The 1946 film wont be showing up on Disney+, but its insidious racism serves as an important reminder of the companys dark history
For all the uncertainty surrounding the streaming wars even for a dominant company like Netflix, which is still hemorrhaging billions of dollars theres reason to believe that Disney+ is a safe bet. Even if every one of its original launch titles landed with a thud, Disney just needed to crack open the vault and allow viewers to dive, Scrooge McDuck-like, into its riches: 80 years of peerless animation, from early classics like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Bambi to renaissance titles like The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast to recent hits like Frozen and Moana. And thats to say nothing of Pixar, Marvel, Star Wars and a mule who kicks 100-yard field goals.
Yet The Walt Disney Company has a longstanding Walt Disney problem, and for Disney+, the answer so far has been to mix propaganda with gentle disclaimers. While the new documentary series The Imagineering Story plays up Disneys innovation and meticulousness in developing the companys theme parks, the retrograde elements in some of his animated films (the singing crows in Dumbo, the stay with your own kind sentiment of The Jungle Book, the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp, the What Made the Red Man Red? song in Peter Pan, etc) are preserved with a warning to viewers that the films may contain outdated cultural depictions. The word may, frankly, smacks of unnecessary bet-hedging.
But theres one title that wont be appearing on the service any time soon: 1946s Song of the South, a live-action/animation hybrid thats much more comprehensive in its outdated cultural depictions than any other film in the catalog. Its creepily apropos that Song of the South debuted in the racially segregated city of Atlanta, an urban center that the Georgia plantation dwellers in the film consider grimly as a chaotic destination for its African American characters. The film was a modest success when it came out and won an Oscar for the original song Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah and children of multiple generations got to know it through periodic rereleases that lasted as far as 1986. But it was never released on home video in the US, and its most enduring cultural footprints are the song and the Splash Mountain log flume rides at Disneyland, Magic Kingdom and Tokyo Disneyland.
The issue of how to contend with Song of the South is as thorny as the briar patch the films mischievous animated hero, Brer Rabbit, calls home. It does no one any service to paper over an important piece of Disney history, even one that so severely maligns the image of Walt Disney as the benevolent dream-maker responsible for your last family vacation and myriad plushies and lunchboxes. Yet to dump it on Disney+ with a standard disclaimer would expose casual clickers to some truly shocking material without the context necessary to process it. The new six-part history of the film on Karina Longworths You Must Remember This podcast, cheekily timed against Disney+s debut, is a good place to start reckoning with it. The film itself is hard to stomach on its own.
On a technical level, Song of the South extends the experimentation Disney did with live-action and animation two years before in The Three Caballeros, a tour of Latin America which itself isnt free of stereotypes, but does feature the unimpeachable delight of Aurora Miranda singing and dancing the samba with Donald Duck. But with some notable exceptions, like the Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah sequences that bookend the film, the live-action and animation sections are cordoned off from each other to such an extent, in fact, that the three main Brer Rabbit stories were harvested as standalone cartoons for television. Yet the worlds and themes of both reinforce a nostalgia for a plantation in the Reconstruction era, with its idyllic beauty and bodacious critters, its simple life lessons, and its harmonious racial hierarchies.
The word slavery never gets uttered, but surely Uncle Remus (James Baskett), the avuncular black man at the films center, was once the property of the plantation he calls home. The creation of folklorist Joel Chandler Harris, Uncle Remus is known for his Brer Rabbit stories, and he becomes a father figure and friend to seven-year-old Johnny (Bobby Driscoll), a white boy whos visiting his grandmothers plantation as his parents grapple with some untold problem in their marriage. Remuss sensitivity to Johnny far exceeds his parents coldness and neglect, but that warmth comes with the implication that men like Remus and the housekeeper Aunt Tempy, played by Hattie McDaniel are human only insofar as they serve the needs and destinies of the white characters. That notion persists in films deep into the 21st century, too.