FAUX, FAUX, FAUX

A Disney-trained designer descends on the Alton Belle Casino's new venture, the Spirit of America

The contrast could not be more striking. Near the river stand the massive Con Agra grain elevators, with "Welcome to Alton" and an American flag painted patriotically on the side; on the sloping hills rests the sleepy, quaint town of steeples and old storefronts -- a town, like many Mississippi River towns, that has seen better days. But then cross the tracks to the Spirit of America.

It is orange, the color of certain fungi sometimes seen erupting from decaying logs, or the color of prison garb -- lots of that orange, matched with deep blues and greens -- paint streaked along the sides of one complex of warehouselike structures to make it all look worn and rustic, "Outfitters and Suppliers" stenciled on one wall. The Alton Belle Casino's new "landing facility" is the cartoon version of a working port, right next to the silos that really are part of a working port. One functions as decoration (sort of) for the new economy; the other just functions, the old economy trundling along.

Out of one might walk men and women with muscles thickened by work rather than by aerobic workouts at Bally; out of the other walk chipper PR folk Shareen and Doug. Doug, the more vocal of the pair, regards the orange hulk floating on the Mississippi and says, "It's got some color. It's got some pizzazz. It's got some fun to it." What else can he say, other than he sure hopes this $14 million orange blob is enough to bring more people into this casino before it sinks into bankruptcy?

"The casino needed a weenie to draw people to it," says Lenzy Hendrix, production designer of the new Alton Belle Casino landing facility. Weenie in foreground, Con Agra grain elevators in background.
Jennifer Silverberg
"The casino needed a weenie to draw people to it," says Lenzy Hendrix, production designer of the new Alton Belle Casino landing facility. Weenie in foreground, Con Agra grain elevators in background.

Doug doesn't quite have the vocabulary to match the glowing new edifice, so he quickly escorts the press to one who does, through a labyrinth of Sheetrock and laborers in overalls and hard hats, to where Lenzy Hendrix, the production designer of the new landing, has been "working with that canoe."

"That canoe" is an 800-pound wooden dugout that Hendrix picked up in Mombasa on an Argosy shopping spree (Argosy Gaming Co. owns the Alton Belle). "What we paid for it probably sent a kid to college," Hendrix says, repelling any cultural-imperialist kind of talk. Whatever the folks in Mombasa are doing with those Western dollars, today that canoe is being wrangled into place high above the soon-to-be-opened Key West Bar. Hendrix is coaxing the workmen to set the boat higher and then to turn it so the interior of the canoe may be seen from below, an effect that is not lost on the sober tour group below and -- who knows? -- might pierce the aesthetic sense of some crapped-out customer someday: "I just gambled away the kids' tuition, but look at how tastefully that canoe curves across the ceiling."

Hendrix, in the words of the linguistically impaired Doug, is "colorful." Hendrix worked for Disney for more than eight years, and it shows. He is ebullient. Although he stands before the touring entourage with feet planted firmly on the floor, he appears to quiver with energy. He's got hundreds of design details swirling around in his head at one time, yet he can focus on one problem in a pragmatic flash (turn the canoe this way; there needs to be more color in the water tubes "to give life and fantasy to the space").

Hendrix is one of a generation of designers who learned their craft from the ghostly father Walt and his first apostle Roy and the prophet Michael. When Hendrix was a child, he confides, "I dressed up like Disney. I bought Disney stock when I was 6." While still in high school, Hendrix wrote a letter to Roy Disney (Walt's nephew) seeking guidance. Disney wrote back, advising the young Hendrix to get a college education -- fulfilling the qualifications of the American mainstream rite of passage -- and then contact him again. Hendrix did and found himself in on the ground floor of the creation of the Epcot Center.

Depending on one's sensibilities, this is either a tale of the American opportunistic dream or a Faustian nightmare (which indeed might be the same tale).

Hendrix moved on to work for Argosy and to design civic-theater productions in Indianapolis, bringing with him "the Disney approach to design, a theatrical approach." The family-centered Disney approach to design coincides well with recent changes in the gaming industry as gambling meccas such as Las Vegas have worked to become something more than, or other than, weekend vice trips -- rather, weekend vice trips for the whole family.

Color, excitement, a sense of moving out of the everyday -- or, as Hendrix refers to Alton, the "dull background palette of the town" -- and into the exotic: a mini-fun capital on a floating barge.

Hendrix wanted something other than the traditional Mississippi motif ("the paddle wheel has been so overdone"), so he mixed themes of history and desire (a primary Disney strategy). People of this region, Hendrix surmised, either go or dream of going to the tropics in winter. The Argosy family (apparently there was one) was involved in trade in the Caribbean in the 19th century, according to Hendrix (sugar; rum; slaves, perhaps), and the Caribbean theme emerged. Thus the Key West Bar was invented, with its crackled paint, a stuffed Mandalay parrot, pictures of Papa Hemingway -- the kind of faux re- creation that would have made the Illinois native turn surly had he found himself stuck in such a place, where after a few stiff ones he might have peskily sparred with another Illinois native on the barstool next to him, eventually decking the faux high-roller.

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