The production's fervent advertising has promised "Action, Action and More Action! Whether deep in the jungle or on a vast savannah, Simba, Mowgli, and Tarzan face the challenges of their environment, experience first love, and develop friendships that will endure a lifetime." Our primary hope is that this will all be over in time for us to catch The Simpsons.
Ahead of us, there's a sign: All ticket holders will be searched for weapons, including knives, explosives, hard-sided containers, and other potentially dangerous missiles. Missiles? Like, anti-aircraft missiles? At the door, a pubescent security guard with a tragic moustache takes my bag. I ask him what missile means. "I don't know," he answers, and forgets to search my stuff. If I were carrying a missile I'd be home free.
Inside, it's a shopping extravaganza. We stand in awe as vendors dive-bomb us with elephant light sabers, Simba key chains, and plushy pajama sets. "I'd like to buy a program," I say to a woman in a booth. "Twelve dollars," she says, adjusting her plastic pith helmet. I stand there stupidly. "Twelve dollars?" She smiles and confirms her answer. I find a trash can and root through it, hoping to score a used one. All I find is a Disney On Ice popcorn box. "They have their own popcorn?" exclaim my friends.
From our seats in the very last row, our view is blocked by a tremendous lighting grid. The Zamboni, purring across the ice, looks like a speck. After five minutes of this, I head downstairs to hunt for a better seat. To my chagrin, the ushers look sharp. Finally I catch one napping and ninja my way past. My new seat has a better view, but I'm surrounded by raucous children, each with their own Disney contraption. I begin to doubt my endurance, when suddenly jungle beats blast out of the loudspeakers, blowing my hair back.
"HELLO SEATTLE!" shouts our host, prancing out in safari garb. He looks like a perverse photo of Hemingway, glowing beneath the spotlights. "ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FUN?" Before I can answer, Mowgli, the star of The Jungle Book, glides out in a red loincloth. He is different than the runt I recall from the movie; as he circles the rink, his pecs shimmer beneath coats of oil. Close behind him is Baloo the Bear, followed by four life-sized elephants, skating like pros. This is not what I've imagined. Monkeys descend on blades of steel, like nightmare versions of Cats. They catapult off trampolines as a 30-foot black-lit snake with dazzlingly hypnotic eyes slithers onto the ice. The performers execute aerial spins while lip-synching Disney hits. I begin to applaud right along with the nutty kids.
After the first half of the show finishes in a whirlwind of Spandex and music, I weave my way to the lobby, dazed. When I find my friends, their pupils are dilated and they're shaking with adrenaline. "Are there more seats by you?" they demand. "We must get closer!"
In line at the snack bar, I ask people about On Ice. "We've seen all of them: Pocahontas, Toy Story, Cinderella," says Caroline Clumcul of Auburn. Her grandchildren, identical teenage twins in matching dresses, nod earnestly. Everyone in line is a veteran of ice shows. "You mean you've never seen one before?" a five-year-old asks me, sipping a Slushee from a lion's head.
I'm itching to consult a Disney employee, so I approach a man selling stuffed chimps. "We're not allowed to talk about the show," he apologizes, straightening his khaki uniform. Something about the way he refers to "the show" makes me wonder if there are cameras with little mouse ears, watching us. My friends and I buy some nachos, the only thing we can afford, and slip past the still-snoozing usher.
Tarzan begins with an eruption of lights and music. Out comes Jane in her Victorian dress, which is ripped away by unseen branches as she careens into a herd of crazed gorillas. My group is riveted, cheese dripping from our chins. Tarzan swings down. His physique makes Mowgli look like a choirboy. Jane, distrustful, mouths a pre-recorded "You stay away from me, like a very good wild man." We are witnessing genius.
After Tarzan comes The Lion King, hosted by that funky baboon, who gives everyone a hard time before shooting flames out of a log. The show's closing number is an immense, uncannily choreographed routine: elephants marching, Mickey and Minnie freaking out, Mowgli spinning in his diaper, rainbow banners dropping from the ceiling. My friends and I are shrieking in delight, intoxicated by the Disney magic, when I glance to my left. A security employee is standing there gripping a walkie-talkie. He leans down and asks, "Are you the writer?"
The man leads me into the hall, staying close in case I try to bolt. I'm still reeling from the finale. "You talked to some of our security guards earlier?" he asks in a low voice. Families have begun filing out. They eye me with suspicion. "Yes sir," I confess. "Well, they're not supposed to talk without authorization," he says, copying down my driver's license. My friends watch from a safe distance, mortified. When he's gone, we make our way out into the drizzling night.
At home, my phone rings. It's Susannah. She's got the number of someone who's worked for the On Ice shows. I call him up. He wants to remain anonymous, but is ready to dish up some grade-A gossip. "We call it The Fink On the Rink," he says. "A lot of the skaters come from Russia; they join young and stay until they're too old to skate anymore. They're underpaid, but it's better wages than in Russia." He goes on and on. "They pay $65,000 for one of those elephant costumes, but they don't pay their workers shit." I find out from him that the show isn't run by Disney anymore; it's produced by the guy who produces Siegfried & Roy. "It's dirty," he says, describing treacherous set builds and exploited crews. "People get hurt. Somebody should write a story about that."
I hang up and let out a long, deflated sigh. Suddenly I picture Uncle Walt, entombed beneath the rink, giggling at me through an icy grin. I try to recall the moment when Mowgli leaped into Baloo's arms, pirouetting beneath the spotlights, jewels of ice sparking from his heels. It had been a moment when everything seemed possible: fantastic shows, fair wages, lax security, everything. But it's no use. Between my Gestapo-esque cross-examination by the On Ice guards and the dirty dishing of my On Ice insider, what's left of the magic has melted.
