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Two Takes on Tech: Dodge Journey's "Search Engine" and Jaguar's Machines

Commenting on a recent post on this blog, media critic Joseph Frango made the observation that our culture is becoming increasingly disembodied, as more and more facets of everyday life and commerce take up full-time residence on the web.  Judging from conversations I've overheard at social events lately, a lot of people seem to be thinking the same thing.

It's as if once, to paraphrase Wordsworth, the world was too much with us, now both the world and ourselves have evacuated the premises for cyberspace.  And we miss our bodily selves and the earth they once walked upon.

In this light, I found it amusing how quickly  the field of commodity aesthetics -- i.e., advertising -- was able to pick up on this tremor in the social nervous system.   And, as always, the solution to the vauge angst such qualms produce is found in the products advertised.

Here are two recent car commercials that take on the theme of disembodiment in different ways.  The first is for Dodge (though the version I actually saw didn't have the contest it mentions in it). The second is a new Jaguar XJ spot:
 
 

The Dodge ad, despite all its references to web culture, is really quite traditional.  How many car spots have you seen over the years that promise you that the machine being promoted offers the perfect escape from the civilization that created it?  Or that the car is designed to help you get back in touch with nature?

But what's new about the message here are the metaphors.  This Dodge doesn't contain any ordinary motor, but a search engine, to help you escape the other search engines that enslave you (or, at least, keep you chained to you desk).

Nevertheless, the spot seems haunted by the technical reality it would flee.  If a car is now a search engine, what does that make the terrain it would explore?  Jacque Derrida's deconstructive philosophy once insisted that "there's nothing outside the text"; here, the language of the spot suggests to me that "there's nothing outside the web".  

The beauty of this scenario is that it plays to the desire to have your cake and eat it too.  You still get the comforts of a midsized SUV.  But rather than worry about what price the environment might pay for your pleasure, you are encouraged to think of your Dodge Journey as a way to re-discover that environment's wonder.

Maybe that's why the spot made me think of these lines from a poem by Campbell McGrath:

"Everything yields to the woodsman's axe
but still we are not satisfied.
Now we yearn for the vanished trees!"

Cyborg's Have More Fun

The Jaguar spot also replays elements of classic commercials.  Isn't the personal power it promises a familiar theme in car ads?  But as with Dodge, something new is added when this message is translated into the tech-obsessed language of today.  In fact, you could say the commercial invokes, through its beautiful science fiction film work, a sort of technological sublime, with allusions to everything from Fritz Lang's Metropolis to Apple's iconic 1984 TV commercial.

It does all this to make a point  about how smart the Jag's driving technology has become.  And then it ups the ante to insist that of all the forms of artificial intelligence you meet every day, there's only one brainy enough to meld with not just your mind, but your entire being.

So the point the spot makes is ironic.  For it implies that becoming one with this technology, rather than civilize you even more, will enable you to unleash your inner animal.   This means that the best way to retrieve your authenticity is to become a cyborg.

That's why I find the tag line so evocative.  "How alive are you?" it asks, suggesting, of course, that without this very expensive prosthetic device, you're a mere member of the walking dead.  Or worse, a machine.

You could say that both commercials, then, employ a hair of the dog that bit you logic.  If it's our increasingly technologic civilization that's getting you down, the best cure is more of that civilization in the form of another (and in Jaguar's case, even stronger) dose of its technology.

It's a contradictory logic, to be sure.  But it's one that underpins many of the communications Consumer Culture sends our way.  So much so, that the problem with such a message, rather than its oddness, may be that it's not weird enough to make a real impact.  Thoughts?

 

Art as Experience and Vice Versa: Thoughts on Jerry Lewis and John Dewey

Ever since I watched a documentary on Encore  about the career of Jerry Lewis -- Method to the Madness -- I haven't been able to get one of the comedian's iconic bits out of my mind.

Lewis pretends to be typing (on an invisible typewriter) to the sounds of classical music.  He performs a sort of hand ballet, looking a bit like a conductor at times.  As the bit goes on, he gets  goofier as he becomes  exhausted by his efforts:

 

One of the things that fascinates me about this  gag is how it mixes the codes of high art with everyday life to such a delightful effect; it's part an elegant display of nimble dexterity -- and part slapstick.

In fact, this little concerto brought to mind a comment the pragmatist philosopher John Dewey made in his classic book on aesthetics, Art as Experience.  Dewey cautions against drawing too fine a line between the creative arts and everyday life.  As he puts it:

"The intelligent mechanic, engaged in his job, interested in doing well and finding satisfaction in his handiwork, caring for his tools and materials with genuine affection, is artistically engaged."

Is not part of the humor of Lewis' skit found in the degree of "genuine affection" his typist exhibits for what we conventionally think of as a mundane task?

If Life Can Become Art, So Art Can Become Life

Another reason the Lewis routine grabbed hold of my thoughts is that it exhibits an impulse that I've seen mirrored in interesting ways by the world of high art.  If Lewis suggests that there's something about everyday life that's artistic, the history of the avant-garde is replete with examples of poets and visual artists who have sought to make artistic culture part of everyday life.

Lautreamont, the prose poet and predecessor of Surrealism, insisted, for example, that "Poetry must be made by all..."  Among the ways this idea found expression in the art movements of the 20th century was in the recipes for cooking up poems that Dadaist and Surrealist poets offered to make it theoretically possible for "anyone to be a poet."

Tristan Tzara's famous instruction for making a Dada poem, for example, was to cut out words from a newspaper, shake them up in a paper bag, splash them onto a table, and record the results.

Surrealist seer Andre Breton's "psychic automatism" offered a a formula to get your unconscious to write the poem for you:

"Put yourself in as passive, or receptive, a state of mind as you can.  Forget about your genius, your talents, and the talents of everyone else...Write quickly, without any preconceived subject, fast enough so that you will not remember what you're writing and be tempted to re-read what you've written."

Following this method religiously, Breton states later, should enable you to write entire books on subjects you know nothing about.

Perhaps you could even say that some aspects of the Slam Poetry movement pursued dissolving art into everyday life -- and vice versa.  For in that format, as I remember, not only anyone can get up, "be a poet", and compete -- but all can be judges/critics who canonize the list of winners for the night.

In any case, it's no surprise that I associate Lewis' bit with certain modes of avant-garde art.  Both offer examples of how conventional thinking and experience can be transformed in pleasurable and even liberating ways.

Of course, once such techniques have been around in the culture awhile, the more traditional aspects of the social order usually move in to mess with them.  In our so-called free market society, such experiments are not so much repressed as standardized for money-making purposes.

Tzara's Dada poem is marketed as "Magnetic Poetry."  Surrealism becomes a preferred method for drawing charisma to rock videos and ads, and its techniques featured in self-help books to aid in overcoming  "writer's block" (and "unleash the voice within").  Slam morphs into movies,  TV and Broadway shows and rap records.  And "Jerry Lewis" is now a studio, a brand, a corporation -- an entire industry.

But before this process takes place, when low can still be high and vice versa, the joy  that comes with the sense of new possiblities can still be felt.

Perhaps part of the appeal of this strain of culture is that it supports the belief that things can still transform in exciting ways.  Maybe even that they can change.  Thoughts?

Related Interest:
More on art dissolving into life in my review of Nick Piombino and Toni Simon's Contradicta, now up at Evergreen Review Online. 

 

Is Jenny Still from the block? Jennifer Lopez's "My World" TV Commercial for Fiat

Recently, a standard, celebrity endorsement TV commercial started a mini-firestorm across the blogosphere, twitter and even mainstream media.

In the spot, Jennifer Lopez seemingly drives through the Bronx in a Fiat and describes how much her old hood means to her:

 

It turns out, as exposed by The Smoking Gun and other blogs, when JLo tells us how the Bronx neighborhood where she grew up inspires her "to be tougher, to stay sharper, to think faster", she is actually in L.A. doing a voiceover -- and the person we see in the Fiat is a body double.

To make matters worse, reporter Ed Morales witnessed the shoot (it took place close to his home), and took a photo that showed that the car in the commercial actually broke down.

If this weren't enough, the graffiti artists who created the giant heart you see at the beginning of the spot, also cried foul.  Their work, which Fiat used without permission, is copyrighted (Fiat ended up settling with them out of court).

And then, in the midst of all this, during Lopez's performance at the American Music Awards a Fiat appeared suddenly in the middle of her act, offering an instance of product placement so blatant, a fellow performer questioned her integrity.   The Fiat appears a little over a minute in...

 

The Authenticity Dilemma

Amusing as all these exposes are, initially I came away wondering, as Anderson Cooper did, what all the outrage was about.

After all, part of advertising's mystique has to do with the whole real or fake dilemma ads pose.  This is a genre of communication that delights in ambiguity. Think of the iconic headline that launced Clairol in the U.S.: "Does she or doesn't she?"

You could even argue that one of the thrills consumer goods provide is the tantalizing possibiity that they allow you to try out and even adopt new identities.

But with a little reflection, I could see why people got irked.  Lopez has built her brand around the image of a superstar who keeps it real by staying in touch with her roots.  Who can forget those lines from her most famous song:

"Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got
I'm still, I'm still Jenny from the block."

And it's this aura of authenticity that Fiat wants to associate with its cars.  Here is Fiat's marketing guru, Olivier Francois:

"Jennifer fits perfectly with the brand not because of who she is but because of what she is -- authentic, passionate, modern, and a fighter determined to stand out from the rest.  As you look at her career path, she embodies the Fiat philosophy, 'Life is Best When Driven.'"

Francois has reason to be confident with such a strategy.  He used the "authenticity" sell in his remarkably successful re-launch of Chrysler -- with TV spots starring blue-collar heroes like Eminem and others (covered on this blog here and here).  And an earlier viral video ad connected with the Lopez campaign ranked 4th most popular of its genre this year.

Nevertheless, you can see the contradiction contemporary ideas of authenticity often entail.  Francois praises Lopez for her driven, competitive personality.  She is authentic because, despite the odds against her, she fought for her individual vision.

Yet, the spot isn't so much about her individuality, but her loyalty to her community.  In fact, it's her "street cred" that affords her, as a performer, much of her bravado, swagger and authority.

Perhaps, then, the source of irritation with this spot drives from an issue Michael Lally (from Lally's Alley) has brought to my attention recently -- that of co-optation.

The fact that Lopez and Fiat simulated her cruise through the Bronx, appropriating its urban art, street scenes and people for their own uses, no doubt seemed to offer a particularly ungraceful example of cultural co-optation.

All of which makes me wonder if questions of authenticty become particularly acute for celebrities with working class roots.  On the one hand, they've got to transcend, even betray, their backgrounds to get over.

On the other, they've got to stay loyal to their cultural milieu in order to use it credibly -- especially if their artistic personas draw on their class or ethnic identity.

In any case, Fiat must be hoping the accusations about the ad's fakery don't reflect upon their car.

For in the past, Fiat has had its own problems with authenticity.  I've read that the last time the brand made a push for the U.S. market, instead of a hip, urban ride, it got a reputation as a car that broke down a lot.

The brand's name, in fact, became an acronym for "Fix It Again, Tony." Thoughts? 

Mirror, Mirror: Thoughts on Corona's "Party Mashup" Rooftops Commercial

Thanks to Richard Taub, who drew my attention to this spot, in a comment on a previous post.  It's for Corona Light -- and it's the first one, according to Ad Age, that abandons the beach images for which the  brand is famous.  Instead, it stays in the city and features two rooftop dance parties:

 

In the Ad Age article I mentioned, Jim Sabia, a Marketing-VP involved with the brand, states that one of the goals of this spot is to build a seperate identity for Corona Light, by differentiating it from its more "beachy" parent brand.  As Sabia puts it, "we want Corona to be on  the beach and Corona Light to be a little more urban, a little more major market."

The Ad Age piece goes on to fill in a few details about the purpose and plot of the ad (called "Party Mashup") that I didn't pick up in my first viewing:

"In the ad, music from the casual celebration conflicts a more upscale party nearby.  The tension is resolved when the two DJs...join their music together, which is meant to play on Corona Light's positioning as a premium/casual brand..." 

The overall vibe of this spot reminds me of other beer commercials I've seen recently.  There's a warm, social atmosphere -- much like the Heineken "Entrance Man" spot covered on this blog a few posts back.  Corona shows its product enhancing a situation where people can relax for a moment about whatever social realities might separate them, and play creatively together.  In short, it's got that mildly utopian feel I've see in lots of ads lately.

But even more interesting to me than the spot's content is the form.  I'm thinking specifically of the "double-ness" of the images -- not one, but two rooftop parties are jammed into a mere 30 seconds.

And after the initial tension between them is resolved, it's as if their differences are erased -- and you could say they mirror each other in celebratory vibe and identity.

Stepping onto the Mirror Stage

This all reminded me of a theory I'd been reading up on lately, about how children form their identities.  In one account of this process, famously invented  by psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, the child starts to build a sense of self through internalizing imagery.  Specificially, Lacan refers to the fascination which very young children exhibit when they discover their own images in mirrors (hence this period of development is referred to as "the Mirror Stage").

Lacan goes on to theorize that while the image in the mirror is the same as the child, it is also quite different.  Bodies, especially those of the presumably less inhibited very young, are also an anarchic cacaphony of drives, pulsations and emotions.

As a result, Lacan thought that while such images were captivating and even erotic, once internalized, they could also be alienating -- making you doubt your identity as much as they helped you "imagine" it.

The theory also suggests that as a result of these inner images, when we grow older we're destined to be at war with ourselves  -- for they form an "ideal ego" we can never live up to -- one that is always more "together" than we can possibly ever feel.  And these feelings are enhanced and exacerbated as we internalize other "ideal" images we'd like to mirror (such as people we think are "together", or simply "cool" -- like celebrities).

Good Twin, Bad Twin

Musing about this theory, I wondered if the appeal of some ads was that their products heal, symbolically, such inner divisiveness.  The initial tension between the rooftop images in the spot, after all, is soothed away -- by a common love of music, and of partying with Corona Light.

And what Corona does on a social level, others ads do on an individual one.  Think of makeup ads.  I remember one in which Drew Barrymore spoke about a Cover Girl product that would introduce you to "your skin's twin."

In light of Lacan's theory, I'd interpret that line in a double way.  Of course, it means the makeup, that promises viewers (in other spots) a "more perfect you", blends nicely with whatever skin tone they have.  But it also might be read as offering them kinship (if not "twinship") with an "ideal" image of someone as "cool and together" as a star like Barrymore.

Pop culture at large seems obsessed with the dual effect of identification/alienation such "mirror images" provoke.  Think of all the movies that feature "the evil twin."  The poster for the new TV show Ringer (starring Sarah Michelle Geller) says it all.

But the job of ads, of course, is to present scenarios and products that promise to pacify such conflicts (or at least keep them offstage).   Thoughts? 

 

Repetition or Renaissance? Jeff Beck and Imelda May vs. Simon Reynolds and Retromania

I've just started reading Simon Reynolds' widely reviewed Retromania, and I can already see where I both agree and disgree with his argument.

His book valuably documents a phenomenon that's so pervasive you sometimes accept it without a second thought.  That's the fact that everything from movies to ads to pop music (his focus) often seem like some sort of remake.

The retro has been embraced with such relish and abandon that Reynolds' wonders if, like oil or some other natural resource, we will soon run out of the past.

Boredom, of course, is often the result of all this repetition.  Do we really need to see remakes of flicks like Friday the 13th or endless installments of Final Desitination?  (Of course we do,  if the we in question is a studio looking for a quick score, but that's another story...)

At the same time though, there's repeating and then there's repeating. 

One of the things that's made pop and indie music listenable to me again is precisely the sophistication with which some artists now allude to past motifs and styles -- achieving an effect that makes the music simultaneously familiar, yet strangely original.

Much of the newer music (you can include varieties of jazz here too), informed by archives like YouTube and countless other sources, sounds more complex to my old ears -- simply because it seems to mix layers of music history together,  and so speaks with a wider stylistic vocabulary.

As a result, when I listen to groups like Outcast, Gnarls Barkley, Fleet Foxes or MGMT, I hear more than I used to in older pop music. 

Not ony that, but this knowing quality can make even nearly note-by-note tributes to the old sound fresh -- because the music is presented in a very different moment, one whose values and sense of style have little to do with the past. 

See what you think.  Here's an example of classic rock guitar maestro Jeff Beck teaming with the exciting, Dublin-based neo rockabilly singer Imelda May, doing a scrupulous rendition of Les Paul and Mary Ford's "How High the Moon."  I've included a vintage Paul/Ford clip for comparision:

 

 

The Newness in Nostalgia

One of Reynolds' problems with all this "archive fever" is the fear that music is becoming so swallowed up in nostalgia, that it's difficult to make way for the new.  Again, he's partly right.

When I hear the beautifully double-tracked vocals in both versions of "How High the Moon", I do get a nostalgic feeling.  I associate this sound with the music tracks to cartoons and TV commercials I saw when I was very young.  In my mind's eye, I even see a smiling moon dancing over a mountain.

On the other hand, the style of this music -- jazzy but pop (with a very light "Hit Parade" touch), is not something you hear a lot of on  today's pop scene.  Only artists with a sense of music history, like Jeff Beck and Imelda May, it seems to me, would even be hip enough to see that it was worth re-introducing.

And seeing as this is such an unfamiliar sound for today's context, isn't it essentially new (especially when presented by such stylish artists)?  Might not awarenss of it lead to strange permutations, where this sound is recombined with something unexpected?

That's why what's been going on in pop music (and jazz) in the last few decades reminds me of something art historian Arthur Danto pointed to in painting and the fine arts way back in the 80s/90s.

Danto commented on how artists no longer paid attention to the Modernist narrative of "art's progress", where aesthetic style evolved to culminate in the triumph of abstract art.  In the old orthodoxy, unless one showed allegiance to this tale, one would simply not be considered important.

Now, Danto wrote (back in the 90s), artists looked at the styles of the past and the museum itself "as filled not with dead art, but with living artistic options."  As a result, the fine arts were flooded with a wild range of approaches, many of which departed from the austere abstract orthodoxy.

And as far as pop music goes, it's worth remembering that many creative breakthroughs arrive via a kind of revivalism.  Wasn't Punk, for all its brash newness, also a return to rock's more stripped down, garage band sound?  You could almost say it represented a renaissance of rock's minimalist side.

So before completely trashing the retro, we should be aware that repeating a part of the past -- or drawing attention to forgotten traditions -- can be a way of announcing something new.  Thoughts?

 

 

Now from The Republic of Corona: The "Find Your Beach" Beer Commercial

The TV commercial for Corona Extra that's been airing the past few months is a bit different than  a lot of the other beer ads out there:

 

Targeted to a segment of the premium beer market, you don't see the male-oriented party animal approach you often do in spots for this product.  Instead (with the exception of one shot), you get lots of upscale couples.

As a result, there's a dreamy, romantic feel to this spot.  As Deborah Postrel puts it, "Grace, mystery,  and escape -- all the elements of glamour are there."  Postrel's blog, Deep Glamour, reveals this about the slogan:

"The 'Find Your Beach' ads visualize what Corona's ads have always implied (since most beer drinking doesn't take place at the beach): 'that the beach is where you make it,' as Marshall Ross, the chief creative officer for Corona's ad agency, Cramer-Krasselt, put it.  'We want to give literal, visual permission for people to take the Corona mindset with them.  Even to the ski slopes or the big city.'"

Since I've been thinking a lot lately about the theory that the advertising unconscious is full of repressed, utopian wishes, when I first noticed the "Find Your Beach" line, I couldn't help but associate it with an older rallying cry.

During the protests in France associated with "Mai '68" -- protests which often put forth utopian demands -- one of the most famous slogans was: "Beneath the pavement, the beach."  Here's a take on that line I got from the Brooklyn Views blog:

"The public beach - the epitome of undesignated non-utilitarian optimistic space - was the opposite of the street, an historic relic of an oppressive and cynical society based on private property."

Of course, the beaches in Corona ads don't remind you of any place you get to go for free.  When I did research on the brand, in fact, I found that the beach imagery (which has appeared in Corona spots for years) was inspired by expensive vacation locales:

"For several years, Corona's American sales were sluggish.  But during the mid-1980s, one of  [the manufacturer's] two American distributors...struck on a clever marketing strategy: pitching Corona to young American beer drinkers, many of them veteran of spring break at Cancun or Cabo San Lucas."

But my linking of beaches and utopias isn't as far-fetched as it seems.  Both are connected with "vacations" from everyday reality.  And, historically, utopian literature has been associated with travel writing, as both usually describe encounters with "new and ideal worlds."

The website for the brand, in fact, introduces you to one of these "new worlds."  It's a nation, invented by the brand, called the "Republic of Corona."  Here's an introductory video that tells you what they believe in:

 

Brands as Utopian Kingdoms

What's interesting to me about this clip is how similar the "Republic of Corona" is to the nation covered in the last post -- Diesel (Jeans) Island.  The ideologies of both discourage hype, embrace simplicity, and criticize advertising.  Cars are merely what get you from A to B --  not the status/power/sex symbols our ads make them out to be.  It doesn't matter what brand of jeans you wear.  Politics is suspect -- as is the workaholic lifestyle.

In short, what you see is an almost brand, tech and even civilization-free zone.  And in this way, the semantics here do share a bit with the "Mai '68" slogan.  But there is, of course, a crucial difference.

The Corona slogan urges you to find your own beach.  It's not something public.  It's more internal-- a state of mind you can carry with you anywhere (especially with the aid of the brand).   You don't need anything as dramatic as a revolution to escape all the branded things and experiences that drive you nuts about our society.

All you need is another brand.  Or perhaps, as the they say in alkie parlance, "a hair of the dog that bit you."

In a hyper-commodified culture, it's not surprising to find a brand appealing to you  by criticizing the act of branding itself.  Or for leisure items (like jeans or beer) to communicate through images of idealized sorts of escape.

But nevertheless, from a cultural standpoint, campaigns like Corona's and Diesel's have me wondering if their criticism of their own medium might be read as a sign of growing fatigue around the whole ethos of our hype-oriented society.

And this leads to another question: is there a point at which people grow so stressed that tiny, private utopias like these are no longer enough?  Thoughts?



 

Is Stupid the New Smart? Notes on Diesel (Jeans) Island and the "Be Stupid" Campaign

The cliche that "no person is an island" apparently doesn't apply to brands.  In this video, Diesel Jeans shows that it's not only an island, but a mini-nation.   One with its own "National Anthem":

 

I don't think I've ever seen an ad that's displayed such hyper-awareness of the global economy -- and its domino-like run of failing nations.  But what really fascinates me is how aggressively (and satirically) this ad plays with the concept of nationalism itself.

The anthem here is only one of the goofy ways this new "nation" simulates its independence.  On the website, you can tour Diesel Island, meet your fellow citizens, propose laws and holidays, and learn national "moral" commandments.  (My favorite: "Always remember where you're from, you don't want to go back there.")  

Of course, Diesel Nation isn't a place, but a state of mind.  One occupied by a particular philosophy. Parodying our own "Land of the free, home of the brave", the Island is described as "Land of the stupid and home of the brave."

In fact, as the copywriters (from the Global Agency SANTO) who wrote the manifesto-like video below make clear, neither freedom nor bravery is possible without stupidity:

 )

It Takes  a "Nation"...

The whole concept  of creating a "nation" around a brand is probably inspired by the notion  of "forming brand communities."  The idea is to gather people who identify with your product -- and offer them a way to share their experiences with it.

The hope is that such communities will identify with the brand strongly enough to not only stay with it, but to actually "evangelize" for you; i.e., create good word of mouth, leading eventually to sales.

If this sounds far-fetched, just think of how people identify with being "a Mac person," a "Harley owner" -- or, a couple of years ago, with being on Team Jacob or Team Edward.  Or think of the loyal communities around NFL, NBA or MLB teams.

And the attempt to drum up a community by kidding people into imagining themselves as part of some (in this case) wacky "nation", isn't really a stretch either.  For like all nations, Diesel Island is what Benedict Anderson (the great scholar and theorist of nationalism) would call an "Imagined Community."  As he puts it:

"It [a nation] is imagined because  the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet them, or even hear of them,  yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion...With a certain ferocity Gellner makes a comparable point when he rules that 'Nationalism is not the awakening of nations to self-consciousness: it invents nations where they do not exist.' " (p. 6)

And in the case of Diesel Island, hearing of and even meeting/sharing with  fellow members can now be simulated through social media.

But Why "Stupid"?

Here in the U.S., we've seen how excited people get when they are encouraged to rally around their own "know-nothingness".  But I'm not sure Diesel Jeans has the same thing in mind here -- at least not exactly.

Through urban slang, "stupid" (or "stoopid") has taken on new shades of meaning.   When, for example, an NBA star makes an amazing play -- one that that might look foolhardy to the non-gifted -- you hear: "that was a stoopid shot."  So the word can mean "daring" as well as "dumb."

Or as Diesel's founder put it: "It's about following your heart and not your head.  Stupid is about having the guts to risk, to take on the new and inventive, however dangerous."

Nevertheless, the word still carries a socially negative echo.  But this may work in the campaign's favor.  Because if you believe "brand community" pundits, one technique for forming such groups is to "have a common enemy."

Here's a guess as to who that might be in this case.  Since jeans are for laid-back, casual times, when it's ok to let your hair down  (and "get stoopid") like the neo-hippies in the video, perhaps your imaginary enemies are "workaholics".  In other words, "suits" (or maybe "nerds"?) -- working even during leisure time via "smart" electronic devices -- who compete by trying to broadcast their intelligence with rationalizations for everything they do.   This sort of stereotype certainly contrasts nicely with the low tech aura the videos give off.

Of course, it's a lot to ask a line of clothing  to carry the variety of meanings suggested by all this.  But that's advertising for you.

And, in any case, it's undeniable that people do form communities around their styles of consuming. With the credibility of more traditional forms of group identification (like nations) getting increasingly shaky, folks may make their social bonds (and create their social identities) with whatever's at hand. Thoughts?

Looking (at Nike) Through Gary Gilmore's Eyes: Thoughts Inspired by the Film "Art and Copy"

The other night, I watched Art and Copy, a documentary about the Ad people who created the most memorable campaigns over the last 30 years or so. 

In it, you get the behind-the-scenes story on mega-hits like "Got milk?", "I want my MTV", and those spots done for the Reagan campaign by Hal Riney: "It's morning in America again," and the ominous one that began, "There's a bear in the woods."

"Memorable", though, is too puny a word for one campaign they covered: Wieden and Kennedy's "Just Do It", for Nike.

Since its inception over 20 years ago, I don't know that there's another commercial phrase I've heard in common parlance more often -- and applied to such a wide variety of contexts.

There are entire books written about this campaign, from both the marketing and the cultural studies perspectives.  It almost seems as if there's nothing left to say about the way it linked the longing for self-improvement with getting in shape -- and associated this all, starting with Michael Jordan, with the era's most sensational athletes.

Nevertheless, the documentary revealed something about what inspired Nike's tagline that got my mental wheels turning.  Writer Dan Wieden, who is credited with coming up with "Just Do It", mentioned the story of famed murderer Gary Gilmore.

Gilmore, it might be remembered, when asked for last words when he was about to be executed by firing squad, replied, simply, "Let's do it."

Gary Gilmore Is Not a Role Model.  Or is he?

You can see why Wieden's "Just Do It" grew out of Gilmore's "Let's do it."  Both phrases communicate impatience with procrastination -- mixed with bravado.  This may be why Gilmore's line itself, before the Nike slogan appeared, enjoyed its own viral circulation throughout pop culture.

Gilmore himself was sort of a folk anti-hero.  By waiving his own rights to appeal, and begging the Utah Supreme Court to kill him (rather than consider life imprisonment), he earned a sort of populist respect; how many times have you heard grumbling about spending "tax money" to keep killers fed?

He also donated his corneas to science (which were used shortly after his death -- and led to the great punk song, "Looking Through Gary Gilmore's Eyes" by the Adverts).

At the same time, his impulsiveness and swagger have been read as contributing to his downfall. Here's how True Crime writer Karen Ramsland puts it:

"...he hadn't the patience to earn what he desired.  From a young age, Gary Mark Gilmore just went out and took whatever he wanted -- beer, cigarettes, cars, money.  More times than not (according to him) he was successful, but when he wasn't, he landed in the slammer.  He'd just get an idea into his head and do it."

With this self-destructive quality in mind, you might say that Nike's and Gilmore's "tag lines" contradict each other.  For me, in fact, they bring to mind the old Freudian idea of the two drives:

Nike's phrase is emblematic of Eros.  In its endorsement of fitness, self-transcendence and positive achievement, it's life-affirming.

Gilmore's phrase, by contrast, hurries his own demise.  What better signifier of Thanatos, or the death drive?

But a contradiction also implies a relationship.  And what both "slogans" share in this case is the connotation of a defiant individualism.  That's why this pairing speaks, for me at least, to one of the key traits for which U.S. culture is both loved and hated.

On the one hand, stubborn "individuality" is often portrayed as necessary to protect freedom: muckrakers stand up against governments, corporations and institutions in the interest of "keeping democracy safe".

On the other, when "individuality" appears in more mundane situations, it's often seen as devolving into mere narcissism -- a narcissism not only harmful to society, but even the planet.

Check out this rant by Al Pacino from the movie Devil's Advocate.  In it, Pacino (Satan himself!) complains about an athlete of sorts -- a jogger (who, for all I know may be wearing Nikes) named Eddie Barzoon or "God's special little creature":

 

Lebron James: Rugged Individual or Narcissist?

The ambiguity around the idea of "the individual" nowadays, sometimes makes it difficult to read Nike's usually masterful TV spots.  Here's a controversial one which aired right after Lebron James announced that he'd leave the Cavaliers for the Miami Heat:

 

Judging from web comments, it appears many people disliked this spot, perhaps because they resented all the hype around James' decision to switch from his hometown team.

Not being a Cleveland or Miami fan, I know I found myself a bit irritated when I saw it.  Despite all its irony (parodying other sports spots) and even self-deprecation, I thought the superstar still ended up looking kind of vain.  So much so, that I found myself muttering mentally, "But Lebron, I don't care what you do."  Thoughts?




 

 

Derrick Rose vs. Richard Gere: Who Owns Chicago?

I've been living in NYC over 20 years, but I still root for the teams of the town where I grew up: Chicago.

Some would call this evidence of the "tribal" aspect of fandom.  It's easier to switch the city you live in than your sports allegiances.

So I was happy to see my favorite player, Derrick Rose, featured on the cover of ESPN, the magazine. And as a fan also of media studies, I was just as taken with the way the image of this about-to-superstar is being created.

Writer Ric Bucher's piece on Rose (with the star's name over  the cover headline of "The Rebirth of Chicago Style,") sees him, more than just an individual, as the personification of a town.  And a believable one -- as Rose grew up in some of the city's (and the nation's) roughest neighborhoods.

And just as the best ads nowadays often grab your attention by referring to other ads, so this personification of the city gets some of its power by its relation to the town's other personifications. The image of the President, for example.  Bucher writes:

"The same springboard of big-city aggression and heartland work ethic that launched the first black man to the White House has now catapulted [MVP candidate] Rose to the highest office in the NBA. 'Chicagoans appreciate Midwestern values,' President Obama says, 'Like hard work, humility and giving back to those around you.  Plus, it doesn't hurt if you're playing MVP quality ball.'"

This substance is expressed in an understated style.  A thin "Jazz Age mustache", and a few tats (none near the face) Bucher notes, "are his lone accessories.  No iced watches or gold ropes.  That would be akin to claiming a gaudy nick name, like the City that Never Sleeps or the City of Angels, rather than, say, the City of Broad Shoulders."

All this is said to carry over into his style of play.  "Rose owes Chicago for making him the player that he is: short on flash, long on dash."

It seems Rose's style was shaped by participating, early in his career, in a Chicago program where he played small, exceptionally fast players.  This discouraged any frills.  As Bucher puts it:

"It becomes all about getting a step, protecting the rock like a football and getting to the rim.  A fancy dribble will likely get swiped by one of those mighty mites.  So while New York point guards are known for mesmerizing dribbling and L.A.'s 1's for dazzling passing, Chicago point guards simply put you in the rearview mirror.  'Derrick grew up playing against those little guys, ' says former Bulls guard B.J. Armstrong.  'That's why he plays just like them.  He just grew to be 6'3"."

All-in-all, it's an intriguing picture.  And certainly one that makes a former Chi-town native, via our inevitable tendency to identify, feel positively cool.  But one thing that keeps me from totally buying into Bucher's portrait is Rose's play itself.

Check out this clip on his "crossover" move.  As much as Rose himself describes it as "basic", it seems pretty dazzling to me:

 

The Authentic Chicago's Phony Double...

The sort of blue-collar (super)stardom Rose's image projects, is, of course, incredibly appealing.  As Bucher points out, "his first signature shoe outsold Lebron's."  It proposes a brand of style ruled strictly by substance, offering a sharp contrast to the over-the-top flash of the previous generation of NBA stars.  Rose is something new.

At the same time, this portrait heightens the paradox of Chicago's national image.  For is not this most authentic of towns, with its modest, hard-working folks (and sports stars), often portrayed as also the phoniest?  Doesn't Chicago own a place in the popular imagination as the home of con artists, corrupt politicians and the mob?  What about Rod Blagojevich?

Here's a personification of that other side -- in the form of Richard Gere as the sleazebag laywer (Billy Flynn), and master of rhetorical bling, in the musical film, Chicago: 

 

What gives with such contrasts?  Is popular culture inherently schizoid in the way it imagines its things?

Literary critics trained in deconstruction might argue that such wildly opposing views of a city, an object, or even a person, are more normal than neurotic.  Meanings only achieve solidity, they might insist, by their contrast to other, opposing meanings.

In other words, the idea of the honest and incorruptible is most convincingly (if problematically) brought to life when it lives next door to a rotten-to-the-core image of a "cynical Other."

But I wonder if such dichotomies also express a sort of uncertainty or undecideability.  But about what exactly?  Chicago?  City life in general?  Belief vs. cynicism?  Political views? Thoughts?

 

Existential Pop: Dr Pepper Meets the Incredible Shrinking Man

Lately, I 've found myself amused at a Dr Pepper commercial (originally created, I think, in 2009) set in a self-help group.  It seems the animated characters in the spot meet for support in dealing with a particular social handicap: the world refuses to acknowledge their existence:

 

What caught my eye about this commercial was its comic light touch -- even when alluding to something everyone from therapists, to philosophers, to the great modern writers seem to agree is a serious one: the establishment of a personal sense of "being" -- or, as it's more commonly referred to today, an "identity."

This concern even got translated into a specific form of cultural politics (usually called "identity politics" or "the politics of recognition").  In the 80s and 90s, "identity" movements arose on the liberal side of the spectrum (concerning rights around the issues of gender, ethnicity and sexuality).  Later, this style of politics was mimicked on the Right, often around religious beliefs and traditionalist lifestyles.

Cultural Studies scholar Nancy Fraser analyzes the philosophical roots of this tendency:

"The usual approach to the politics of recognition -- what I call the 'identity model' -- starts from the Hegelian idea that identity is constructed dialogically, through a process of mutual recognition. According to Hegel, recognition designates an ideal reciprocal relation between subjects, in which each sees the other both as its equal and also as separate from it.  This relation is constitutive for subjectivity: one becomes an individual subject only by virtue of recognizing, and being recognized by, another subject.  Recognition from others is thus essential to the development of a sense of self."

As Fraser indicates, a sense of identity is created socially as much as it is internally.  One essential for its establishment is that others take you seriously.

What's comic about the spot is that you see this logic  applied to establishing a brand identity.  The problem the Dr Pepper guy has is signaled by Santa Claus: people think what he stands for (a diet soda with great flavor) is a laughable myth.

Intentionally or not, what this setting also brings to mind is the brand identity issue a soda with a hard-to-categorize taste like Dr Pepper already carries with it.  As the Wiki about Dr Pepper puts it:

"W.W. Clements, a former CEO and president of the Dr Pepper/7-Up Company, described the taste of Dr Pepper as one-of-a-kind, saying "I've always maintained  you cannot tell anyone what Dr Pepper tastes like because it's so different. It's not an apple, it's not an orange, it's not a strawberry, it's not a root beer, it's not even a cola."

For that matter, even where the name "Dr Pepper" comes from is somewhat of a mystery.

In any case, such a lighthearted take on angst about the "question of existence" brought to my mind, by way of contrast, another version of pop-culture existentialism -- this one from a much earlier era...

"The Incredible Shrinking Man" Ponders His Existence

If you're obsessed with classic Science Fiction films like I am, you may be familiar with the story of "The Incredible Shrinking Man."  In the 1957 movie, the hero of this flick runs into a radioactive cloud, while he's out boating.  Soon after, as a side effect, he begins to shrink.

As he gets smaller and smaller, common household creatures -- cats and spiders -- turn into horrific monsters.  But as the movie progresses, he becomes too small for even them to see (or torment). Then his problems grow more philosophical.  As he faces the prospect of becoming as tiny as a molecule, or even an atom, he wonders whether, since living things can no longer recognize him, he even still exists.

Here's the way he resolves his quandary in the closing monologue (which ends "I still exist!"):

 

Whatever Happened to the Age of Anxiety?

In this clip, it's the gaze of God that assures the hero of his continuing identity/existence.  But today, it seems to me, many people look elsewhere for the recognition they need to build their sense of self.

Is not one of the appeals of social media, with all the "friending" it encourages, that it offers a quick, technologic way to make a person feel like somebody?  And, establishing an identity this way is certainly achieved with a lighter touch than in previous eras: a modicum of recognition is just a few clicks away.  No wonder even "identity politics" seems to be fading from the scene.

But I wonder, does this mean the "search for authenticity" will soon be passe?  Any thoughts on this -- or these clips?