Disney (Waste) Land

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Wandering through Future World, I convert my points -- a total of 12 out of 17 -- to an overall percentage (a mediocre 70) and ponder the exhibit's takeaway. Will anyone remember the facts and figures after the furious time pressure, the pinging and roaring of the computer games? It doesn't take me long to realize that the point of "Don't Waste It" isn't so much to inform visitors as to leave them feeling that everything is A-OK, trashwise. Not only is our garbage under control, thanks to Waste Management, but it can even be a positive force, a source of renewable energy.

In the upbeat "Don't Waste It" world, there are no problems with landfill gases and liners that leak, with unhappy or sick neighbors, with toxic incinerator ash, mercury-contaminated fish, or dioxin-laced soil. The message from Waste Management, and by association from Disney, is that we needn't radically change either our lifestyle or our way of thinking. Put our recyclables in the right container and there's no need to alter our consumption habits.

Why is this so important? Because visitors to Epcot can't go 100 feet without an opportunity to buy something -- Disney backpacks, mouse-shaped straws, logo caps, colorful buckets, plastic sandals, T-shirts, tutus, towels, stuffed toys, disposable cameras. On and on it goes -- merchandise that will, in short order, be dumped.

Twenty-five years ago, Americans visited Epcot to learn about the future. Today the future looks grim, at least in terms of the economy, the environment, and security (guards search all visitors' bags on entry, and a computer scans our fingerprints), but Disney's corporate sponsors still have an opportunity to share their optimism. Nestlé will feed billions by growing genetically modified food in arid regions, we learn in The Land; GM is manufacturing cars that burn ethanol (though the Hummer 3, on display outside Test Track, gets only 14 miles per gallon of conventional fuel); and Waste Management, of course, is generating renewable energy.

I'm not completely naive. I understand that corporations routinely sponsor exhibits to tell their side of the story (though consumers are starting to wise up to the transparent manipulation of greenwash: Britain's independent Advertising Standards Agency, which tracks such complaints, noted a fourfold increase last year). But at Epcot things seem to have reached an absurd extreme. In the butterfly garden, small signs from Claritin offer advice on dealing with pollen allergies. In bathrooms, Brawny offers tips on hand washing ("Scrub hands and rinse"), and Nestlé welcomes mothers at the diaper-changing station to visit its nearby baby-care center. No experience, it seems, can go unbranded here.

"Don't Waste It" began when Disney approached Waste Management with the germ of an idea. Disney needs content -- empty pavilions are sad -- and sponsorship helps to pay the bills. For their part, corporations agree to build exhibits and sponsor rides because Disney parks see countless happy visitors every day. Epcot is a terrific platform.

At the center of our consumer culture, Disney World and its sister parks could be an epicenter of greening, a shining example of how we might still have our cake (in this case, an entertaining vacation) and eat it too. But reminding visitors that we must tread more lightly on the planet is a tricky line for Disney to walk. Folks are here to have fun, after all. Maybe that's why Disney's "environmentality," as the corporation has branded its green campaign, seems so feeble. Recycling has barely gotten off the ground, plastic water bottles abound (though there are plenty of drinking-water fountains, and the company does promote a $12.99 mug that visitors can fill with soft drinks for free throughout their stay), composting is in its infancy, air conditioners run in empty hotel rooms. Where are the solar panels? Where's the low- or no-irrigation landscaping?

If technology could indeed fix our mess, Epcot would seem a natural place to tell this story. Imagineers could start by tasking Disney suppliers to make consumer goods that are designed to cycle back either into the manufacturing process or into nature. Compostable Finding Nemo backpacks, anyone?

Or better yet: what about selling experiences -- the rides and other entertainment, built to the highest green standards -- without the side offerings of disposable crap? Yes, it's a radical change in thinking, and it would probably cut into the company's profits, at least in the short term. But such a policy might also attract a whole new demographic: parents like me who have eschewed Disney for the consumerist frenzy it elicits. If it chose to, the enormously powerful and influential Disney could position itself as the country's leading platform for corporate environmentalism. That makes more sense than ceding that role to a company that manages waste.