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Turning Over a Cute Leaf: The Nissan Polar Bear TV Commercial

Just when I thought I could forget about the constant cuteness of commercial culture, it forced itself upon me again -- this time, in the service of a good cause.  Nissan's new ad for the Leaf, its electric car, has been generating lots of buzz.  In case you haven't seen it, here it is:

For the most part, the trained Polar Bear in this spot (created by TBWA/Chiat Day, Los Angeles) is a veteran of movies whose name is "Aggie."  Her image is also supplemented with nature film footage and computer generation.  (For the full behind-the-scenes story, see the video at the very end of this post.)

Despite the good intentions toward the planet's future here, I found myself ambivalent about how the bear was used.  It seemed a bit too corny.  Charles Krome, at Autosavant, articulated some of what bothered me:

"I really feel kind of sorry for the bear...  Not only does he [sic] have to deal with a shrinking habitat, but he's also stuck into one of the cheesiest commercials currently on the air today..." 

Heidegger and the Bear

My own unease also reminded me of something I read by psychedelic culture critic Daniel Pinchbeck.  In discussing the often troubled relationship between technology and nature, he cites the philosopher Heidegger's famed "The Question Concerning Technology."  According to Pinchbeck's summation of this essay, "technology ... is based on an ordering of reality that turns everything -- including people -- into a 'standing reserve,' a resource to be utilized for rationalized ends." (p. 105)

When nature and people are looked upon primarily for their utilitarian value, according to Pinchbeck, it leads to their exploitation.  In terms of ecology, this theoretically enables a careless use of our natural habitat -- the result of which the Polar Bear in the spot is plagued with.

At the same time, though, by turning this predator into, essentially, a Teddy Bear, the TV commercial re-enacts exactly what it wants to criticize, does it not?  The bear's personality, via its taming, has been re-engineered for the practical end of rendering it suitable for films and TV commercials like this one.  Its "bearness" now made bearable, is showcased in a televisual zoo -- or better, a circus -- for us to enjoy.  You end up feeling sorry both for the destruction of its environment and its own wildness. 

Of course, perhaps what gave rise to my discontent here was the now distant spectacle of my own socialization -- reflected back to me in a white fur mirror.  But at the very least, this all suggested to me that there's a residue of civilizing violence at work whenever the natural is transformed into the cute. 

May Swenson, Teddy Roosevelt and the Bear

A poem by May Swenson captures the (repressed?) violence I sense here perfectly.  Titled "Teddy's Bears", it seems to take place in a house where the great white imperialist/hunter, Teddy Roosevelt, grew up.  The speaker offers a visual tour of this abode, filled with dead, trophied, taxidermied, and stuffed animals -- the most prominent of which are bears:

"Great and small furs, belly down, flat on the floor,
teeth and claws real, fully dimensional, as if clicking.
By the bed, this head: a lump with leather nose,
garnet eyes, jaws open, saber canines exposed.
And the rug in the gunroom on the third floor
is the biggest bear you've ever seen.  Hod-sized head
with the round ears nearly worn away, wide goldbrown
body.  Down the hall, across the railing of a doorway
where the plaque says PLAYROOM, are three Teddy Bears,
small, medium and large, at tea around a table..."  

The poem/scene concludes by describing the huge portrait of TR himself that watches sternly over the whole collection.

The connection Swenson makes here is that the same person (our "conservation President") one of the original "cute toys" was named after, killed a lot of bears himself.  The legend of how the Teddy Bear was invented "bears" this out.

It seems, according to some accounts, that during a bear hunt, TR's posse captured a cub and tied it to a   tree.  TR refused to shoot it, reasoning that he only killed game that had a fighting chance.  His "nonviolence", at least from our modern perspective, then, was rather qualified.  But the tale, memorialized by cartoons, inspired a small shopkeeper named Morris Michtom to rename two toy bears in his shop window (that his wife Rose had sewn) "Teddy Bears." 

With this backdrop in mind, it's no wonder I found the way Nissan's new electric car is portrayed on the Leaf's website a whole lot more appealing.  There, the story told, via testimonials, is of its sleek design, easy handling and speed -- a sort of friendly, hi-tech device.  Rather than cute, it's cool and futuristic.

But, in an era of Mama Grizzlies, cute may indeed be the new face of capitalism.  In which case, maybe my preference for the future now simply means I'm getting old.

Behind-the-Scenes Story on Making of Nissan Leaf Commercial:

                

From Cool to Cute to Sweet: the Sweet Million TV Commercial

As I was thinking aloud about the way the whole aesthetic of "cuteness" had been transformed in meaning, from what was once merely "corny", to now, a new version of "hip" (see last post), a colleague and friend, the artist Susan Napack, suggested I look at the word "sweet".

It too once connoted niceness to the point of weakness, but now meant something like extreme good fortune.  It also functions sometimes simply as a synonym for "cool".
 
Last Sunday, for example, there was a controversial call during a game between the Chicago Bears and the Detroit Lions.  The Lions receiver made a spectacular catch in the end zone.  Everyone, including the Bears' pass defender, thought it was a TD.  But the ref saw it differently.  The pass defender, as reported by Rick Morrissey, reacted like this to the good news:

"I thought it was a touchdown," he said."Then the one ref was like, 'Nah, it's not a touchdown.  He dropped it.'  And I was like, 'Sweet!'"

As you might guess, the most imaginatively blatant example of the remaking of this word comes from the oracle of advertising.  Here's a commercial I saw just the other night for the New York Lottery's "Sweet Million" game:

The deep voice-over (sounds like Puddy from Seinfeld, no?) booming from the sky at the end, essentially annihilates the cute scene with an insistent redefinition of the word "sweet."  The voice is playfully sacrilegious: it's as if heaven were demanding that we take up the faith of a sort of materialist fundamentalism.

The website (an amazing one!) takes the notion of, as Marx put it, "Money ... the god among commodities", a step further.   There, you can enter your name, and the site will produce a personalized "Sweetscape" for you.

In the "Sweetscape" I chose, an angel (who looked vaguely like the late John Ritter of the classic TV show Three's Company) threw money at me from off a cloud, while bizarre white owl-like cats ascended toward heaven cooing cutely, "Come fly with us, Jerommmme..." 

Why Not Being Sweet Makes You Sweeter than Ever

The word "sweet" has been reshaped semantically in all sorts of ways -- sometimes to mean great skill (boxing was called "the sweet science").  But the crudeness with which the word is twisted into a "less than sweet" shape in this ad campaign reveals something else.  The meanings these ads assemble come in at least two layers.

On one level, the commercial seems to say: "ok, let's not be sentimental.  As grown-ups we know it's cash that's truly 'sweet'; we'll worry about the warm, fuzzy feelings later."

But, at the same time, that surface message is delivered in such an exaggeratedly impolite way, that there seems an ironic tone underneath it.  "Of course," this tone implies, "we don't really believe in worshiping money, either -- this is just for fun, like the lottery itself."  Here again the commercial talks up to the knowingness and media savvy of the viewer.

Except: if you were entirely cynical, you'd never enter the lottery in the first place.  So, perhaps it's precisely by acknowledging your "worldly wisdom" that this spot gets you to lower your rational guard (and hopefully, eventually buy a ticket).  It's all in fun, after all; hey you never know -- maybe money really will fall from heaven this time.

To borrow another idea from Slavoj Zizek (pp.30-33), it's as if such communications free you from the illusion of the word (you know the sentimental meaning of the word "sweet" is bullshit), so you're free to act out the illusion of the deed (you behave sentimentally -- as if life is sweet -- by entering the lottery).

I wonder if this might offer a formula for how such words are recycled for, say, motivational purposes.  First, we're congratulated for our hip awareness that terms like cool, cute, and sweet are mere ploys, that don't mean what they used to.

But then, after an implied wink, another voice whispers: "but isn't it fun to act as if they still do?"               

Is Cute the New Cool? Some Car Commercials from Kia

When it comes to cars, a non-driver like myself associates them with the power, speed and sleek design you see in ads -- and the hassles you don't.

That's why I found some TV spots currently running for the Kia Sorento and Soul intriguing.  These cars are portrayed, by contrast, as cute.

This isn't the first time cars have been marketed like this.  The Volkswagen Beetle had a cute look from the beginning of its life in the U.S.  It's been called the automotive version of a smiley face.

But these spots take cuteness one step further.  One is scored to what sounds like neo-soul; the other, hip-hop -- both signs of hipness.  The takeaway I get: not only are these cars cute, but they're cool because they're cute.

When you look into the marketing strategy for both, equating cute with cool makes total sense.  The Sorento ad (which I think ran first during the Superbowl) is designed for young parents.  According to Kia:

"Created by David & Goliath, 'Joyride Dream' speaks to young couples who are entering a new life stage and facing adult responsibilities while still desiring the style, freedom and fun they've always enjoyed."

The animals and toys that, in essence, do their partying for them, are the sorts of objects that signify their new lifestyle.  As new parents, these are the kinds of cute things that would be left in their back seats by their kids.

As the late Stephen Jay Gould suggested, cuteness awakens the innate response to nurture.  The spot is saying: your new, nurturing life can be just as fun as your old partying one, especially if you take the family around in a cute car like a Sorento.

The hamster ads, according to automotive reporter Jim Henry (writing about an earlier spot in the campaign) are designed to appeal to a younger crowd.  The "cool" hamsters in Kias are meant to "stand out" against unhip animals that (in this commercial) are riding in everything from washing machines to cardboard boxes.

From what I've read, smaller, cube-like cars are already considered hip, urban rides.  The cute hamsters add a light-hearted touch to Kia's version of this sort of vehicle: for me, they communicate that these are fun cars -- the perfect wheels to get the party started.

The Science of Cute

Noticing how these ads elicited an inner-smile from the inner-child I've been assured I have, I wondered about what made something cute in the first place.  It turns out there's a whole science of cuteness -- and that the topic has been a hot one for online critics for years.  Gould's observations are a touchpoint for them all.

Gould traced how the figure of Mickey Mouse had, over the years, been transformed -- from a wise guy  rodent with a long, sharp snout -- to a cuddly mouse with big ears, big hands, an oversized head -- and a button-like nose.  Gould said that as Mickey got older in historical years, in terms of what he stood for, he got younger.

What the artists at Disney discovered was something Zoologist Konrad Lorenz constructed a theory about: that the more you made an animal look like a human baby, the cuter it became. 

In this light, it's pretty clear why so many ads pursue cuteness.  As Gary Genosko at Invisible Culture put it, commerce "remakes" bodies in the interest of cuteness to give "everyone a chance to be a kind of nurturer through consumption."

The Triumph of Cuteness

Sentimentality, it's often said, is the other side of cynicism.  So, perhaps the flip side of our cool, ironic culture is unabashed cuteness.

But, speaking impressionistically, it appears to me that cute has been winning out lately.  It almost seems more modern, at least in terms of popular aesthetics, to be cute (in everything from indie music to digital products) than merely cool.

Why might this be?  One possible answer: the digital products that, along with cars, dominate commercial space, especially in their mobile incarnation, are smaller than old time media (TV, movie screens, etc.). And though they don't look like children, they are diminutive and toy-like.  Even grown ups devote a lot of their day to playing games on them.

To sell such experiences, popular culture increasingly encourages regression: it's as if consciousness is being remodeled like Mickey Mouse's image -- to get more childlike.  As one of AT&T's spots (while advertising its digital capabilities to stressed professionals) announces: "Welcome to your fifth birthday, again."

Of course, in the great recession people need to unwind.  But why, I wonder, is it now necessary to think like a little kid to do so?  Thoughts?                 

History Lessons, Part 2: Thoughts on a Poem by David Trinidad

As I continued to think about our difficulties in framing the past (as covered by the last post), I was reminded of David Trinidad's poem "Ancient History" (from his very cool book, Plasticville.)

Ezra Pound famously said that "an epic is a poem containing history." Trinidad's piece may be too short to be considered an epic, but it certainly is a "tale of the tribe."  Or rather, it reveals how our contemporary tribe tells its tales to itself.

The poem offers a very strange, yet entirely familiar sort of history, going from the years 1949 through 1966 (and skipping years throughout).  Here are the first two stanzas:

               1949     Hedy Lamarr snips Victor Mature's hair while he sleeps,
                           but he regains his strength in time to heave the pillars
                           apart.  George Sanders, an urbane leader of Philistines,
                           raises his glass with rueful approval as the temple col-
                           lapses about him.

               1955     Condemned to wander the Mediterranean after the fall of
                           Troy, Kirk Douglas is bewitched by Silvana Mangano,
                           while his crew are transformed into swine.

The dates the poem refers to are the years in which the movies it describes appeared.  Most are not "historical dramas" per se, but films of mythic worlds out of the Bible or the Odyssey.  But historical epics are included too:

                1960    Kirk Douglas excels in gladiatorial school, falls in love
                           with Jean Simmons, and rebels after a private games
                           staged for Roman general Laurence Olivier.  Olivier
                           makes a casual (but unmissable) come-on to slave-boy
                           Tony Curtis.

As you progress through this poem, you become amazed at how many types of history Trinidad splices together.  Not only is myth mixed with actual history, but the whole poem is framed with an awareness of Hollywood's past.  In each stanza, instead of the names of historical or mythic figures, you get the actual actors.

And, along with the cinematic past, bits of social history break through.  As can be seen in the passage above, the film Spartacus marked a moment in cultural as well as filmic history: it was one of the early examples of homoerotic desire getting somewhat direct representation in a big-budget, mainstream flick.

To top it all off, the poem ends by including even prehistory.  The last two lines (under the stanza dated "1966") read:

                          Raquel Welch, clad in a bikini of wild-beast skins, is
                          carried off by a squawking pterodactyl.

The End of History...or a New Kind of History?

By deriving the chronology of his poem from film, rather than literal history, Trinidad offers a kind of explicit proof of a point touched upon in the last post: the past and its traditions ain't what they used to be. 

Not only is history now made of commercialized media products rather than years, but it's more difficult to think of it as linear.  That older notion, the poem hints, might itself be nothing but "ancient history" by now.

However, for me, the poem is nevertheless deeply historical.  For it documents a key aspect of our zeitgeist.  The fact that, awash in media products -- many of which offer profoundly contradictory messages -- one can't help but become aware of the artificiality that inhabits even the most "serious" presentations.

Which is to say that, though constructed of film images, this is actually a pretty realistic poem -- because it's so accurate in portraying an unavoidable quality in the way we now look at our times, present and past But its realism is arrived at in a new way.  I'm reminded here of something Fredric Jameson wrote:

"If there is any realism left ... it is a 'realism' that is meant to derive from ... becoming aware of a new and original historical situation in which we are condemned to seek History by way of our own pop images and simulacra of that history, which itself remains forever out of reach." (p. 25)

Unlike Jameson, though, I don't find this situation necessarily depressing.  Perhaps the awareness of artifice that media culture has forced upon us has simply helped us discover something that was true all along: what we think of as "history" has always been nothing more than a collection of texts -- whether made of images, manuscripts or oral accounts.

Or nothing less: the impetus behind the distinguished work known as New Historicism  starts precisely from the understanding that all history is mediated through images, words, propaganda and the spectacles (pun intended) they fashion.  The way all these tell their tales is seen, in fact, as the not-so-royal road to grasping at least the ideology (if not truth) of an era.

And the wit and humor Trinidad's poem offers in the handling of such materials is a necessary reminder of something else: when you're constantly bombarded with messages, the most skillful response is often to stay light on your feet.