NEWFIE

When I was working in HongKong, my immediate superior was a Canadian.  A man of few words, perhaps ten years older than me. Not unpleasant,not at all,  but dour.  He rarely smiled and getting him to say anything was like extracting teeth.

I questioned some other Canadian colleagues about him, and they dismissed it with, "Oh, he's a Newfie."

That didn't mean anything to me.

Many months later, we were having a few drinks after a client conference and he finally unbent enough to tell me about his childhood.

He grew up, he said, in a wooden house on a cliff looking out to sea at the Northern end of Newfoundland.  Across the water from Greenland. 

The house was unheated, though it had a big cast iron wood stove that had to be constantly fed.

In winter, he said, the pack ice would form, stretching for miles from the shore.  And the polar wind would come down from Greenland, screaming over the miles of pack ice, getting colder and colder, and when it reached the coast, it slammed into this lone wooden house on the cliff.

The house would shake.  All the timbers in the wooden frame would groan.  The door, if not locked, would be violently blown open.  Every window rattled.  And if the wind brought snow...

Glenn was a copywriter, so he could describe a scene vividly.  

And now, though I have never knowingly met another one, I make allowances for Newfies.

 

 

CLOSE-UP CHAOS                                                                                                                

 Or

How we almost wiped the smile off a star’s face – forever.



“Now this is the shooting gel. It’s highly toxic, so on no account is it to be used as toothpaste.”


I looked at the aluminium cylinder, identical to a toothpaste tube, but without any markings whatsoever.


“In fact,” continued the Unilever technical guy, “You don’t even discard the tube after use, bring it back to me.”


The shoot was to start the next day. Close-Up toothpaste. Fresh breath confidence. And, in the film, as usual, there was a tight shot of the red gel toothpaste on a toothbrush. A close-up of the Close-Up (sorry, couldn’t resist).


In the India of those far off days before sophisticated post-production facilities, if you wanted that glint on the blob of toothpaste, you bloody well spent hours lighting it up. And studio lights generate a lot of heat. And real Close-Up toothpaste melts.


Hence shooting gel – a chemical compound of the same colour and texture, but heat resistant.


I packed the shooting gel into my satchel, mentally cursing the agency film executive who was supposed to have picked it up – but he had pleaded with me to take the meeting as it was the last day of the Fellini film festival.


“Remember it’s seriously toxic,” called the technical guy, “Be careful with it.”


Now this particular Close -Up TV commercial was using a celebrity. The script I had written did not call for one, but as is Lever’s wont, they demanded one. And they won’t take no for an answer, either. It’s a failing of theirs.


I shall not name the celeb as he is still around – but he was a Great Big Star. A sports star, a movie star, a famous singer – it doesn’t matter, let’s just call him GBS.


I won’t bore you with details of the shoot; only the close-ups in the studio on the final evening. Close-ups of GBS smiling. White teeth a-gleam. Close-ups of the toothpaste tube; you know, the sacred pack shot. And close-ups of the product – or rather the shooting gel.


All went well. Finally, the director yelled, “Cut! Pack up!”


There was a sense of relief, and we stood around chatting, though the agency film executive left immediately, claiming that his buddy had a laser disc of Truffaut’s ‘Les Quatre Cents Coups’ and that he couldn’t wait to see it.


Too late I remembered that he was supposed to secure the shooting gel and return it to Unilever.


I ran to the table where all the Close-Up packs had been – we had brought half a dozen of the real ones for the pack shot. They were all gone. The aluminum tube of shooting gel was gone as well.


I turned to the agency account executive, “I think we have a problem.”


“Huh?” He was gazing worshipfully at the GBS who was at the far end of the studio, in deep discussion his handler, the talent management guy.


“The shooting gel is gone.”


“What?” The account exec knew about shooting gel, “I’ll ask the production people.”


After a quick interrogation by the assistant director, all the film crew denied having taken the toothpaste tubes.


“We only want the aluminum tube back,” said the account executive desperately, “You can keep all the others.”


Indignant denial.


Finally, a clue emerged from the spot boy, that silent young man who appears at your elbow with a cup of coffee when you really need it. He didn’t say anything, just inclined his chin at GBS, who was repacking his duffel bag at the far end of the studio.


“No!” cried the account executive.


Personally, I was not surprised. Some years earlier I had worked on Godrej, a refrigerator manufacturer that had (for a year or so) tied up with General Electric and had imported the first fridges with side-by-side doors. Hideously expensive in those days – over Rs 100,000. I had been sitting with a senior Godrej marketing man when a sales manager had interrupted the meeting to say there had been a phone call from A (a very famous film star) and that A wanted a further 5,000 discount on his purchase, and what should the sales manager do?


At that point I had concluded that celebs are just like us. They want discounts. They want the best deal. They want free stuff.


I was certain that the missing toothpaste tubes and the shooting gel was in the Great Big Star’s duffel bag.


The question was: Who’s going to bell the cat?


“I’m not going to do it,” I said, “I’m the copywriter and this looks like an account management problem.”


“Where the fuck is the film executive,” raged the account exec, “He should be handling this.”


“He’s probably discussing Truffaut Vs Bergmann at this moment, that’s a lost cause.”


“You do it,” said the account exec, “You don’t even like the guy.”


That was true. For some reason celebs at shoots always raise my hackles. And in the case of this celebrity, I was not a fan of (his sport/his movies/his music). Whereas the exec was besotted.


“Not my problem,” says I, “You’re the executive. Execute the recovery of the shooting gel.”


“You’re the senior representative of the agency,” says the wily son of a bitch.


“That man,” I said, indicating GBS, “Is the idol of a billion Indians. Every child over the age of six knows his name. DO Something!

We both trotted out of the sound stage in pursuit of GBS – all this was at Mehboob Studio in Bandra, Bombay, by the way. He was standing some distance away, clutching his duffel bag and waiting for his car to pull up.

Still the account exec hesitated, breathing fast, eyes wide, “We’ll ask the talent agency man to do it. Where’s the handler?”

The handler, of course, had disappeared.

A big black SUV rolled up and GBS opened the rear door.

“It’s now or never,” I murmured, “And a toothless star never goes down well with the masses.”

“SIR!” The exec leaped forward as if propelled by a giant spring, “Sir! I have to talk to you…."

I was at a distance and never heard the short conversation, but the duffel bag was unzipped and the account exec turned around. In his hand was an aluminum tube.

The GBS caught my eye (he knew who I was; I had corrected his pronunciation once or twice when he was doing his lines). He gave a look that clearly said, “Let he who has never pinched some product at a shoot cast the first stone.”

And he smiled.

And he is able to smile confidently to this day.

BIG F****** PROBLEM AT THE LEVER LAUNCH CONFERENCE

 

It was the early 1990’s and personal computers had just appeared on our desks in India.  Yes, in the JWT Bombay creative department there were already a couple of secretaries on early word processors which would spit out your copy -- dot matrix printed on continuous stationery -- but I cherished my Olivetti portable, the symbol of a senior writer.  I even had an art guy hand letter the word ‘tripewriter’ on it.

To my dismay, this was replaced by a PC and we were all dragged (some kicking and screaming) into the digital age.  I soon found that I was not alone in being wary of this infernal new device.

It was the day before the Unilever launch conference.  A new variant of Lux soap was being presented to the sales force.  We were going all out – the TV commercials were being screened.  New product details were being communicated through an audio-visual-cum-skit being enacted by the marketing team and an agency guy or two.  Various big wigs would make PowerPoint presentations -- as the Unilever people had also received their new PCs recently.

I was sitting serenely in my cabin, secure in the knowledge that all was ready -- the skit rehearsed, props and backdrops inspected, TVCs cued on U-Matic – when the senior account management guy walked in.  I looked at his face and asked, “Problem?”

“Big F****** Problem,” he said.

The Head of Personal Products (let’s call him HOPP) was an extremely senior man, very good at his job, but being Punjabi apt to lose his cool if things weren’t going his way.  HOPP was going to make the key presentation at the launch.  HOPP was also computer illiterate.  In fact, he had never used a computer keyboard.

“No problem,” says I, “Let him do it on slides – there must be a Kodak Carousel lying around.”

“No,” says account management, “He wants to show people that he’s up to date with new technology.  It has to be a PPT.  The only problem is that he keeps pressing the wrong buttons on the keyboard and the PPT stalls.  Every.  Single.  Time.  And in the semi-darkness of the conference hall, it will be worse.”

As creative head on the Unilever business, I had all sorts of issues land in my lap, but the Big F****** Problem was singular.  A solution emerged 6 hours before the show.  I got a finishing artist to make a cover out of stiff cardboard – boxboard it was called – that fit over the keyboard exactly.  Then a small square was cut out to expose the Page Down key.  It was the only button that could be touched.

After the show I received accolades – not for the TVCs, not for the AV-cum-skit, but for having dealt with the Big F****** Problem.    

 

 

OF CORNFLAKES, COLD MILK AND COLOURED SPOONS

You know how it is, you’ve worked on Kellogg’s.  You haven’t?  No matter.  You’ve worked on big multinational brands -- and after a point, most big brand problems are broadly the same.

Like stagnant sales.  You’ve managed to establish a foothold for the client’s missionary brand in India, where breakfast habits are very different, but now the need is to scale up.

“People should eat cornflakes in COLD MILK, that’s when they’re crisp and crunchy!”  says Denis, the country head and Kellogg’s lifer.

Denis is French and is feeling the pressure to start turning a profit.  So is his boss, another Frenchman who is the Asia Pacific head (and when the two jointly addressed the annual Indian sales conference at an exotic hotel in Goa, their catch phrase ‘growth imperative’ is delivered with strongly-accented Gallic flair as “growf eemparateef”, much to the bemusement of the salesmen).

Anyway.  Sales are static.  In vain you point out that you’ve increased the font size of instructions on the packaging, the bit where it says ‘best with cold milk.’  You repeat that in an Indian household Mom boils the milk for tea first thing in the morning, and that’s what goes into everything – including the kids’ cornflakes.  Kids are a key target.  You promise to work on a solution.

In the agency brainstorm, an idea emerges: there is a plastic which is temperature sensitive.  Place a special plastic spoon in each pack and when dipped into cold milk the white spoon magically turns blue.  You present the Magic Spoon promo and it is approved at once.  You get your team working on the 10-second promo film, the print ad and the in-store material.  The client will get the spoons made and packed with the cornflakes. 

Alas, the best laid plans of mice and admen gang aft agley.

There is a delay in procuring the spoons.  There is further delay in inserting them into the carton (it is an ‘untouched by human hands’ production line).  By the time the promo packs reach the stores, winter had set in and North India – by far the biggest market -- is in the grip of a cold wave.

Months later you meet the regional sales head and he reports, “It was freezing weather and the spoons were naturally blue.  When they were dipped in hot milk, they turned white.  The kids were delighted, and there was a small bump in sales.”

You smile and shrug.