But pan-American rhetoric withered and the dream of a Latin American Marshall Plan evaporated in the postwar period. Good neighborliness gave way to the Cold War nightmare of Guatemala in 1954. Today, it seems clear that the two Disney pictures established a precedent in which the film industry would work to justify American intervention in the region and around the globe.

With the rise of fascism in the region a real, if exaggerated, threat, the two Disney films and the accompanying diplomatic mission were intended as anti-Nazi propaganda for a South American audience. Riding high on a wave of similar goodwill tours — including Henry Wallace’s Hemispheric New Deal — the resulting animations initially seem like earnest, if naïve, attempts to engage in an authentic dialogue with Latin American culture.

Walt Disney announced his arrival in Latin America with two animated films: 1942’s Saludos amigos and 1944’s Los tres caballeros. Their debuts — in Rio de Janeiro and Mexico City, respectively — were milestones in the decade-long Good Neighbor Policy, which had begun in 1933 when the United States wound down its military occupation of Central America. In the 1940s, the Roosevelt administration saw hemispheric collaboration as vital to the American war effort.

Greetings, Friends!

One of the many animated shorts that appears in Saludos amigos finds Goofy (called Tribilín in Spanish) dressed as a gaucho, acting out his usual foolishness across the Argentine Pampas. The bumbling character’s familiarity makes the setting’s novelty more accessible, embodying the neighborly goodwill that the film’s opening credits intone:

Greetings America! The time has come to become good friends! Greetings friends, neighbors! We must now come together as one.

The version released in the United States doesn’t mention “neighbors” nor hint at any kind of alliance. (On account of this and other discrepancies, the quotes cited here come from the Spanish language versions of these films.) Cleansed of political overtones for its domestic release, the film slyly recreates the “imperial amnesia” that often marks the United States’ grip on the region.

The song, at least in its Spanish and Portuguese versions, explicitly appeals to Latin American nations to enlist in the American war effort. The closing credits also stress continental unity: the inscription states that the film was made thanks to “the kindness and collaboration of artists, musicians, and all of our friends across Latin America.”

These and other overtures betray the ideological motivations behind the cartoonists’ South American expedition, which the narrator describes as a mission to discover fresh material and recruit “a new friend for Donald Duck.”

Ariel Dorfman and Armand Mattelart’s classic essay “Para leer el Pato Donald” (“How to Read Donald Duck”) made “cultural imperialism” into a household word with its look at the ideological function of Disney entertainment. A fascinating document from Allende’s Popular Unity government, the book concentrates on the slew of Disney comic strips that flooded Latin America in the Cold War period. In one case study, Donald travels to the fictional Andean region called Altiplano del Abandono in hopes of finding a “golden goat.” Dorfman and Mattelart argue that Donald’s quest replays the Spanish conquistadores’ search for the rich mines of Potosí.

But Disney’s 1942 goodwill tour took a different tack. Neither Bolivia nor Peru seemed important to the Allies’ war efforts, and the scenes set around Lake Titicaca make that clear by, according to the narrator, “avoid[ing] any urban setting, preferring instead focus on the aborigines.” In practice, that means Disney portrays the “Land of the Incas” through the eyes of “an American tourist”: namely, Donald Duck.

Donald makes a good-faith effort to engage with the local culture, but the film still deploys exaggerated provincialism: the figure of the “chola” personifies the region, and mestizo women perform “exotic melodies” and withstand the inhospitable climate by virtue of their deep connection to the “remote Incan civilization.”

The animators replace the burros (donkeys) typical of the region with the “proud llamas,” the true “Andean aristocrats.” The narrator carefully prioritizes the animals over their human counterparts, explaining that the creatures are capable of humiliating any bystander “with a mere glance.”

Crossing Lake Titicaca proves to be a “big adventure,” and only the indigenous seem suited to it. As they begin the crossing, the same natives “allow themselves to be photographed freely, perhaps because they still don’t know what a camera is.” Ignorant of modern technology, they are nevertheless fluent in animal-speak and enlist the llamas to help them cross. Donald, the tourist, cannot adapt to such backwardness and reverts to boasting of his technological advances. At a particularly treacherous crossing, we learn that the llamas’ gait, just like the indigenous of the altiplano, is “perfectly adapted to the suspension bridge’s swaying motion.”

The narrator emphasizes the local people’s adaptations throughout, but, for the tourist, he can only offer words of encouragement: “Keep your wits, stay calm, and try to relax.” As a reward, Donald gets to visit the pottery market and purchase regional crafts.

Returning to the live-action sequence, the cartoonists, all wearing business attire, board a plane while a procession of barefooted cholas march across the Andean Puna with their infants tied to their backs. The following frame provides an aerial view — a token of cultural superiority — that gives a snapshot of the region’s most outstanding features. Dorfman and Mattelart explain the political force of representing Latin America as a mosaic of cultures:

By selecting the most superficial and singular traits of each people in order to differentiate them and using folklore as a means to “divide and conquer” nations occupying the same dependent position . . . [o]ur Latin American countries become trashcans being constantly repainted for the voyeuristic and orgiastic pleasures of the metropolitan nations.

From Chile — represented by “Pedrito, the Little Airplane” — the picture transports viewers across the Andean cordillera to Buenos Aires. A series of postcards depict the “beautiful and modern” capital of Argentina: we see the Plaza de Mayo, the Colón Theatre, and the Kavanagh building, the “tallest of its kind in South America” and an emblem of the “third great city of the Americas.”

Before the American tourist’s gaze fixated on Andean exotica, but now those “imperial eyes” have turned mercantilist. They focus on Argentina’s grilled meats and fine wines, sealing the nation’s status as food exporter in the international division of labor. As Argentina’s great statesman Domingo Faustino Sarmiento said, the nation’s endless tracts of land ultimately became its greatest curse, opening it to two centuries of exploitation at the hands of a landowning, creole elite before it became a devaluation-fueled tourist hotspot.

The cartoonists watch a folk dance that reminds them of American cowboys, providing the backdrop for a “flight of fantasy” to the United States, where Goofy prepares for his starring role.

The animation begins with a wardrobe change — like a currency conversion or a translation — in which Goofy trades his Western wear for Gaucho garb, thus becoming the “centaur of the Pampas” atop his Arthurian-inspired steed, “Bucephalus.”

As in the previous live-action scene, North American economic and cultural interests converge around the scene of Argentine meat, “the world’s most delectable.” The narrator explains that it serves as the foundation of a “vitamin-rich, healthy diet” that grants its consumers their robust physiques. What better candidate for a war partner — especially against the athletics-obsessed Nazis — than these hardy South Americans?

But the scene’s closing sequence suggests that there will be no lasting love between the two countries: as night falls on the Pampas, the gaucho is left alone, singing a traditional vidalita to the sound of a guitar, which, on closer inspection, turns out to be a record player.

The transition from the Pampas to Brazil marks a sharp shift in tone. The plane arrives in Rio de Janeiro, home of the cariocas and carnaval, city that “exceeds all expectations in terms of its sheer beauty.” “Defenseless against the cartoonists’ advances,” José Carioca first appears.

Though the parrot wears the outward signs of a “Gran Senhor” — a Panama hat, an umbrella that serves as a cane, and a cigar — he doesn’t boast of the region’s wealth. Rather, he signifies Brazil’s incredible natural beauty. “Aquarela do Brasil” blares over the country’s exuberant landscape as waterfalls, flowers, birds, and bananas fill the screen.

Already anticipating 1944’s Los tres caballeros, Carioca and Donald meet and exchange business cards. Donald accepts his new friend’s gracious offer to see the sights, and they end their tour at a bar offering cachaça, the local spirit of choice. Only under the influence of the drink can Donald dance in step with the tropical rhythms emanating from the Copacabana dance hall, where the silhouette of Carmen Miranda can just be made out in a window.