When he arrives at the plantation, Johnny asks, “Is Uncle Remus real?” indicating that this apparent servant’s legend has already traveled far and wide. Indeed it has, and not just for Johnny. For the entire purpose of African-Americans — in life as well as in art — is to soothe the troubled souls of whites. McDaniel’s Mammy did it in Gone With the Wind. And so does Oprah today. The fourth-estate consternation greeting Winfrey’s recent announcement that she is bringing her long-running talk show to a close was reminiscent of nothing so much as Johnny’s sorrow at Uncle Remus’ departure in Song’s last quarter. Consequently, the time is ripe for Song of the South’s return, as disenchantment with President Obama grows on the left, just as his very existence has unleashed a tsunami of racism on the right. A chorus of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” might well do him a world of good, don’t you think? For if Disney can transform the slime pit of New York’s 42nd Street into a haven for family entertainment, then surely it can end the wars, restore the economy and create jobs for the thousands who’ve been fired. Right?
Of course it can’t. But in the popular cultural imagination, Uncle Walt has come to be seen as a panacea on par with Uncle Remus himself. As usual in fantasy-besotted America, “It’s the truth, it’s natural,” especially when everything is considerably less than “satisfactual.”
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