The Interview That Got Away

Thirty-six years ago All Dogs Go to Heaven premiered in theaters. Actually it was Thirty-Six years ago on November 17, but my memories are often time delayed due to age and distraction. A few weeks before that in 1989, I scored an interview, round-robin style, for my college newspaper with one of the top animators in the world, John Pomeroy. He was coming to Atlanta promoting the new Don Bluth film, and I—a college newspaper cartoonist and writer with animation dreams bigger than my byline—would finally get my chance to meet a (former) Disney animator.

Keep in mind, I had just seen a press screening of The Little Mermaid and my interest in animation had been rekindled. Actually, rekindled is too mild—I was like a hot summer day on Pompeii. Disney’s new film had premiered to massive acclaim and was already being hailed as the launch of a new golden age. I so desperately wanted to work for Disney, and now I had a chance to meet a former Disney animator. Even better, I had an “in” with my interviewee: my drawing professor, Ralph Gilbert (a master in his own right), had gone through the Disney training program in the ‘70s with Pomeroy. And some guy named Glen Keane—don’t know what ever happened to him. Ralph told me to say “hi” to John and ask if he remembered him.

I had this. It was going to be perfect. I’d drop a name, he’d be delightfully amazed, we’d connect, and soon be laughing like best buds talking about the good ol’ days. Back then, I believed success came from a single magical moment with the right person.

The plan to get there couldn’t have been simpler: leave the newspaper office at Georgia State, hop a MARTA train to Lenox Square station, walk a short distance to the hotel. I had plenty of time. What could possibly go wrong?

As I was heading out the door, another writer on the staff mentioned he had an interview with Kenneth Branagh in the very same hotel. “Why don’t I give you a ride?” he asked.

I still remember my hesitation. I’m sure it was just a short pause, but in my memory it stretches out uncomfortably long. Forever long. Like some part of my brain knew this was a terrible idea but couldn’t articulate exactly why it was a terrible idea. It was just a ride, after all. It would save time and a couple of tokens.

So, for lack of any good reason to turn him down, I agreed.

We made our way to the parking garage and to his car—a college junker filled with papers and painted in an oxidized shade of beige that fell somewhere between Desert Storm camouflage and neglect.

Now, the logical course would be to jump on Piedmont Road to Peachtree Street, turn right, and we’d practically be there. About a 20-minute drive in 1989 traffic. Simple. Direct. Foolproof.

But the writer (I remember his name, but I just can’t mention it for fear of bad juju) decided to take a back road. You know the kind—the “shortcut” that indirectly takes you to your destination by increasing the miles but supposedly saving time if all the stars align just right and Mercury isn’t in retrograde.

We ran out of gas in some upscale neighborhood I had never seen before.

I don’t think I even said a word to—can’t say his name—I just hopped out of the car as it rolled to a stop and started walking. I didn’t even know how far from Peachtree I was. I just knew the basic direction and that moss grows on the north side of a tree, in case that came in handy.

I can’t remember how far I walked or how long it took. What I do remember is the growing sense of dread with each block, the mental calculation of minutes lost, the sick feeling in my stomach as I finally reached the hotel lobby, disheveled and sweating from places that don’t normally sweat.

By the time I had the desk clerk call up to the room, the suite had closed its doors. The interview had started without me.

That was it. My big chance. That brilliant connection. My door into animation. Shut.

Luckily, my delusional fantasy of getting into animation wasn’t the only way in. I finally got in to Disney eight years later the boring way, after years of hard work. And here’s the kicker: my supervisor was Pomeroy’s long-time assistant animator, Rusty Stoll. Another connection I still hope to bring up if I ever get the chance to meet John. He’ll probably be delightfully amazed, we’ll connect, and soon be laughing like best buds talking about the good ol’ days.

So here’s to All Dogs Go to Heaven, thirty-six years after its premiere. While its initial reception was lukewarm—overshadowed by Disney’s Little Mermaid juggernaut—it’s now regarded as a classic animated film, beloved by the generation who grew up with it.

And I still haven’t seen it.

Not on purpose, just never got around to it. I don’t have anything against the film, but I will say, every time I spot that theatrical poster image—the german shepherd with his halo, the dachshund in the ball cap, the little girl, and the rest of the gang—I think about a beige car, the grueling walk, and a door closing in my face.

It just occurred to me, as I was writing this, that I was chasing two shortcuts that day. And turns out shortcuts don’t usually work. That’s like literary magic. Didn’t even plan to weave those together.

Anyway.

And to the writer whose name I won’t mention: I hope your interview with Kenneth Branagh went well. I hope he waxed poetic about Shakespeare, Henry V, and Emma Thompson. I hope it was transcendent.

And I hope you walked home.

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