Truth in Advertising (10 page)

An animatic is one of the last stops along the long, painful conveyor belt to approval—from brief to creation to internal review to client presentation to revisions to re-presentation to additional presentation to more senior clients to additional revision based upon senior client feedback to animatic to focus-group testing. In an animatic, a voice-over reads the idea as the focus group looks at hand-drawn pictures. It's the kind of thing you might have seen in a high school phys ed class in the sixties about avoiding syphilis or the dangers of Western culture as told by state agencies in Pyongyang today. An animatic has about the same relationship to an actual commercial that Orangina has to orange juice.

I say, “What's the problem?”

Jill looks to Alan. Alan says, “The problem is cock.”

Ian says, “I'm all ears.”

Alan says, “This isn't funny.”

I say, “Ian doesn't joke about cock.”

Jill says, “You guys. Seriously. The client is really upset. And the Young MacDonald launch is a huge deal for them.”

The Young MacDonald launch is a new line of diapers that have animals on them. This may not seem like a big deal as there are plenty of diapers with animals on them. In fact, it's unlikely that you can buy diapers with
out
animals on them. But these aren't ordinary animals. Our client signed an exclusive deal with Pixar (translation: Snugglies paid Pixar an exorbitant fee for the right to use the cartoon animals) and is launching the animal diapers in concert with the opening of a movie using the same characters in January. We were awaiting focus group testing and footage from Pixar before editing the spot. The movie is about a cartoon teenager who grows up on a farm (his
grandfather is Old MacDonald, his father is simply MacDonald) and who doesn't want to be a farmer—he wants to be a hedge-fund manager. Though he eventually realizes he wants to stay on the farm. Throughout the spot we'd see babies (wearing only Snugglies diapers) crawling around, playing with cuddly stuffed animals, as we hear children singing “Old MacDonald,” which Pixar has contracted with Beyoncé to re-record. The challenge was finding a way to seamlessly integrate the movie into the spot. How would the babies see it on a farm? Several ideas were tossed around. One involved showing the movie on the side of the barn. Another had the movie reflected in a puddle in the pigpen (both the client and Pixar reacted angrily to this, misconstruing our creativity for an indictment of the film). Yet a third had a drive-in movie theater next to the farm, but the concern there was that children would have absolutely no idea what a drive-in was. In the end, we eventually decided the babies would sit in front of a large flat-screen TV (the client's input via a co-branding deal with Sony's flat-screen division), where they would watch a partial trailer for the movie.

I say, “But what's the problem? And please don't say ‘cock' again.”

Jill says, “In the script you use a cow, a pig, and a rooster.”

I say, “Of course I did. I'm a professional writer.”

Jill says, “Sing the song for me.”

I look at Ian. This is a trap. I say, “I won't sing. But I'll talk it.”

Jill says, “Whatever. Just do it.”

I say, “Old MacDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O.”

Ian says, “I feel like this is how Christopher Walken sang to his children.”

Jill says, “
Shh
. Keep going.”

I say, “And on this farm he had a cow. E-I-E-I-O. With a
moo-moo
here and a
moo-moo
there, here a
moo
, there a
moo
, everywhere a
moo-moo
.”

Jill says, “Jump ahead to the rooster part.”

I say, “And on this farm he had a rooster. E-I-E-I-O. With a . . . oh, shit.”

Ian says, “With a
cock-cock
here and a
cock-cock
there, here a
cock
,
there a
cock
, everywhere a
cock-cock
. Where is this farm? I want to live there.”

Jill says, “We need to get on a call.”

Ian says, “So you're saying this is a huge cock problem.”

I say, “Can't we just lose the rooster? Cow, pig, chicken.”

Alan says, “There's a problem with the cow and the pig. They didn't test well. People were offended by the pig. They thought it was demeaning to heavy-set mothers. They thought we were calling people fat cows and fat pigs. The client's really upset.”

Somewhere, not far from these offices, surgeons are saving lives, social workers are helping the poor, the clergy are ministering to the forgotten, scientists are on the edge of breakthroughs that will improve the human experience, artists are writing plays, novels, painting masterpieces. I want to know if Miss Deaf Black America looks deaf, and I have a cock problem. Truth be told, this is not an unusual day at Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen.

F
in. How nice.” It's Martin's assistant, Emma, whom he brought with him from London. She's called and asked if I could stop by Martin's office. He'd like a word.

Martin's office sits in a corner of the building with spectacular views of Bryant Park. I wait in an anteroom. I hear voices from his office and recognize them as the soda guys, Glen and Barry. They are brothers, twins from Florida. They went to school for advertising, received actual degrees, apparently. I would think advertising would be more of a course than a degree, more like a week's bartending program or CPR or omelet-making. The twins were recruited to work here, having come from a far superior agency known for its award-winning work. They love advertising. They study the business, read the industry periodicals, know the names of the best copywriters and art directors, the best agencies, which account has moved where. They know the directors. They watch reels of commercials from around the world for hours at a time. They are true believers and they will one day run this place. Or someplace like it. They bear an uncanny resemblance to Elmer Fudd.

They run the fizzy orange drink account. The fizzy orange drink is preferred by the African-American community. The fizzy orange drink is very important to the agency. The agency hopes to parlay our success (as-yet unproved) to the fizzy orange drink's parent company, based in Atlanta. From the sound of it, Glen and Barry are very excited about their idea.

Glen (or maybe Barry) says, “Youth-oriented. Hip. Street.”

The other one says, “Jay-Z, Young Jeezy, Lil Wayne.”

Which is when they say their idea is a small black doll that talks.

I peek my head in and see that Barry and Glen are each holding a rubber doll about a foot high, presenting it to Martin and a few others.

Babs Moss, management supervisor on the account, says, “Do the thing, guys. Talk like them.”

Glen talks as if he were the doll. “What up, yo?”

Babs says, “No, the other thing. The funny thing.”

Glen says, “Blast is so
right
, yo. Fresh.” Blast is the fizzy orange drink.

Babs squeals with delight.

Barry says, “I find it quite refreshing.” He says this in a posh English accent.

Martin sits, hands in a contemplative tent over his nose, a deep thinker, a man listening to a new idea for peace in the Middle East.

Martin says, “So they're two puppets who talk.”

Glen and Barry nod.

Babs says, “I think that's right, Martin. I think that's ex
actly
right.”

Martin says, “Aren't they similar to what Nike did some time ago with Lil Penny?”

Nike used Chris Rock as the voice for an inanimate little doll that was former NBA great Penny Hardaway's alter ego. It was funny, in no small part because it was Chris Rock and not Glen and Barry.

Babs says, “They most certainly did, Martin. But we feel this idea is very different.”

Martin says, “How is it different?”

Glen says, “We have two, not one.”

Babs says, “I think that's a crucial difference. Also one's white.”

Martin says, “Why is one English?”

Barry says, “It's just funny.”

Martin says, “Is it?”

Babs says, “It's certainly not classically funny, Martin. Not laugh
loud
funny. It's a chuckle. A smile. A half grin.” Babs makes a half-grin face.

Martin turns to Glen and Barry. “Did you do two because you're twins and they're twins?”

Glen says, “That was part of it.”

Babs jumps in with the intensity of a hostage negotiator. “Martin, the target is African-American teens, thirteen to seventeen, hip-hop culture, NBA-focused, single-parent homes, at-risk kids who consume on average two to three bottles of our product a day. Our projections want that closer to seven to ten bottles a day. We think the doll will reach them, and the client is putting major money behind it. NBA playoffs, MTV Music Awards, and Bling Thing.”

Martin says, “Bling Thing?”

Babs doesn't miss a beat. “It's the inner-city anti-violence initiative sponsored by Iced La-Táy, the rap star who was shot two weeks ago.”

Martin says, “Interesting. Part of me thinks it's funny. Part of me thinks it's one of the dumbest things I've ever seen.”

Babs says, “That was the brief exactly. It almost makes you wish you were African-American. Not literally African-American, of course, but you know what I mean.”

Barry says, “It's stupid, right? That's what I love about it. It's just so stupid.”

Martin says, “I love their pants. They're very baggy.”

Babs says, “Should they have little belts?”

Glen says, “That wouldn't be true to street.”

A junior account guy says, “That's true. I've seen them. Always pulling up their pants.”

It dawns on me that everyone in the room is white.

Martin says, “When's the meeting?”

Babs says, “Thursday in Atlanta.”

Martin says, “Knock 'em dead. If you don't come back having sold it, kill yourself.”

Babs laughs, but she's not entirely sure Martin is joking.

“Fin!” Babs says as she walks out of Martin's office smiling, her lips disappearing. I heard a rumor that her husband left her recently. Three children.

“Hey, Babs. How are you?”

Babs begins crying for no reason I can discern.

I say, “Are you okay?”

And just as quickly she stops crying. Eyes wide, lunatic smile. “Sure am, Fin.” Machine-gun laugh out of nowhere, then gone.

Babs says, “Did you hear we're trying to get the Dalai Lama for Crest White Strips?”

“Wow. Does he do advertising?”

“Who the fuck knows?!” she says, a giant smile still plastered on her face. I feel like she might explode.

“Sounds like a great meeting in there.”

Babs says, “A great meeting. A
great
meeting. Leaving for Atlanta in about an hour.
Hotlanta
, they call it down there. More like
Shitlanta
. What a dump. Need to talk with you first thing after the New Year about the Doodles thing.” Her cell phone is ringing and she's readjusting the folio she is holding to her birdlike chest in order to answer it.

“Barbara Moss,” she says into the phone, nodding to me, smiling.

I nod and smile.

Merry Christmas
, she mouths, and she's off, a trauma surgeon heading toward the ER.

“Good luck,” I shout, and see her bony arm come up and wave as she disappears down the hallway. God love her.

“Fin,” Martin says, from inside his office.

There's a Christmas morning atmosphere in Martin's office. Boughs with white lights adorn his window with a view to Bryant Park and the skating rink below. Gifts from clients, vendors, editorial companies, music companies, production companies. New Patagonia jackets here, an engraved bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label there. This is my future. This office. This is what I've been working for. Though the chances of me ever getting here are comically slim. The simple truth is that there are far more talented people all around me. They possess a drive and passion for advertising that I lack. It's not that I don't work hard. I do. I enjoy work, enjoy accomplishing something, solving a problem, completing a thing. It's just that, for me, lately (and more and more often) there is always another voice competing with my own internal monologue. One that questions and laughs a lot and makes comical grimacing faces at the work, the gravitas, the inanity of it. Take Glen and Barry's idea, for example. I
like it. It's something I couldn't come up with. It's exactly the kind of thing—done right—that will garner five million hits on YouTube in a two-week span. It's the kind of idea I used to get very excited about. But then the voice creeps in and says, “
Psst
. Hey, pal. Are you out of your fucking mind? That's the dumbest idea since the Chia Pet.” Cynicism is very dangerous in advertising. You must be a believer. If you stray, if you start questioning its worth and validity, its credibility, you are in for a very long day.

This voice is not present, I am sure of it, in the heads of the other creatives who've achieved far more than I have. Take the team that just launched the “What's the Question Because the Answer Is Soup” campaign for Campbell's. The client called it “breathtaking.” I happen to know that each team member received a bonus and an expensive, handmade Italian bicycle. When I talk with them, when I run into them in the hallway or the cafeteria or at a company event, they speak with great intensity about their work, an intensity and intelligence I admire, as well as their wardrobes and hair. I feel inferior to them and their awards, their quiet cool. Inevitably they ask about my work in voices of thinly veiled condescension. “Missed you at Cannes this year,” they say, referring to the French city where the premiere annual advertising award show takes place. I often have a remarkably cutting comeback, such as, “Oh, yeah? Well . . . that's because I wasn't there.”