Fantasia (1940)

“Fantasia is timeless. It may run ten, twenty, thirty years. Fantasia is an idea in itself.”

— Walt Disney

When Fantasia premiered in November 1940, it was unlike anything audiences had ever seen—or heard. Equal parts symphony, painting, myth, and fever dream, the film brought together classical music and hand-drawn animation in a visionary cinematic experience. Walt Disney’s third animated feature was also his riskiest, departing entirely from traditional narrative and character-driven storytelling.

Eighty-five years on, Fantasia remains one of the boldest experiments in the history of animation—a breath-taking marriage of sound and image that continues to inspire, confound, and elevate.

The Concert Film That Changed Everything

Structured as a series of eight segments, each set to a different classical composition, Fantasia unfolds not like a story, but like a concert. The music—performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra under the baton of Leopold Stokowski—is the true protagonist. Introduced by musicologist Deems Taylor, each piece is given a unique visual interpretation: sometimes abstract, sometimes comedic, sometimes cosmic.

Unlike the fairy-tale formula of Snow White or the moral clarity of Pinocchio, Fantasia demands a different kind of engagement. It doesn’t tell you what to feel—it shows you what music feels like.

A Tour Through Fantasia's Movements

Each segment offers its own tone, visual language, and philosophical thrust. Together, they form an eclectic and deeply expressive whole:

Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (Bach): A meditative opening, using shadows, colours, and surreal forms to transform sound into pure abstraction.

The Nutcracker Suite (Tchaikovsky): From dancing mushrooms to shimmering frost fairies, this woodland ballet reimagines the seasons as a flowing, elemental pageant.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (Dukas): Featuring Mickey Mouse in his most famous role, this cautionary fable about power and hubris blends charm with chaos.

The Rite of Spring (Stravinsky): A prehistoric epic depicting Earth’s creation and the extinction of the dinosaurs—daring, violent, and scientifically speculative.

Intermission & Meet the Soundtrack: A whimsical pause in the program, introducing sound as a visual character in itself.

The Pastoral Symphony (Beethoven): A dreamy vision of Mount Olympus, populated by centaurs, cupids, and classical gods. Romanticized and idyllic, though modern re-edits have removed some racially problematic depictions.

Dance of the Hours (Ponchielli): Ballet becomes burlesque in this comic piece, where hippos, elephants, and alligators pirouette with surprising grace.

Night on Bald Mountain / Ave Maria (Mussorgsky/Schubert): The film’s finale contrasts demonic terror with spiritual light, as Chernabog’s midnight revelry yields to a serene dawn procession. It is cinema as ritual.

“It doesn’t tell you what to feel—it shows you what music feels like.”

A Technological and Artistic Revolution

Fantasia broke ground not only artistically but technically. It was the first film to feature stereophonic sound, achieved through an innovative multi-channel system called Fantasound. Designed in collaboration with RCA, it allowed the music to sweep across the theatre in dynamic motion—decades ahead of modern surround sound.

Visually, the film was equally pioneering. Each segment boasts a distinct artistic identity: modernist minimalism in Toccata, lush romanticism in Pastoral, horror in Bald Mountain. The fluidity of the animation—whether in the graceful bloom of flowers or the thunderous stomp of dinosaurs—is a feat of timing, draughtsmanship, and imagination.

This was not animation as escapism. It was animation as high art.

Risk, Rejection, and Rediscovery

At the time of its release, Fantasia was a commercial disappointment. Its avant-garde structure, lack of dialogue, and lengthy runtime alienated some audiences. The Second World War curtailed international distribution, and few theatres were equipped for Fantasound, limiting its reach.

Disney had intended Fantasia to be a living concert film, with new segments rotated in over time—a vision that proved financially untenable. Still, the film's influence grew steadily, finding new audiences with each reissue. By the 1960s and ’70s, it had developed a cult following, particularly among young people attuned to its psychedelic visuals and cosmic themes.

In 1990, it was inducted into the United States National Film Registry as “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” And in 2000, Disney released a follow-up—Fantasia 2000—which, though polished, lacked the original’s daring spirit.

A Legacy That Defies Labels

Fantasia remains unique: neither purely animation nor concert, not quite children’s film, nor strictly adult fare. It exists outside genre, outside time. Few studio-backed films since have taken such bold artistic risks on such a scale.

It’s a film that trusts music, and trusts the audience to follow it. To surrender to it. In an era defined by formula and franchise, Fantasia still feels radical—a film that asks us to listen before we watch, and to feel before we understand.

“This was not animation as escapism. It was animation as high art.”

Final Verdict

Fantasia is not just a classic—it’s a manifesto. It declares that animation can be art, that music can be visual, and that cinema can be abstract, transcendent, and boldly experimental.

Eighty-five years on, there is still nothing quite like it.

Essential Viewing For: Fans of classical music, visual art, animation history, and anyone open to letting cinema wash over them like a symphony.