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| Action Park fun in 1994 (Joe Shlabotnik CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons) |
The 2020 HBO documentary Class Action Park (2020) (trailer) told the story of Action Park, a New Jersey theme park in the 1980s and 1990s. Here is a compelling excerpt of the film's pitch:
It was known as a lawless land, ruled by drunk teenage employees and frequented by even drunker teenage guests. The rides were experimental and illogical, and seemed to ignore even the most basic notions of physics or common sense—not to mention safety.
Let’s put it this way: There was an enclosed tube waterslide that went in a complete loop—and that wasn’t even close to the most dangerous ride at the park.
Lying somewhere between Lord of the Flies and a Saw movie, Action Park is remembered as a place so insane and treacherous that, decades later, anybody who ever stepped foot in it is left wondering whether their memories could possibly be true. It became a nearly perfect breeding ground for urban legends and myths.
And then there was the park’s founder: A genius madman who was willing to break any rule to bring his vision to life, including the creation of a fake insurance company in the Cayman Islands to circumvent insurance regulations. As cunning as he was criminal, Action Park became the pure expression of his particular worldview, which valued self-responsibility above all else—including basic safety measures and physically practical rides.
There is a book, too: Action Park (2020) by Andy Mulvihill and Jake Rossen. Andy Mulvilhill is the son of the "genius madman," Gene, who died in 2012. Andy wrote a narrative about his father in Esquire in 2020.
Attorney Bill Childs, adjunct professor at Mitchell Hamline Law School and assistant general counsel at 3M, has taught a course about Action Park, Recreation and Risk: no doubt an informative exploration of how the tort system is supposed to regulate social and economic activity and how its dysfunctions often cause it to fail. For the Marketplace story, David Brancaccio interviewed Professor Childs.
I start Torts I each fall with consideration of the relationship between the thriving market in extreme supports in New Zealand and the suspension of tort litigation in favor of the nation's administrative accident compensation system. N.Z. bungee-jump entrepreneur A.J. Hackett told Australian Broadcasting in 2012 that he closed his Las Vegas franchise because of frivolous litigation. I have doubts about the frivolity of the claims, but there's no doubt that the threat of tort litigation in the United States calls on business models to moderate risk, for better and for worse, more than they might have to in other countries. In the same vein, I am keen myself to learn more about what went wrong or right in claims arising at Action Park.
Theme parks, because they aim to entertain the public at large, not especial risk takers, do not trigger the rare preservation of implied-assumption-of-risk doctrine (IAOR) that pertains in sport, sometimes to deprive even amateur athletes of a cause of action. In U.S. jurisdictions today, IAOR is largely superseded by the adoption of comparative fault, a partial defense. But athletes knowingly engage in a suspension of the social contract, voluntarily undertaking a degree of risk that the general public ordinarily does not. So some jurisdictions preserve IAOR for that occasion.
The inapplicability of IAOR to Action Park risk is on my mind because of a recent article in which Toronto attorney Will Keele and Windsor law student Keanin Parish revisited a 1993 case, Hall v. Hebert, in which the Supreme Court of Canada preserved IAOR in a non-sporting context. After "equally drunk" Hall and Hebert's Pontiac "muscle car" dropped 30 feet into a ditch in 1986, Hall sued Hebert for having let him drive. On those facts, the court favored volenti, a functional equivalent of IAOR, as a complete defense over comparative fault as only partial defense. In other words, Hall had it coming. Keele and Parish opined that that conclusion squares with later cases in the 21st century that preserved IAOR as a defense against injury claims arising in golf and hockey.
The extremity of risk at Action Park shows that the line is not so bright between IAOR preservation for the plaintiff who consents to risk and the abolition of IAOR for the plaintiff who engages with risk unreasonably—or, I might say, between informal sport and general-public thrill-seeking. Were Action Park's "drunker teenage guests" so clearly different from Hall? The salient distinction arises less in the plaintiff's subjective consent and more in the nature of the risk known to arise from the activity the plaintiff undertakes. A car crash is a known hazard of drunk driving, but even a drunk theme park rider does not expect the ride to be operated unsafely—usually. At some point—"memories could possibly be true"?—the distinction runs out.
I have not had an HBO subscription for a while, but if we sign up later this month for House of the Dragon, I'll check out Class Action Park, too.
