The Carousel of Progress is Walt Disney's celebration of technological inovation, an animatronic theatre steeped in technoutopianism, following a family and their household filled with joyful technical appliances during the beginning of the last century, the 20s, the 50s and today. Todays rendition of the technologically actualised American dream home includes a fridge being programmed with a chunky 90s laptop, a grandma winning on VR games and a confused speech controlled oven that mishears every word as an order to increase the temperature - “Oh no, not another Christmas turkey ruined!"
After I sat through the show at least three times secretly recording it from different angles - don't tell Disney about this or I'll be fucked - I went out and saw the fireworks, uncomfortably comfortable being alone at the never-ending spectacular finale of this journey into total spectatorship. Your entertainment, as you want it, no strings attached, no expectations, total control - an on demand and highly virtual reality.
A place inhabited by fat scooter borne parents with screaming kids, faces smeared with ice cream white green red, Mickey ears askew, quality time enjoyed, family love fulfilled. As well as young foreign couples on romantic holidays among towering fiberglass renditions of their childhood memories, all beauty, romance and instagrams - but something not quite right, a faint but growing feeling that something is not quite as perfect as could have been, that you and your partner might have been happier elsewhere, that something here is lacking something, relatability?
I learned that corn dogs are not vegetarian, I didn’t find Elsa, and later on I bought beers from an off-brand shopping mall a number of massive junctions and closed fast food chains away from my cheap motel. On the way back two kids were smoking weed in a desolate parking lot, one in a wheel chair, both wearing LED-blinking shoes, unidentified hiphop playing on low volume.