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A few days ago, I visited Disneyland. Invited to Anaheim to speak about my books, my wife and I decided to take our boys for an early summer trip to what is often called the happiest place on earth.
As regular listeners of my podcast are aware, I spent the pandemic years, for reasons I still can’t quite grasp, reading extensively about Disney (the man, the brand, and the theme parks). Therefore, I had a general idea of what to expect. Yet, the experience still managed to surprise me.
Entering a ride like Pirates of the Caribbean immerses you in a realm that is both strangely authentic and defiantly artificial, what Jean Baudrillard termed “hyperreality.” There's a moment of awe as you leave the imitation pirate caverns and step into a grand space where a pirate ship engages in a cannon battle with a nearby fortress. Shouts of men echo. Cannonballs crash into the water. A captain swings his sword. It’s incredibly vast and unique.
However, there’s something unsettling about it all; the animatronic movements are stiff, and the lighting is too perfect, as if crafted for a movie set. When you look closely at the night sky, you can see black-painted acoustic panels adorned with industrial vents. The wonder of the scene is encased in a numbing layer of ordinariness.
This is the essence of Disney’s darkroom attractions: to create a safe, sanitized version of the emotional response we usually associate with adventure and amazement. Detached from genuine fear or uncertainty, the experience is watered down, providing more of a cozy buzz than a transformative experience—just enough to keep you longing for the next dose, ready to stand in a sun-baked line for another hour.
A thought has lingered in my mind over the past few days: Disneyland serves as a tangible analogy for our digital interactions with our phones.
What is an envious Instagram story, a stirring tweet, or an oddly captivating TikTok, if not a vehicle for delivering a sanitized version of the emotional response we would typically feel from exploring stimulating places, partaking in genuine protests, or being thoroughly entertained by skilled performers?
The phone provides a pleasant chemical buzz just potent enough to leave us wanting more. It’s like Pirates of the Caribbean streamed on a handheld device.
I enjoyed Disneyland, but after a couple of days, I was ready to move on. I also appreciate the occasional diversion offered by my phone, but I am not keen on living in its artificial realm permanently. The former is accepted as common sense, while the latter, for some reason, is still seen as radical.
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