunities to meet the demand or stretch the day into a late night. The other huge motivator for us to get going and growing was the new Universal Studios park in Orlando, which was under construction at the time and scheduled to open in June 1990.

Fueled by Michael Eisner’s competitive spirit, under the leadership of Bob Weis, Tom Fitzgerald, Eric Jacobson, and of course Marty, Imagineering jumped at the chance to get to work creating more attractions to expand the park, offer more variety, and extend the guest experience. Taking into consideration that most of its opening day studio-themed attractions were designed to be long-duration experiences, such as the Backstage Studio Tour featuring Catastrophe Canyon (tram tour) and Inside the Magic—Special Effects and Production Tour (walking tour), our mission was to come up with shorter-length shows and attractions to add to the park menu. We called this next-phase effort the “Studios Expansion”; it went into full swing in 1990 and continued throughout the busy decade. As a sidenote, Disneyland Paris, the second Disney theme park and resort to be built outside of the United States, was under construction as well at that time, so Imagineering had a lot going on.

The first thing out of the chute for the Studios Expansion project was Muppet*Vision 3-D. As opposed to a ride-through attraction that requires a lot of development time for sophisticated ride-and-show systems, a film-based show presented in a theatrical venue could be delivered more quickly. In addition to continuing to brainstorm ride-based attractions, we joined forces with Jim Henson and Jim Henson Associates as they were called then to help us develop a 3-D experience featuring the highly entertaining and beloved Muppets. Gratuitous 3-D gags and Muppets—it’s the perfect combination! Michael Sprout and I were invited to participate with Jim Henson and key members of his team, including writer Bill Prady (who later became co-creator and executive producer of The Big Bang Theory), to develop the story and related gags for the attraction. Although I added some bits that made it into the show, including Miss Piggy as the Statue of Liberty, I received more from those story sessions with the good Henson folks than I contributed because I spent most of the time closely observing them, their creative development process, and especially Jim Henson himself. Jim was blessed with a gentle and honest spirit, and if he didn’t like your suggestion or idea, he let you know it in a way that didn’t hurt your feelings or embarrass you in front of others. In fact, he had this uncanny way of letting you down that at the same time lifted you up.

One of my Imagineering colleagues, another wise and gentle character, the late, great John Kavelin, used to call that sensitive method of disagreement or course correction “The Oreo Cookie.” If you want to draw someone’s attention to something they are saying or doing wrong, or that you don’t agree with, you begin by saying something nice and complimentary to them or about them related to the topic at hand, then slather ’em with the stuff in the middle to make your point, and finally bookend it by saying something nice to them (or about them) again, all in truth and with sincere care and respect. But even Jim Henson’s “stuff in the middle” was filled with nothing but goodness and somehow, he still made his point with gentle persuasion.

I learned a lot in my short but valuable time with Jim about how to inspire, respect, and get the most out of creative people; and I continue in my role as a creative leader today to be guided by his indelible example and wisdom. Before Muppet*Vision 3-D was filmed, the world lost this gentle genius, who demonstrated on TV and in the conference room at Imagineering that there was far greater power and influence in being a kind and respectful leader than in the oppressive opposite, which oftentimes rears its ugly head out of insecurity.

My mentor and friend, the man who brought me into the creative division, vice president of creative development and show writing, Randy Bright, was a lot like Jim Henson in that regard. Randy was a passionate showman who led with contagious enthusiasm and vision. In a terrible turn of events, we lost Randy to a bicycle accident only two weeks after Jim Henson’s passing. That really hit me hard.

Shortly before the accident I was at the Disney Studio meeting with Michael Eisner and a small group in the conference room next to his office. Michael was called out of our meeting to take an important call, and when he returned he told us the caller was Michael Jackson. Michael J called Michael E to tell him he had been invited to be part of the upcoming grand opening event for Universal Studios in Orlando, and didn’t know what to do, especially since he had such a strong allegiance to Disney and a great love for the Disney parks. He was really stressed out about it. Michael E thanked Michael J and essentially told him he would honor and respect whatever he chose to do. Randy Bright’s funeral service, which Michael Eisner attended, was held a few days before the grand opening of Universal Studios in Orlando. After the service, a group of us went to Randy’s favorite roadside burger stand, in rural Yorba Linda, California, to honor his memory. As we were about to raise a toast in the restaurant’s patio, we were interrupted by a TV broadcast of a special report: Michael Jackson had been admitted to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica complaining of chest pains. I didn’t want to assume, but knowing what I knew it seemed to me the “King of Pop” was “calling in sick” to Universal’s grand opening!

I’ll always consider that brief but profoundly influential and inspiring time spent with showmen Jim Henson and Randy Bright—at the most delicate and formative period of my professional career—one of Imagineering’s great gifts to me. But the greatest gift Imagineering ever gave to me was the rare opportunity to dream up, pitch, and sell ideas for new attractions when it was time for those dreams to come true. The early nineties were a great time to plant seeds for new ideas because the need to grow the Disney-MGM Studios provided us with fertile ground. The first major ride-through attraction story and name I ever “planted,” pitched, and sold, The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, was born out of a request by our management to add some thrill to the park. In this particular case, the idea for the type of ride came before the story and it also came before my involvement. The original concept team’s mission was to explore the creation or adaption of some sort of free-falling ride system. Then they let the story “fall” out of that. But it fell a little short.

Although I was in the room to present another idea altogether, I was not part of the team that developed and pitched a “Haunted Hotel” concept to Michael Eisner and Frank Wells in which a murder mysteriously occurred in the basement swimming pool, causing the elevator to begin to operate in a strange manner. But there was no explanation or solid connection between the murder, the pool, and the elevator. The hotel manager was the number one suspect among those present in the hotel at the time of the murder. The complicated story, which tried desperately to shoehorn in the desired free fall experience, seemed to take its cue from the board game Clue. After taking our top execs through the long attraction story, the team suggested that the legendary horror movie actor, Vincent Price, play the role of the hotel manager. “Vincent Price?” questioned Michael Eisner with a twisted expression on his face. “Frank,” he asked Frank Wells, “is Vincent Price still relevant to today’s audience?” Frank answered, “Well, he certainly had his day, but he hasn’t done anything in a long while.” Michael continued, “Well, it doesn’t really matter anyway because, I’m sorry guys, it’s not all that compelling, and I don’t get the story.” Michael’s putting the kibosh on the idea disappointed the concept team and left a sour vibe in the room. And I was up next. Mind you, this was during a time when you could walk into a conference room and pitch your idea for a new attraction to Michael and Frank knowing full well you could walk out of the room with a green light. Or not.

My show producer, Cory Sewelson, helped me hang our storyboards, and I started pitching the idea for a large theatrical presentation on the same scale and complexity of The American Adventure called The Creature’s Choice Awards Show. To start the pitch, I tossed out this one-liner: “This show is the equivalent of the Academy Awards but for movie monsters, including tonight’s Lifetime Achievement Award honoree, the biggest star in the genre, Godzilla.” At that Michael burst out laughing and exclaimed, “Home run!” There’s nothing better than already having the boss on board before you even pitch the show, which I did starting with the lobby preshow. In the lobby, guests would stand beside a snack bar featuring such monster munchies as “Buttered Fingers.” Four Egyptian sarcophagi were prominently staged in the four dark cobwebbed corners of the lobby, and the preshow began when their ancient lids creaked open to unleash the doo-wop harmonies of the singing group known as the Sarcopha Guys. (If I were pitching this show today those musical mummies would probably be “wrap” artists.)

After their song, done in four-part disharmony, which I wrote as the setup to the show, the theater doors would open and guests would enter to enjoy a seventeen-minute multimedia and special effects extravaganza in which famous movie monsters would step up, fly up, or crawl up to receive their “Screamy Award.” Of course, all kinds of things would go terribly wrong in a funny, surprising, and sometimes epic way throughout the show, given the nature of the award recipients. For example, in the “Best Aliens from Outer Space” category, Martians laser-blasted their way into the theater and landed on the stage in their flying saucer to accept their award. Throughout the show shots from a “live” camera would update the audience as to the progress and whereabouts of Godzilla, who was on his way to the theater from Tokyo. When the big star finally arrived in the finale he would literally bring down the house!

The show was weird, way too big in scale and scope, and seemed impossible to do; and that’s what Michael loved about it. But Frank sensed it would be over-the-top expensive and we had other attractions being developed at the same time, all drawing from the same bucket of money. Still, Michael was interested in the show, so he asked that we further design and develop it to the point we could better define its actual scope. “Then,” said Frank, “we’ll check in again and see where we are.”

Lifetime Achievement Award winner, Godzilla, stomping through Walt Disney World on his way to the Creature’s Choice Awards. When he arrives, he brings down the house. No, really, he does.

To begin our research for Creature’s Choice, Cory and I hopped on a plane for New York City because, as fate would have it, there was a “Weekend of Horrors” convention, sponsored by Fangoria magazine, happening in town. Now I must admit horror magazines and movies are not my cup of tea. (Nor are bugs, roller coasters, or falling from high places, but that never stopped me from helping create and deliver attractions that featured all of those things.) While on the plane to NYC, I recognized a famous singer sitting in front of Cory and me. I couldn’t remember her name and I didn’t ask Cory because, being in the industry, I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know a celeb’s name. Not being able to come up with it was driving me nuts the entire flight. When we arrived at the gate and were given the signal to unfasten our seat belts, I stood up in the aisle at the same time she did. While grabbing mine and Cory’s bags in the overhead compartment, I shot Cory a terse question. Unfortunately, I asked it at the moment I was face-to-face and locking eyes with the celebrity: “Ready?” That was it! Helen Reddy.

The next morning Cory and I were standing in a line that wrapped around a long city block waiting to get into the convention. In front of us and behind us were hundreds of growling, grunting ghouls and zombies; there were also guys with chain saws stuck in their bloody heads, women with their fake guts oozing out, all kinds of creepy clowns, and even a few Freddy Kruegers tossed in for bad measure. It was a costume and makeup horror fest for the freakish fans waiting to get in. Cory and I were dressed as our usual everyday business casual, clean-cut selves and stood out in this brawly bunch like Herman Munster’s normal-looking niece, Marilyn. An elderly couple strolled down the sidewalk towards us, cautiously steering clear of all the creeps. When they reached us, the nice little old lady stepped over to us, drew us into a private huddle, and whispered, “What are you fellows in line for?” I told her we were there for a Helen Reddy concert, waiting with her biggest fans. But then I told her the truth. At that, the couple jaywalked through traffic to the other side of the street. “Huh,” said Cory. “There are hundreds of people in line. Why do you suppose they asked us?”

As Creature’s Choice evolved over the next few months, we met with all kinds of horror movie experts and celebrities, including Cassandra Peterson, aka Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Although, as mentioned, horror is not my genre, I did love watching Elvira’s Movie Macabre on TV because her late-night program featured the best of the worst cheesy B-grade horror flicks, the ones that were so bad they were good. During her show, in which the comedy far outweighed the creepy, she would interrupt the movie and play back certain scenes and comment about them. Sometimes she was interrupted herself by a phone call from a character named “The Breather,” who would tell her weird jokes. Talking about weird, “The Breather” was played by John Paragon, an actor and writer who later became an Imagineer and friend!

Cassandra Peterson is gorgeous and hilarious, and I was big fan of hers. So, it was a real treat to meet with her about our show. Naturally, I wanted to feature an Audio-Animatronics figure of Elvira in Creature’s Choice. Who wouldn’t?

As we started to cast other actors for the show, Jeffrey Katzenberg, who was making big deals with movie stars at that time, suggested to me that Eddie Murphy play the part of our Audio-Animatronics Frankenstein-like monster host. Eddie’s participation in our show would be part of the bigger movie deal Jeffrey had in mind. In fact he had already set up a time for me to pitch the show to Eddie the following week, so I had to quickly rewrite the part of the “Monster Host” to be Eddie Frankenmurphy. Jeffrey, Eddie, his wife, and two Godzilla-sized bodyguards met me in a conference room in our bowling alley building. I’ve done a bunch of them, but this was one of the most memorable presentations I’ve ever done at Imagineering. The pitch began with me doing an imitation of Eddie Murphy to Eddie Murphy performing as Eddie Frankenmurphy doing an imitation of James Brown singing “I Got You (I Feel Good)” as the show opener.

Can you imagine? As I was performing, Eddie’s bodyguards up and left the room because they were laughing so hard—at me, not with me, I’m sure. But Eddie was totally on board with the show. After the pitch, Jeffrey invited me to join them for the dinner he had catered in the bowling alley. Listening to Eddie and Jeffrey converse about the industry and life was both fascinating and a ton of fun. Eddie: “So Jeffrey, how are your babies?” Jeffrey: “When I went in to tuck them in last night they started crying.” Eddie: “Can you blame them?” Afterwards we went into the actual bowling alley part of the building and bowled a few games. I mean, who gets to do this stuff?

On that subject, it was great fun in those days to be privy to the private conversations and discussions that occurred behind closed doors—with me actually being on this side of the closed door—between the top three leaders of The Walt Disney Company: Jeffrey Katzenberg, Michael Eisner, and Frank Wells. I really did like the three of them very much, but whenever I was with them for a meeting or presentation, I’d wonder what in the world was I doing there. (I wonder that even today whenever I’m with Bob Iger.) When I was a dishwasher at Disneyland, I was in awe of the supervisors at the Plaza Inn. Now here I was actually hanging out and working with the top leaders of the entire company. How the heck did that happen? My journey had taken me from the dish room to the boardroom, so to speak, and because I never felt worthy or talented enough to deserve to be there, it was a humbling experience, and still is, each and every time.

Soon after he began to come to Imagineering, Jeffrey suggested bringing over some screenwriters from the studio to contribute to our projects. But his grand experiment didn’t work. It’s not that they weren’t exceptionally talented writers; it’s just that they didn’t understand the real-world limitations, operational mathematics, and practicalities of our dimensional form of entertainment, the type that takes years to understand and master. You can write a scene in which anything can happen in the movies, but trying to write a scene in which anything can happen in a brick-and-mortar attraction, and happen every few minutes all day every day for years and years, is quite another story. Case in point: at the end of the experiment one of the studio writers pitched his “test challenge” to us, which was to write something new to add to The American Adventure. “And then,” he pitched dramatically with arm extended, palm up, “the mighty eagle spreads his powerful but graceful wings, swoops down closely over the heads of the audience, and then, with a piercing cry, disappears high into the sky.” Well, that’s all well and good, I thought, but how does the eagle do all that? Is it attached or tethered to some kind of suspended rolling show-controlled mechanism? Would there be a track opening that is visible in the ceiling, which would be bad because guests would be looking up and therefore notice it? Does the crying bird have a built-in speaker or an overhead line-array of speakers? Is the bird hydraulic or electric? How does it reset for the next show cycle? If it breaks down and stops flying halfway across the audience space would the show go “101” (shut down)?

All of the other outside writer presentations went to the same place—doable in the movies but in our shows and attractions, not so much. It’s really hard to do what Imagineers do. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. Something good did come out of that exercise, though. It helped Jeffrey better comprehend what Imagineers understand about writing and designing to impossible parameters and physical challenges, and it gave him a whole new appreciation for the type of unusual, problem-solving thinking we must do to do what we do. I’ll tell you what we don’t do: we don’t write and design for one movie shot. We write and design for the long haul.

The Creature’s Choice Awards Show was coming along nicely, but it wasn’t a white-knuckle thrill attraction, at least not in the visceral sense. With everything else going on, I couldn’t stop thinking about the elevator idea that got the shaft. There was something there. But what was it? Several weeks had gone by since the pitch to Michael and Frank about the murder in the basement pool, which they pulled the plug on. One day I was leaning in a chair against the wall directly across the desk from designer Steve Kirk, whose upstairs office was on the 1401 Flower Street window side, two doors down from John Hench’s (and the same office I’d later move into and reside in for more than ten years). Steve was working on other aspects of the Studios Expansion. I was silently thinking and Steve was silently sketching, but what, I don’t know. I broke the silence by bringing up the hotel thing that was nagging me to no end. “Too bad that hotel story got stuck in the basement.” Steve nodded in agreement and asked, “So what could the story be?” Of course, that’s always the question. “Maybe,” I suggested, “we zoom out and think about how it would best fit into the story of the park. The park is about movies and television. Let’s think about movies with haunted stuff.” Steve offered, “Something like House on Haunted Hill. But we turn it into Hotel on Haunted Hill.”

“But that movie starred Vincent Price,” I reminded him. “And we know where that went.” We discussed many movies, but none of them sparked anything. “What if,” I asked, “it’s inspired by a creepy TV show like Outer Limits or Twilight Zone? I love The Twilight Zone!” I had Steve’s rapt attention so I kept going with that. “What if our guests get to star in their own episode of The Twilight Zone in a story we totally make up? It would be exclusive to that park. And somehow, we connect it to Hollywood, so it also complements the park. Isn’t there a Hollywood Tower Hotel?” Steve affirmed there was. It was starting to get juicy. “What if it’s The Twilight Zone Tower Hotel?” I suggested. Then suddenly, BING, there it was. “No, wait,” I suggested, “what if it’s…The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror!” Saying it for the first time sounded right and felt right. “By Jove,” said Steve, “I think you’ve got it.”

Charged with adrenaline, I dashed out of Steve’s office and jumped in front of my computer to start working on the story treatment, which evolved into the very attraction you can experience at Disney’s Hollywood Studios in Florida today (it’s the only one of the multiple versions in which the elevator car exits the vertical shaft to travel horizontally prior to its thrilling drop, which was one of its selling points. And there isn’t a raccoon anywhere in sight). Here’s my first-pass treatment from 1990:

Witness if you will a Hollywood Tower Hotel that stretches up toward the vastness of space, through the void that is the sky, beyond the limits of your imagination. For the tower is host to a most uncommon pair of service elevators, just as the hotel is host to a most uncommon pair of residents: Science Fiction and the Fantasy of Terror. It has been said that science fiction is the improbable made possible and fantasy is the impossible made probable. If you should dare check into this hotel, you may find yourself impossibly lost within the hidden corridors of the improbable. Lost inside a dimension between light and shadow, between science and the supernatural, between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. But don’t worry. There is an escape. Simply step into one of the elevators and press the button on the panel marked “13^th Floor.” This button is easy to find. It is the only one. Next stop…The Twilight Zone.

Yikes! Digging out and reading this treatment almost thirty years later makes me want to do another take and polish it up! Although it captured the spirit, it didn’t really commit to actual story beats. Following this somewhat vague treatment, Michael Sprout and I got down to the business of doing the hard work of figuring out the story sequence and actual experience in detail, and how exactly it connects to the elevator drop. After landing on the story that’s still there today, I wrote the first-pass preshow and ride scripts and then pitched the attraction experience and name to Bob Weis, Tom Fitz, and Marty Sklar. Marty gave the go-ahead to develop concept art and storyboards so I could get it in front of Michael and Frank. I should have been scared to death to present another take on the hotel idea Michael had nixed, but my confidence in and excitement for this solid new story far outweighed my fear. When the time came for the big pitch, I set up the concept art and boards in the bowling alley building’s conference room and was joined by Bob, Tom, and Marty. Michael and Frank entered—and it was time to drop the one-line description on them. Only this time, I thought I’d take a chance and begin by simply saying the attraction name instead.

“So, what are we seeing today?” Michael asked. I responded with a playful hint of foreboding in my voice, “The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. Mwaaa ha ha ha haaa!” I had the legendary TV show’s musical theme cued up on my cassette player and pushed PLAY. Michael smiled and over the continuing iconic theme said, “I love the name and the alliteration,” he said. “What’s it all about?” This is exactly the way I love to start a pitch. Supported by the new storyboard art, I took Michael and Frank, as if they were walking through the front door of the hotel, through the attraction experience, from the preshow TV in the library on which Rod Serling sets up the story of that fateful night long ago, to the ride experience in which guests become “lost in the story” themselves. Michael and Frank were totally on board that elevator, especially when I pitched that it “breaks free” of the vertical shaft only to travel horizontally across the floor into the…BUM BUM BUM…Twilight Zone. “Did you hear that, Frank? The elevator leaves the shaft. No one will expect that. This is really great. Home run!”

Michael and Frank had a conversation after the pitch. Michael: “Frank, do you think The Twilight Zone is still relevant?” Frank: “Are you kidding, Michael? It’s iconic. It’s timeless. They still have Twilight Zone marathons. Yes, of course, it’s relevant. Everyone knows and loves The Twilight Zone. It’s an American institution!” Michael: “Should we do this?” Frank: “All it takes is money.” Michael: “Then let’s do this!” Michael and Frank thanked us and left the room as calm and collected as if they had just purchased a vacuum cleaner. It was just another day for them at Imagineering (notice I didn’t say “typical” day). But this was a huge moment for me, so I reacted quite differently. I wanted to jump up and down and hoot and holler, but Marty was staring at me. Since this was my first major E-Ticket-level ride-based attraction pitch to Michael and Frank, and they went for it, it all seemed like a dream. Needing validation, I asked Marty, “What exactly did Michael mean when he said, ‘Let’s do this’?” Marty chuckled. “What do you mean what did he mean? We’re doing this.” I still couldn’t believe it. “So, we are actually going to do this attraction? As in build it? As in…so people can ride it?” “Yes,” Marty said emphatically, “as in build it so people can ride it. What are you waiting for? Get going!”

Actually, I couldn’t wait to get going. We immediately started planning research trips to explore and experience all the ways you can drop. Our first step was to experience a free fall–type attraction. I warned my fellow free-fallers—Steve Kirk, artist David Duran, and Michael Sprout—that I wasn’t going to be a very good faller. I knew I had to do it, but I didn’t want to do it. I was terrified waiting in line with my colleagues watching that ride vehicle drop over and over again with screaming people inside; one of them was about to be me. Our time came to board, and as I was about to chicken out the guys dragged me on. And before I knew it, the shoulder harness was on—and had me trapped. Up we went and down we went, and I can guarantee mine were the loudest screams heard that day.

I like to think my fears make me a better designer because I don’t take any thrill, spill, or chill for granted. In fact, I don’t take them at all if I can help it. When the ride was over, I jumped out of the vehicle faster than I traveled in it. After we regrouped, Steve asked Michael to share what the experience felt like to him. “That’s easy,” Michael responded. “It felt like I was attending mass.” “Mass?” Steve questioned. “Why mass?” Michael answered, “Because all the way up to the top Kevin kept whispering, ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’”

This rare moment (of me on a thrill ride) was captured after falling quickly straight down. From left to right, Steve Kirk, me, Michael Sprout, and David Duran. Afterward Michael said riding it felt like attending mass all the way up because I kept screaming, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!!”

The next thing we did was arrange to meet an executive from the Otis Elevator Company, who agreed to host us in one of their state-of-the-art elevator cars that had recently been installed in a new fifty-story building in Los Angeles. We met him in the ground floor lobby and he invited us to step into the new elevator. After pushing the button to take us to the top, he spoke into his walkie-talkie to a technician who was standing by somewhere, awaiting instructions. Per our request, the instructions given were to crank up the machinery to send us down the shaft at the fastest possible speed. “Ready?” the Otis exec asked. Given my fear of falling and not knowing what to expect, I braced myself in the corner as best I could like some kind of elevator car contortionist with suction cups on his shoes. “Okay, I’m ready,” I said. The exec let out a big laugh. “We’re almost back down on the ground!” Before I could respond to that, I heard the “ding” signaling we had arrived on the ground floor. We didn’t feel a thing. It was as if we hadn’t moved at all. “Was that the fastest it would go?” Steve asked. “That was the fastest,” the exec proudly responded. “But,” Steve continued, “we didn’t feel any sense of dropping.” I added, “Not even the tiniest of tummy tingles.” The exec looked surprised. “Oh, you wanted to feel the drop?” he asked, realizing what our objective was. “We’ve been working for over a hundred years to perfect our systems so you don’t feel anything!” We realized the only way we were going to get the drop effect on this thing was to challenge our ride engineers to “rise” (and fall) to the occasion. And they most certainly did!

In the meantime, while the Creature’s Choice Awards Show attraction was continuing to evolve, I found myself on the early development teams for four more projects proposed for the Studios Expansion: Dick Tracy’s Crimestoppers, Baby Herman’s Runaway Baby Buggy Ride, Roller Coaster Rabbit, and a simulator-based attraction I’d devised called Toontown Transit. The last three attraction ideas mentioned were intended to be part of a new land extension called Cartoon Studios. Working on six attraction concepts simultaneously was quite daunting. There wasn’t a minute in the day in those days to stop and take a breath because each one of those six concepts, which each deserved full-time focus, also seemed to have their concept-development meetings at the same times. The good news is the story and vision for The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror was established, approved, and heading into the production phase. So, even though I love to take an attraction all the way through to opening day, I chose to step away from Tower so I could spend more time on the Creature’s Choice Awards Show, which needed further development. (Okay, so the truth is I stepped away from Tower so I wouldn’t have to ride it a lot!) Besides, I was certain Creatures would progress into production and it would be more than enough work to bring that monster home.

But I was wrong. The show ended up being so big and sophisticated—with all of its show-action equipment and large cast of Audio-Animatronics characters—that its estimated cost ultimately was even more frightening than its cast. It came down to a corporate choice between Tower and Creatures. The park needed more rides, not shows, so the choice was clear. The good news is I was able to clear my plate even more and focus on the development of only four remaining proposed new attractions.

One was tied to Dick Tracy, the 1990 Touchstone Pictures film starring Warren Beatty. It opened to mixed reviews but was a hit at the box office. Picking up seven Academy Award nominations, the movie won in three categories, including Best Art Direction thanks to its bold and colorful comic book look. The whole thing seemed like a fun fit for a Disney attraction, so the idea for Dick Tracy’s Crimestoppers was born. The concept was way ahead of its time because it married interactivity and targeting with a thrilling and unpredictable ride system. Designed to look like 1930s-style gangster cars, the ride vehicles had toylike tommy guns mounted to the passenger windows. Essentially, it was a rolling shooting gallery. It’s important to note that the targets were not bad guys or good guys; the targets were only visible on inanimate objects such as crates, barrels, flowerpots, and other things that would react and animate with a shooting gallery–like gag when hit and then add points to the guest’s onboard score counter. As you can imagine, the facility required to house such an attraction was massive, because several cars driving around town take up a lot of real estate. And the nighttime cityscape sets were enormous.

The whole thing seemed way too big and impossible, but I learned that was the kind of stuff Michael Eisner loved. I couldn’t wait to pitch this idea to him and Frank Wells. That is, until I was warned by several colleagues that they had heard Michael hated guns. “Good luck pitching that one, Kev,” they’d say. The concept art was great, the storyboards were great, and the experience seemed like it would be tons of fun. But there were those tommy guns. As pitch day drew near, I started to panic. I had a pretty good track record with Michael and Frank so far. Would the idea to use tommy guns be the thing that shot down my career? Meanwhile, the warnings kept coming. “Man, you are crazy to be pitching guns to Michael,” one would say. Or from another, “Hey, Kev, I heard you’re pitching Dick Tracy to Michael tomorrow. ARE YOU CRAZY?” I tossed and turned the night before worrying about Michael’s reaction to this pitch. In fact, when I finally did get to sleep, I had a vivid dream that Michael was dressed like Dick Tracy and he and Madonna were tossing my guns into the river and me into the hoosegow (certainly better than the other way around).

My pitch was scheduled for 5:00 p.m., so I had all day to worry. When the time came, I carefully set up the idea for the attraction: its giant scale, its gangster-car ride vehicles, the thrill of the chase around city corners. And before I revealed the gimbaled gun, I told him guests would be given the opportunity to interact with the experience. “Really?” he asked with great interest. “How?” I balked. “Ha-how? Well, uhhh…” Up to that point I had the concept art covered with black cloth. But it was time to do or die, so I uncovered the art of the tommy gun mounted to the windows of the car and continued, “It’s…it’s—” Michael completed the statement for me. “A GUN?” I jumped right in to defend the premise. “But it’s a fun gun,” I argued. “I mean, it’s very toylike and it doesn’t hurt anyone because—” Michael interrupted. “Did you hear that, Frank?” Frank nodded and Michael continued. “Did you hear that? He’s talking about a…gun!” This, I thought, is the moment my luck runs out. It was do-or-die time, and I guess I’m dead. Michael looked straight at me with wide, crazy, piercing eyes. “This,” he said, “is FANTASTIC!”

We immediately went to work, creating a full-sized mock-up of some of the street scenes, art directed to look like they did in the movie, in a giant warehouse space in North Hollywood. We also purchased a 1931 sedan to serve, or in this case, swerve (as in around corners), as a stand-in for our proposed ride vehicle. Concept engineer and all-around brilliant crazy guy Chris Brown fixed up the car for maximum speed, installed safety belts, and designated himself as stunt driver for our upcoming proof-of-concept ride-through with Michael Eisner.

The mock-up turned out to be spectacular in a jaw-dropping way. It was beautifully staged, scenically painted, propped-out, and theatrically lit as if it were a real section of the proposed attraction. When Michael showed up all by himself, we had the gangster car positioned and ready to go. I don’t think he expected this mock-up to be so impressive. Driver Chris even dressed the part in pin-striped suit and fedora. Michael happily hopped into the back seat, and I slid in next to him. We had Imagineers dressed like characters from the movie waiting in strategic locations on the set to shout out lines from my attraction script, and we had crates, barrels, trash cans, and other animated props with visible targets ready to react to our mock “shooting.” After Chris made sure our seat belts were fastened good and tight, he fired up the old car, jammed it into gear, and hit the gas pedal, squealing the rear tires and sending us fishtailing forward on the slippery warehouse floor into the show. At the first intersection of the city block, a staged obstacle forced Chris to swerve wide around the corner causing Michael’s side of the car to slide and slam into a stack of crates and me to slam into Michael. Chris, who in his personal life is a thrill seeker—the kind of guy that bungee jumps off bridges and takes on the most dangerous type of white-water rapids—was in his element. He floored it and skidded around the next corner, slamming us into a stack of barrels and slamming Michael into me this time.

Artist Benn Tripp’s take on Chris Brown (top), me (middle), and Cory Sewelson during a Creature’s Choice team meeting. I like to believe that’s why all three of us usually happy-go-lucky Imagineers look so scary!

If the mock-up is this much fun, I thought, the real deal is going to be phenomenal. But even though Michael loved it—we all did—alas, Dick Tracy’s Crimestoppers went the way of Creature’s Choice. Requiring a show-controlled facility big enough to house a city, the attraction ended up being just too huge and expensive to justify. I totally understood why it got shot down.

This decision whittled my project list down to three still in the running for the Studios Expansion. The proposed new Cartoon Studios, inspired by the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit, featured three new attractions: two smaller Roger Rabbit–themed rides and one major new ride I proposed inspired by the cartoon world depicted in the movie but not related to it, so definitely not a “book report.” The first, Baby Herman’s Runaway Baby Buggy Ride, was a Mr. Toad–like dark ride romp in a baby-buggy vehicle that’s broken away and is being chased by a mad maternity nurse through the unpredictable corridors of a cartoon hospital. The second, Roller Coaster Rabbit, inspired by the 1990 short film by the same name, was an indoor/outdoor gravity coaster (as its name implies), but with a few wackier-than-normal twists and turns. And the third, the anchor attraction for the land, had a fresh new story but no known technology to support it. I’ll tell the story of that story in its own chapter because it was one of my favorite attraction concepts that didn’t happen. And afterwards I’ll tell you what happened as a result of it not happening.