Truth in Advertising (21 page)

We order in from the diner, grilled cheese and soup.

Ian says, “Maybe something serious.”

“Like what?”

“William McDonough.”

I say, “Finbar Dolan.”

Ian says, “No. William McDonough. Have you heard of him?”

“We went to junior high together. He tried to kiss me at prom.”

“You're a fool,” Ian says. “He wrote a book called
Cradle to Cradle
.”

I say, “A cradle is something a baby sleeps in. See? I know things.”

Ian says, “There's a saying in the environmental design movement, ‘cradle to grave.' It's about the life cycle of a product.”

“How do you know these things?”

“NPR. Anyway, William McDonough has this whole philosophy about how a product should be completely reusable. Cradle to cradle.”

“Make it a mini-documentary. Errol Morris.”

“Errol Morris.”

Errol Morris is an Academy Award–winning documentary filmmaker who also makes commercials. He made
Fog of War
, about Robert McNamara's experience as secretary of defense during the start of the Vietnam War. Ian and I have been trying to shoot with him for years. Like many creatives, we are keen to validate our work by making it
more
than merely a commercial. We want to make it a movement, a communication. But we've never had a script he was interested in shooting. No surprise there, though, as at the end of every Snugglies spot an animated diaper hugs itself and giggles. The last script we sent him to consider was a takeoff of the Broadway show
A Chorus Line
(“One . . . singular sensation . . . every little time he makes . . .” If you're sensing a theme of “borrowing” other ideas and making them our own by putting the most minute twist on them, you're on to something.). His producer was very gracious, saying that as much as Errol loved the script—and musical theater in particular—he would have to pass, as “Errol is on an extended holiday in India, where he's shooting a comedy with Adam Sandler.”

I say, “Too serious, maybe?”

Ian says, “Serious stuff, the environment.”

“Super Bowl audience, though. Straight guys. Drunk. Baseball caps on backwards. Guys who use the word
tits
,
boner
. Guys who use the word
party
as a verb.”

Ian says, “It doesn't have to be super serious. Charming. Hopeful. Not unlike myself.”

I leave a message for Pam, asking her to get in touch with Errol Morris's production company and to see if William McDonough would be interested. I also ask her to get in touch with Ridley Scott's production company to see if he's available.

•   •   •

“Fin. How do you feel about fondue?”

It's Martin calling from Austria. A rough calculation says it's almost ten at night where he is. I'd e-mailed him scripts, paragraph write-ups of ideas from the guys earlier in the day, highlighting Captain Underpants, William McDonough, 1984, under pressure/Bach, and talking babies but not E-Trade, as well as a couple other stragglers that weren't good but that added to the length of the Word doc I sent, making it seem like a lot of work.

I say, “Warm stinky cheese?”

“You're a poet.”

“How's Austria?”

“Reminds me of Switzerland. Not far from the border, actually.
What was that quote, Orson Welles's character in
The Third Man
. ‘In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love—they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.'”

I'm never bored listening to Martin. I hear a piano in the background, clinking glasses, silverware.

“You at dinner, Martin?”

“Friend has a place on the Gaschurn. I'm looking out over the valley, the lights, snowcapped Alps in the distance.”

I'm looking out over an avenue in midtown Manhattan, snow turned black. I have an intense pang of jealousy for Martin's life, his intelligence and success and cool.

Martin says, “Captain Underpants could be interesting.”

“That's not a sentence I ever thought I'd hear you say, Martin.”

“Could be the altitude. And the wine.”

I hear a woman speak French. Martin replies in kind, away from the phone.

Martin says, “Bach. Could be nice. Talking babies. Tricky. E-Trade. If you can figure out a way to make it original, fine. But they can't talk like adults. William McDonough. Tell me.”

I start to explain who William McDonough is.

“I know
who
he is. What's the spot?”

“Maybe a mix of interview and beauty shots of the environment. Maybe just him talking to camera. Errol Morris.”

“Bit serious.”

“We watched clips of McDonough on TED. He's amazing. Great speaker, sense of humor. Won't feel too serious.”

I'm waiting for him to mention the 1984 idea, which I both love and hate. I love it because I think it could be funny. I hate it because it's someone else's idea and I can see it being mercilessly criticized. I worry that it's one of those ideas that you initially think is genius but that reveal themselves slowly to be idiotic.

He says, “1984.”

“Yes.”

“Has to be perfect. Shot for shot. Perfect but over the top. I don't hate it.”

Which means he likes it a lot. I hear the French woman again.

“I'm on a plane tomorrow. Be ready to show Frank and Dodge.
Tschüss
.”

•   •   •

The team gathers to share where we are. Ideas will be killed. Two or three might live for the eventual presentation, which is three days away, the day after New Year's.

Martin is back. He talks with Frank and another man I've never seen. Dodge is on vacation.

We sit at one of the conference room tables. Jill, Alan, me, Ian, Paulie, Stefano, Malcolm, Raj, Pam. Along the other side sit additional people I've only seen a few times and in some cases never at all.

Alan says, “Frank? Shall we get started?” Alan becomes nervous around Frank.

I lean over to Ian. “Who's the guy?”

The guy is perhaps thirty-five, Japanese, dressed in a bespoke Paul Smith suit that does not lend itself to his portly frame. A fat King George knot in his tie, London-style. The tie is also notable for its explosion of colors. He hasn't shaved in a few days, but the stubble is patchy fourteen-year-old goose down that looks like the result of a fight lost to a Flowbee. His black hair is a kind of buzz cut on the sides, creating a cupcake effect, the top frosting the recipient of a fair amount of mousse or gel or pomade or Brylcreem. His expression is severe. It could be my imagination but it looks to me like he's trying hard to keep from laughing.

Ian says, “I don't know, but he looks familiar.”

Frank waits for silence and then says, smiling, “What a group. I love you guys. Every one of you. To work over the holidays like this for one of the great brands in the world today.” He pauses and shakes his head slowly. “I love your asses.”

The Japanese newcomer looks askance at Frank. Surely he's thinking,
Did he just say “asses”?

Martin jumps in. “Well said as always, Frank. Before we look at the work, I'd like to introduce our good friend, Mr. Keita Nagori. He was in New York and was kind enough to drop by and join us for this review.”

Ian says, “No. It can't be.”

I whisper, “Is it me or does
Keita Nagori
sound like a California roll with salmon?”

Ian says, “You make me cringe for you.”

Ian taps his iPhone a few times and holds it up to show me just exactly who Keita Nagori is. A quick Google search has Keita number twelve on the
Forbes
list of richest men in Japan. Keita's father bought the agency last year.

Ian says, still whispering, “There's a billionaire in the room.”

Keita nods crisply.

Martin nods to me to begin. “Fin. Please.”

I preface the ideas by saying we have a lot of good thinking on the table. I always say this. I say we've shared a lot of it with the account team already to make sure we were on the right track. I say, referring to the brief, that we feel we have a couple of ideas that could definitely be powerful, breakthrough, charming, funny, differentiating, memorable, groundbreaking, game-changing. I do not believe a word I am saying and am confident that no one else does either. They smile and nod politely, though. I notice that Keita is sitting forward, elbows on the table, leaning against his tented fingers. It looks awkward and uncomfortable, as if he is posing as a businessman at a meeting. He smiles briefly at me.

Each team shares their ideas.

Despite my initial excitement for the ideas, something often happens in the presentation phase where I am disappointed and slightly embarrassed by them. I make the mistake of assuming the flat expression on everyone's faces is boredom. I want them to look like children upon seeing puppies. My guess is that Martin, Alan, and Jill are thinking of every possible thing
wrong
with the idea. How will the client respond? Is it remotely like anything else out there? Who could we offend? Are there hidden messages the trade press could pick on?

Ideally we should have had a month, not a week. Ideally we should have had another month to find the right director, location, and cast. The client sees the ideas in three days. They basically have to decide immediately. If this all happens—and I doubt it will as it's simply not a feasible schedule—we would need to be shooting in less than a week. Which is impossible. But we'll do it.

People like 1984 and William McDonough. But the idea they spark to is a new one. Ian came up with it this morning. Every baby we see in birthing rooms around the world—the U.S., Europe, China, Africa—has Al Gore's giant head on their tiny baby body. Proud Chinese fathers and grandfathers look at baby Al. An African mother and father hold baby Al. Swedes, Koreans, Mexicans, Filipinos. It's called “An Inconvenient Poop.” Okay, that's not true. It's called “Al Gore.” The voice-over would say, “Now, with new Snugglies Planet Changers, the world's first disposable, biodegradable diapers, every time you change a diaper, you can help change the world.” Our online people are looking into change-a-diaper-change-the-world.com.

Frank says, “Can we get Al Gore?”

Jill says, “I saw him on
30 Rock
. He'll do TV. I have a friend at J. Walter Thompson and they were looking at him for something.” Frank nods.

Jill says, “Should it just be newborns or should we show toddlers, too? Toddlers are a huge market for us.”

Ian says, “Cleaner if it's newborns.”

Martin says, “Pam. Any of these a production problem in the time allotted?”

Pam says, “All of them. But with enough money you can do anything.”

Martin says, “They'll put money against this. Alan. Your thoughts.”

Alan says, “I think there's some great work on the table. Truly.”

Jill nods aggressively.

Alan says, “It's original. It's ownable. I like that. They'll like that.”

Jill says, “If I can speak to Alan's point, let's remember why we're here: to do nothing less than revolutionize the diaper industry.”

Alan says, “That's who we are. As a company, and as a diaper maker. It's contemporary. It's now. I love the contextualization of it. Gritty, raw, on brand.”

He's lost the plot at this point and is just saying whatever pops into his mind.

Jill says, “Definitely on brand.”

Alan says, “We're saying something here that other diapers can't. Al Gore or the McDonough idea. Bold.”

Martin says, “Let me have a think. Thank you, everyone.”

There is a brief, deflated pause and people gather their phones and papers and stand and stretch. Still seated at the end of the table, Keita smiles and says, “I like Captain Underpants.”

•   •   •

Ian comes by my office.

He says, “How do you think that went?”

I say, “Good. I think it went well. You?”

“Not good.”

“No, me neither.”

Ian says, “I need a night off. Do you mind?”

“Course not.”

“I'd like to stop thinking about revolutionary diapers for a bit.”

I say, “Baby, you need to relax.”

“Please don't call me baby.”

“Baby, I know all about relaxing. Let me give you a piece of advice.”

“Please don't.”

“When the world is on your shoulders, gotta straighten up your act and boogie down.”

Ian says, “Stop.”

I say, “Livin' crazy, that's the only way.”

“You're not stopping.”

“Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall.”

“You're the whitest, straightest man I know.”

“I'm about to stand up and dance.”

Ian says, “I'm leaving.”

Later, I read disheartening stories online about drug-related kidnapping, murder, and dismemberment in Mexico and how it's spreading to tourist communities.

The phone rings.

“Mr. Dolan? It's Margaret Nash, from Cape Cod Hospital.”

“Margaret. Hi.”

“I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all.”

Margaret says, “I'm calling because your father's vitals have taken a bit of a turn, and while we're not in a danger area, I did want to let you know. It's cause for some concern.”

I look up to see Keita standing at my door. I hold up an index finger and smile.

I say, “What . . . what exactly does that mean?”

Margaret says, “It means we're moving him to the ICU for a measure of precaution.”