Transition Zones. Brandscapes Clashing with Pure Simulation – Disneyland Paris Wrap-Up.

I’ve been home for a week now, and I’ve been going through my copious notes reflecting on my time spent at Disneyland Paris. Most observations align quite well with what I’ve seen elsewhere. Successful thematic design—like architecture or graphic design—is remarkably consistent. Similar grammar, techniques, thinking, etc. What works, works. And on that same note, what doesn’t work (see my earlier post on the Walt Disney Studios park) just doesn’t.

Altogether, the Disneyland Paris park is the most remarkable example of thematic design I have seen in my research thus far. Tokyo DisneySea, which I visited once in 2003, is definitely on par, but I was looking at it back then through the eyes of a tourist and not a critic. When I return to Japan for research in June, it will be interesting to give it a second, serious pass (and in direct comparison to the Paris park). Again, much of this is owed to the fact that the Disney organization felt compelled to top themselves in order to win European audiences. And top themselves they did.

In going back through my field journals, I have highlighted some specific observations. I will discuss two of them here. First of all, transition zones. All Disney parks are composed of multiple thematic environments, usually delineated by ‘lands’ or sub-lands. When two or more themes bump into each other, there are specific design challenges as to how guests experience the transition in between. Above all, it cannot be jarring. Any cause for pause can disrupt the illusion and the guest’s place in the story. Beginning with the original Disneyland park, the designers have paid special attention to these areas.

For example, a building between two lands shares a roofline, evenly split down the apex from one side to the other, or the style of pavement morphs from brick to cobblestone.

The most remarkable such transition I’ve seen was pointed out to me by Gabor, my private tour guide, on our two-hour stroll through the Paris park. Take a careful look at these next two pictures—the first being Adventureland and the second, Fantasyland.

The two lands are separated by a small covered bridge. All of the bodies of water are connected, underground or otherwise. So on the Adventureland side, the theme is tropical paradise. The waterways are rough and rocky, with many flowing streams and rapids. The foliage is wild and overgrown.

The Fantasyland side is extremely groomed in the orderly nature of an English garden; it is a medieval fantasy theme, yet of a very particular type—the complete opposite of its neighbor, essentially. The Disney designers have used this covered bridge as the barrier between the two themes. So the moment you cross over, the very same moving body of water transforms, almost by way of magic, from the wilds of the tropics to the tame serenity of a classic European estate. Maintaining proper transition zones is essential to preserving the illusion of multiple themes integrated within the same environment. What Las Vegas often does poorly, for example, (by way of multiple owners and a varied development model) Disney produces very, very well (by exercising complete creative control).

Second among these journal notes pertains to the Disney Village retail and dining complex, designed by renowned contemporary architect Frank Gehry. It’s not that the environment (or rather, environments) is poorly designed—in fact, as to form and function, it succeeds both aesthetically and commercially. However, Disney Village was very revealing in how the two extremes of my thematic vector—pure brand and pure simulation—interact.

Disney Village sits more on the brandscape side of things; this stylistic row of shops and restaurants is much more akin to Jon Gerde’s Universal Citywalk than Disney’s park next door (which is more pure simulation). In addition to the retail spaces enclosed in Gehry’s rather avant garde structure, the space includes a number of what I would call ‘traditional’ thematic venues:

  • Annette’s Diner – An American burger joint in the 50s nostalgia theme
  • Rainforest Café – A popular chain in the tropical paradise theme
  • Planet Hollywood – one of the last remaining locations of the ailing, bankrupt chain, themed in Hollywood memorabilia
  • King Ludwig’s Castle – A german steak, sausage and beer restaurant in the medieval fantasy theme
  • Billy Bob’s – A restaurant, saloon and music venue in the wild west theme
  • Hurricanes – An all-night dance club in the tropical paradise theme
  • The Steakhouse – a restaurant in the Wild West theme, but more of the Great Plains and Chicago than the far West

Standing alone, the Disney Village does an excellent job as an upscale, varied shopping and dining complex. It is a perfect brandscape in the Jerde tradition. However, next to the pure simulation of Disneyland Paris (and, to an extent, the Walt Disney Studios) it falls flat. I think that brandscapes in direct comparison to ‘traditional’ thematic spaces create an uncomfortable juxtaposition—one that derides both formats. Each style of thematic environment operates on different assumptions, and asks different things of their audiences. In designing Universal Citywalk, Jon Jerde specifically stated that he wanted to avoid pure simulation in the Disney vein, and instead present a collage pastiche of inflated iconography. His Citywalk reads like a daydream of Los Angeles; the design hints at much, yet resists referencing anything specific. Disney Village was conceptualized on very similar terms.

On the contrary, the Disney vision of pure simulation (again, what I call ‘traditional’ theming) thrives on the specificity of its design references. The Disneyland park model is a holistic design concept that envelops the guest in the narrative, using cinematic cues to construct a tightly controlled (and thus a very heightened) experience.

The Disney Village in contrast presents itself to the viewer much as a traditional architectural program does—one is not enveloped or involved, rather one is forced to respond in a subject/object relationship.

As a result, to stroll from one to the other is jarring, and raises the kind of awareness that removes the guest from the illusion that theming is trying to convey. Disneyland park looks too cute, too kiddy, not serious enough, next to Gehry’s architecture.

And Disney Village, in turn, looks like a stern taskmaster in the face of Disney’s openness and gaiety. Designers of thematic environments would do well to separate the two—within the same user experience they both lose their luster.

Anywho that’s it for now on Disneyland Paris. Next stop is Dubai.

Typography on Main Street – Disneyland Paris Update 4.

Main Street U.S.A here in France has really got me thinking about the specific role that graphic design plays in theming. The examples I have seen are truly astounding. Disney in general has always had a good handle on vernacular re-creation, and the Parisian park’s Main Street is no exception.

However, although the parks stateside do a solid job, the designers have outdone themselves here. The reasons are twofold. First, Disney was given the specific mandate to impress European audiences. And second, creating a Main Street that made sense to the European conceptions (or misconceptions) of American culture and history required that the basic formula be rethought.

So, not only did they have go above and beyond, but Disney’s creatives needed to innovate. And in graphic design, impressing and innovating produces really stellar work.

The original Main Street U.S.A. in California is all about a nation in transition—from gas to electricity, from horse to automobile, from telegraph to telephone. This basic theme is repeated in Paris; however, the commercial (read: capitalistic) aspects of American society are grossly amplified. For the first time, billboards and advertising broadsides of all kinds are peppered throughout main street, becoming as strong a design voice as the architecture itself.

Which means some truly spectacular examples of period-piece graphic design.

What I love about the work, however, is even though it is designed in general for a lay audience (read: European middle-class tourists and their families), Disney researched the material so thoroughly that the various specimens hold up even to serious scrutiny.

Designers often decry the Hollywood misuse of typography in period films—blatant inaccuracies abound. Not so here.

Typography has an important role in thematic environments. First of all, it can convey “hard narrative”—that is, it can directly tell a story through signage, placards, wayfinding, etc. Second, it adds a vital level of detail to historical representations.

Type has been with us for quite some time, and most conventions of certain historical eras are readily identifiable, even to the untrained eye.

We know a lot about typography, even if we don’t, simply because it surrounds us in our daily lives. Adding type is yet another shortcut to comprehension in the thematic designers’ toolbox.

You could argue that apart from a few signs for the bathrooms, all of the typography on Main Street U.S.A. is completely gratuitous. And I’d agree.

But it is this gratuity that adds an extra dimension—another level, yet another read—to this thematic representation of turn-of-the-century america, imagined for european audiences.

One feels overwhelmed at first glance, but then compelled to take a closer look. If all this detail is here, what else is there to see? What else might I be missing?

These small nuances encourage the visitor to take their time and examine the scene more closely. Closer examination equals immersion, and immersion is what theming is all about.

All graphic artwork © Disney Enterprises.

Being Taken ‘Into the Movies’ – Disneyland Paris Update 3.

Today I started my research at the Walt Disney Studios. This theme park, which opened in 2002, pays tribute to Hollywood and movies of Walt Disney, in the vein of Universal Studios or the similar Disney's Hollywood Studios park in Florida and the backlot area of Disney California Adventure.

The entrance plaza is designed to resemble the front gate at a movie studio backlot, and the rest of the park looks like such a lot, with large open spaces and massive buildings labeled ‘Stage 3’ or 'Main Stage.’ Park services and maintenance even ride around in those little golf carts with the tassel rooflines.

The park, especially when compared with Disneyland next door, is a travesty. Really just a horribly disappointing experience. I think I was there for about an hour and a half before I decided that my time was better spent next door.

The only worthwhile experience was the Twilight Zone Terror of Terror, and that's lifted directly from the stateside parks (the French version is an exact clone of the one at California Adventure). It’s not just that Disney spent too little on design and development (though they most certainly did; probably the suits are cautious after the resort’s harsh first few years), the problem also is that certain thematic design decisions just don’t work. As is the case with California Adventure, it seems many creatives at the company need to relearn the techniques that made Disney theme parks wildly popular in the first place.

Overall, the park lacks feeling. It comes across as shallow, boxy and cheap. Something i’ve come to expect from Universal or Six Flags, but not Disney. I think this problem stems from Disney’s decision to not embrace pure simulation. If the park is supposed to resemble a Hollywood backlot, then the appropriate solution is not to just suggest it, but to do it, all the way. Main Street U.S.A. or Frontierland work because they embrace the thematic extreme of pure simulation. This has its own drawbacks, and precious care must be taken to preserve the representation from being shattered by the outside world, but overall it’s a much stronger experience. Walt Disney Studios tries to walk the line between suggesting and simulating. Is it a joke? Is it for real? The impression is one of confusion. However, there are some interesting things going on, and although as a visitor I’m not particularly moved by them, I think I can read the design intent.

The entry building, after you cross the studio courtyard, is a massive studio warehouse. You enter through the doors onto a ‘HOT SET’—the classic lighting rigs and unpainted plywood walls with 2x4 framing are instantly recognizable.

Inside this stage building is a mock set of Hollywood and general Californian / American iconography.

There is a Brown Derby, a tropical place called ‘Liki Tiki,’ a classic retro gas station, the 'Hollywood and Vine’ department store etc.

Now this is where it get weird—the explicit metaphor of a set is carried throughout, so all these stage fronts are intentionally facades, bare wood backs and all. No matter which doorway you walk through, however, they all lead to one large area ‘backstage.’ On the left is one long retail space, and on the right is a fast food court.

I’m not sure how to feel about this. I get what they’re trying to do. This building is supposed to be a gateway that is taking you, literally and figuratively, ‘into the movies.’ So I can understand why the false fronts are false—to be consistent with the pure simulation of the stage set buildings (which is done rather well).

The problem is, the designers are explicitly telling their audience that this is all fake. This admission of illusion makes it very difficult to suspend disbelief, and take the whole thing seriously. And by that I mean, to take theming seriously you have to not look at it seriously.

Any crack in the façade is detrimental, and by showing the audience that it’s indeed all ‘just a show,’ a thematic environment can’t function the way it’s designed to.

It would have been better if these stage sets were designed to accompany the environments, as background elements. But walking through and inhabiting them fundamentally separates the audience from the simulation. And for thematic design, that’s the death knell.

The Power of Color and Backstory – Disneyland Paris Update 2.

Today I went on a two-hour guided walking tour of Disneyland Paris. Normally this is a group thing, but I was the only one who signed up for the English tour that day.

My guide, Gabor, was a Hungarian who has been living in France and working at the resort for four years. Between his English and my French (his English was definitely better) we had some interesting talks. Things began rather formally, but after I explained my project and my level of historical knowledge about the parks, we shifted off-script. There were quite a few things Gabor told me that I didn’t know.

First of all, the general color palette of the park, which is very pastel with many reds and pinks. Why, he asked? Well, this region of France (slightly north and to the east of Paris) is either rainy or overcast grey 90% of the year.

The colors were intentionally designed to amplify whatever sunlight comes through, and provide a joyful palette to contrast with the mute surroundings. This is an excellent example of color setting mood in thematic design.

Color is the most emotive component of any visual communications medium, yet for theming it’s especially vital. Thematic environments need to be drastically mood-altering in order to work properly, and color is strongly tied to mood.

As opposed to Disneyland Paris, in Florida or California (where the sun beats down almost any time of the year), stronger colors in any design have to be intentionally desaturated, lest they get amplified out of proportion.

Gabor and I also discussed the backstory for Frontierland, which is quite extensive. What’s most interesting is that this story, save for a few allusions in Phantom Manor (their equivalent of The Haunted Mansion attraction), is never explicitly told to guests.

There is no, what I call, “hard narrative.” Some thematic environments do explain story elements literally, via placards or video and multimedia presentations. But most rely on what I call “soft narrative”—a sort of nonlinear, atmospheric approach to storytelling.

Despite the implicit nature of all the details, the design is somehow more cohesive and realistic as a result.

Disneyland Paris’ Frontierland is mostly comprised of ghost town called “Thunder Mesa.” This can be inferred from various signage around the area.

There is also a gold mine in the town, as evidenced by the “Lucky Nugget Saloon” and the “Big Thunder Mountain Mine Train.”

Gabor filled me in on the entire story (which is too long to recount here) and he also pointed out to me the various clues—which would totally escape the average guest—embedded in the theming that plays out this story.

Now why, if the story behind these details is unknown to the visitor, do the details somehow make for a richer experience? I didn’t have an answer for Gabor, but I’ve given it some thought since. Every environment with a history of human presence has a human back story—a history.

For example, I might be on a road trip somewhere in the Western United States, and I might drive into a small town to get a meal and a bed for the night. This town has a history—of boom and bust, of waves of settlers, of phases of development.

And that history, detailed though it may be, is only apparent to me indirectly, through obscure visual clues. Layering. Weathering. Signage.

I think because we are used to seeing the evidence of human history on space, we come to regard these small details at completely normal, so much so that we only notice when they are absent. Everyone loves that ‘new car smell’ but it just doesn’t wash for an environment. It feels false. These details, even if we know nothing of the tales behind them, ring true.

In adding so many details that comprise a back story the visitors probably will never know (like here, who is Rose?), the Disney designers are very compellingly approximating what real human history looks and feels like. Hence Frontierland feels more ‘real’ by virtue of its ‘real’ roots.

Frontierland and the Role of Scope – Disneyland Paris Update 1.

After taking a shuttle motor coach direct from CDG airport, I checked into the Hotel Santa Fe. There are several hotels on property or near the Disneyland Paris Resort.

The Hotel New York reflects a Manhattan theme, although more modern and abstract than Las Vegas’ New York, New York simulacrum.

The Sequoia Lodge suggests Frank Lloyd Wright crossed with the famed National Parks lodges built by FDR’s Public Works Administration.

The Newport Bay Club is pure, concentrated New England old money.

The Hotel Cheyenne is a Ghost Town replica in the vein of Tombstone, Arizona—albeit far more kitschy and Hollywoodized.

Lastly my residence—the Hotel Santa Fe—is a sort of a postmodern remix of Southwestern style, with a good dose of motel-chic thrown in. What I’ve found interesting is that the amount and extent of the theming is directly tied to the accommodation’s sticker price. The more upscale the hotel, the more subtle (and modern/abstract) the design approach. I can only afford to stay in ‘kitcheville,’ where the Hotels Cheyenne and Santa Fe sit across from one another, separated by the ‘Rio Grande’ river.

My first impression upon entering the Disneyland park, despite my extreme fatigue and jetlag, was awe. The level of detail and craftsmanship is unparalleled, even for Disney. It’s a well-known fact that the Disneyland Paris Resort failed to post profits and struggled its first few years—what’s rarely mentioned is that this was due less to lack of demand (families from all over Europe adore the place) and more a result of the outrageous sums Disney Imagineering spent concepting, designing, and constructing it.

The park is massive compared to what we have stateside, even larger than the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World (which is itself significantly larger than the original Disneyland in Anaheim).

This can be seen a couple of ways. On the one hand, the sense of intimacy that makes Disneyland a special place for so many is lost somewhat. This is a complaint often leveled at Orlando’s Magic Kingdom—the castle is so tall, Main Street is so large. Yet viewed another way, here in Paris the use of scope and land area serves to strengthen specific themes.

Frontierland is by far the largest area of the park, and with good reason—the French (and the rest of Europe, for that matter) might have quibbles with us in recent times, but they absolutely love our American western heritage.

The closing of the frontier, cowboys and Indians, gold rushes and ghost towns—all these are appreciated largely due to the influence of cinema. The shoot-em-up films of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, the epics of John Ford, the spaghetti tradition of Serge Leone—all are as popular as ever.

In making Frontierland this large, Disney acknowledges the theme’s popularity, yet the size serves the theme itself—perfectly. The original Frontierland in Anaheim is intimate, to be sure, but overly so. What made the original West so compelling was its vastness. The idea of a wilderness ‘untamed and untapped’ (except for a ‘few’ pesky Indians, of course), the challenge of settling it, the pleasure in moving about it, the glory of so much space between fellow humans.

In analyzing thematic design, I’ve often looked at the use of scale; forced perspective and other tricks of the film trade heavily influence how these spaces are built. Yet scope is just as important as scale, and in giving Frontierland room to breathe, it becomes many powers more real. The endless trails, dead spaces, and the pacing with which sites and landmarks are spaced give a true taste of the openness of the American West.

On My Way to Disneyland Paris.

Despite numerous travel delays (I was bumped by my airline to another carrier) and technical difficulties that have left me stranded at Chicago's O'Hare airport for the night, I am on my way to Disneyland Paris for a week-long research trip. Five days of photography, sketches, notes, observations and conversations. Just trying to immerse myself as much as possible. Because of the perceived 'higher standards' of a European audience, Disneyland Paris was designed completely from scratch. The familiar hub-and-spoke 'Magic Kingdom' model remains, as do most of the signature attractions in one form or another. Yet unlike Tokyo Disneyland (a near perfect combination of the original Disneyland and Orlando's Magic Kingdom) or Hong Kong Disneyland (which replicates Anaheim's original Main Street and castle with exacting detail), the French demanded a high degree of originality in their version. Accordingly, nearly every design element is cut from whole cloth, despite being influenced by past iterations. Familiar icons such as the central castle, Main Street, and entire lands (Tomorrowland is a bold, steampunk-esque Victorian 'Discoveryland') are markedly different and in some cases unrecognizable.

I look forward to soaking all this in over the next several days. Hopefully (and public wi-fi willing) I will have nightly comments and photos up. If i ever leave Chicago, that is.

2008 American Anthropological Association Panel – San Francisco.

At the kind invitation of Scott Lukas at Lake Tahoe College, I've been asked to participate in a panel on experiential / lifespaces and culture at the 2008 Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association.

The event will be held right here in San francisco at The Hilton from November 19–23. Scott has asked that I speak about Themerica and my upcoming April trip to Dubai. “The panel will address a number of new trends in this arena, including the experience economy and its connection to urban renewal, the idea of the third place—an organic, albeit consumer, space of civics—the idea of brandscapes, and the new concept of the lifestyle/flagship store. This panel will address these trends and suggest a new integration of architecture and anthropology.”

I look forward to this exciting opportunity to meet other scholars interested in theming and discuss my project.

Stage Sets of Somewhere Else.

A classmate sent me an interesting article the other day, from his alma mater's magazine at Washington State University, called Meditations on a Strip Mall. The author David Wang, Professor of Architecture at WSU’s Spokane Interdisciplinary Design Institute, makes some interesting observations about the often arbitrary theming of strip malls in his home of Eastern Washington. "The everyday buildings we build around us want to be anything but everyday. They want to be stage sets of somewhere else. and their proliferation seems to suggest that everywhere we Americans go, we want to be somewhere else," Wang writes. This is a primary characteristic of thematic design, and one of the criteria which I use to distinguish thematic environments from branded spaces and other forms of entertainment architecture—the ability to transport the visitor to another time and place. Niketown may feel like Nike, but it doesn't take its audience away from the city and year that it sits in. I would use the same criteria to call Rainforest Cafe, but not Hard Rock Cafe, thematic design. both project themes in a sociological sense, but only one is theming in terms of design language.

"Why has architecture become an exercise in stage set building?" Wang asks. His answers echo my own sentiments when he talks about industrialization and modernism as stripping space of the symbolic purpose it once had in human society. He calls classical spaces "transcendental," and then argues that the industrial revolution pushed us to crave the "natural." Whereas in the twentieth and now twenty-first century, our reaction to modernism has made us crave the "virtual." Hence the explosion of—in Wang's strip mall examples, nonsensical—theming in every aspect of american society.

What wang doesn't address—and I will with Themerica—is not necessarily why architecture become an exercise in stage set building, but how. It's been a long road since Walt Disney's rejection of the Luckman & Pereira masterplan for Disneyland in 1953 (hiring Hollywood art directors to do it instead)—and Themerica will chart that road.

Mood Board - The Wild West.

Here is the second mood board in my thematic archetype series—The Wild West. I'm finding that as I do these, some conventions are taking shape. The 'roofline' approach—here with a wooden shed, before with a thatch hut for Tropical Paradise—really serves to frame each piece as an architectural exploration. Also, when all seven of them are completed and displayed together, there will be some visual unity. For this board I drew primarily on Disney's Frontierland vision, Knott's Berry Farm (Buena Park, CA), ghost town attractions of the Southwest, Dollywood (Pigeon Forge, TN), restaurant chains such as the Claim Jumper, and various Las Vegas casinos, some long since demolished—The Frontier, The Westerner, El Rancho, The Silver Slipper, The Pioneer Club, et al.

Besides the main shed roofline at the top, I built in some smaller roof elements—Spanish tile and steel shed—to showcase the diversity of the Western image. In discussing the mood board yesterday with my thesis advisor, we hit upon an interesting observation. More so perhaps than any other archetype, the visual cues for the Wild West are often typographically driven. There is a plethora of signage on this board, owing to the fact that nearly every example I found was replete with mimicked wood typography from the late 19th century. I became fascinated with this style of lettering when I produced a research book on the topic for a typography class in my first year of grad school. What grabbed me is that wood type seems to have left an indelible mark on American culture, far beyond the reaches of just a design audience. Although the layperson would be hard-pressed to identify the distinctions between a transitional and a humanist typeface, you can grab nearly anybody and point to a slab-serif or extended bold clarendon and get “Old West” immediately.

In any case, to theme 'The Old West’ properly requires wood type, and a whole lot of it.

Mood Board – Tropical Paradise.

Part of my visual exploration of theming for this project is a series of mood boards. Many creative professionals—from architects to interior designers to illustrators—use mood boards as an opportunity to brainstorm about the look and feel of a particular subject matter. I have just completed my first mood board study, “Tropical Paradise.”

Mark Gottdiener, in his The Theming of America, identifies several 'thematic archetypes'—that is, themes that recur again and again in our culture. As a designer rather than a social scientist, I am not visually exploring all of Gottdiener's archetypes. Instead I am focusing on those that I think best exemplify the design language of Themerica. These are my archetypes, as modified from Gottdiener:

 

  • TROPICAL PARADISE
    This theme encompasses everything that is ‘exotic’ to a Western audience—from Asia to South America, Africa to the tropics. Common applications evoke the jungle (Rainforest Cafe), exploration and colonialism (Disneyland’s Adventureland, Disney’s Animal Kingdom), the beach and its physical features (Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas, Disney’s Typhoon Lagoon, Hawaiian resorts), and native islander culture (the entire tiki bar phenomenon, including Trader Vic’s).
     
  • THE WILD WEST
    A very powerful theme in American culture, remembering roughly the years from California’s Gold Rush in 1849 to the turn of the twentieth century. The cowboy, the ghost town, the gold mine—all are here. Popular uses include restaurant chains serving ‘western’ style food (the Claim Jumper), replicas of ghost towns and frontier towns (Tombstone, Arizona; Knott’s Berry Farm; Disneyland’s Frontierland), and numerous vegas casinos over the years (the original El Rancho, et al).
     
  • CLASSICAL CIVILIZATION
    Ranging from Greek to Roman, Aztec to Egyptian, this theme embodies the ‘glories of old’ from civilizations that no longer exist. Gottdiener suggests that this theme is in decline, because most American government and institutional architecture is Greco-Roman influenced, thus associating the theme with the state. It remains popular in Las Vegas though (Caesar’s Palace, the Luxor).
     
  • MEDIEVAL & ARABIAN FANTASY
    This theme is about the power of former feudal societies in Europe and the Middle East. Princes and princes, kings and sultans, knights and warriors, wizards and genies, castles and palaces. Gottdiener doesn’t add medieval (only citing arabia), but I feel they go hand-in-hand from a design perspective. Examples range from theme parks (Disney’s Fantasyland, Tivoli Gardens) to restaurant chains (Medieval Times) and casinos (most of the mid-century Vegas casinos: Aladdin, The Dunes, The Sands, The Sahara; the current Excalibur).
     
  • AMERICAN NOSTALGIA
    This is a very wide-reaching and diverse theme; anything American from the turn of the century (when the Wild West theme ends) to about mid-century (where modernism and progress take over) is fair game. Examples are best seen at theme parks (nearly anything Disney touches; Main Street U.S.A., Disney’s Hollywood Studios), in restaurant chains (50s diners such as Ruby’s) and in residential developments and downtown district redesigns (Disney’s Celebration, et al.).
     
  • MODERNISM & PROGRESS
    This theme is also very broad, and is rooted firmly in the twentieth century. Anything evoking either the ‘future as now’ or the ‘cutting edge’—technology, computers, space travel, and modernism in the architectural sense all belong here. Examples range from projections of the future (the World’s Fairs, Disney's Tomorrowland) to contemporary as modern (anything slick or new, or purporting to be slick and new).
     
  • CITYSCAPES (URBANISM)
    This final theme is broad as well. Most Americans now live in the suburbs, and for them visiting an urban environment—with its energy, noise and large spaces of public interaction—can be quite exciting and exotic. Any representation of an urban-like quality—and especially entire replicas of famous cities—qualify. Examples include retail shopping districts (Universal Citywalk, Horton Plaza, The Grove) and of course, many famous casinos (NY,NY; Paris, The Venetian).

As the spring term continues, I will post any new mood boards I create.