thedrifter
12-10-04, 06:37 AM
Hype, Hype, Hooray
December 6, 2004
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by Burt Prelutsky
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Several years ago, I was employed at an ad agency that included among its clients Mattel, Inc, a company that manufactured toys, games and dolls. Barbie and Ken had done for Mattel what Mickey and Minnie had done for Disney. As a copywriter, I realized it was time to move on when I found I had committed to memory all the random utterances of Chatty Cathy, and knew the family and friends of Barbie far better than did my seven year old niece.
During the year I worked on the account, the most brain-numbing assignments involved describing the various Barbie outfits for the seasonal catalogues. How many different adjectives can you come up with to describe taffeta? I tell you, the woman had more cocktail dresses than Ivana Trump and more shoes than Imelda Marcos. And now that enough time has passed and I am no longer curtailed by my confidentiality agreement, I can let you in on a little secret -- Barbie wasn't born with that eye-popping figure. Yes, my dear, just like Demi Moore, it's all plastic!
Anyway, by far the most frustrating aspect of the job was having to deal with the FCC-enforced rules governing truth in advertising. It seems as if I was forever writing commercials in which some kid playing with a Mattel race car would suddenly fantasize himself beating out Mario Andretti at the Indy 500. My superiors would point out that we couldn't show the toy doing unrealistic things. My defense was that, to a kid, there is nothing unrealistic about coming in first at the Brickyard. What the hell did everyone think was going through the lad's head when he pushed the toy car across the floor, his eyeballs rolling around like marbles, all the while going "Vroom! Vroom!"?
My logic, as is usually the case, fell on deaf ears. The rules were the rules, they'd say. Okay, so how is it that I couldn't get away with my little flights of fancy, but Joel Siegel, Rex Reed, and Siskel/Roeper, whose thumbs spend so much time in the up position that I sometimes wonder if rigor mortis has set in, can lie like lawyers and nobody does a thing about it?
How is it that I couldn't suggest a profound truth about the mind of a child, but these goofy guys are allowed to put a positive spin on every piece of mindless tripe that Hollywood churns out? I swear, Siegel is the Will Rogers of movie reviewing; he's never met a movie he didn't like. Just wait until he dies and finds out that the afterlife, for some people, consists of spending eternity watching "Analyze That!" over and over again. I mean, there are millions of people trying to decide whether to pay the rent this week or to blow the money, instead, on movie tickets, babysitters and stale popcorn the price of caviar, and these shmoes are shamelessly raving about the likes of "Alexander," "Sideways" and "Phantom of the Opera," for heaven's sake. Some bums push drugs, these galoots push movies.
How is it that even with a thesaurus at hand, I finally ran out of words with which to describe Barbie's fabulous new spring wardrobe, but these shills show no sign of running dry when it comes to hustling Hollywood's endless supply of turkey sausages? What I'd really like to know is where is the F.C.C., the F.B.I, or, better yet, the N.R.A., when you really need them?
Burt Prelutsky
Burt Prelutsky has been a humor columnist for the L.A. Times and the movie critic for Los Angeles Magazine. In addition to freelancing for everything from the N.Y. Times and TV Guide to Playgirl and Sports Illustrated, he has written several award-winning TV movies, along with episodes of Dragnet, McMillan & Wife, MASH, Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, Rhoda, Family Ties, Dr. Quinn and Diagnosis Murder.
Ellie
December 6, 2004
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by Burt Prelutsky
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Several years ago, I was employed at an ad agency that included among its clients Mattel, Inc, a company that manufactured toys, games and dolls. Barbie and Ken had done for Mattel what Mickey and Minnie had done for Disney. As a copywriter, I realized it was time to move on when I found I had committed to memory all the random utterances of Chatty Cathy, and knew the family and friends of Barbie far better than did my seven year old niece.
During the year I worked on the account, the most brain-numbing assignments involved describing the various Barbie outfits for the seasonal catalogues. How many different adjectives can you come up with to describe taffeta? I tell you, the woman had more cocktail dresses than Ivana Trump and more shoes than Imelda Marcos. And now that enough time has passed and I am no longer curtailed by my confidentiality agreement, I can let you in on a little secret -- Barbie wasn't born with that eye-popping figure. Yes, my dear, just like Demi Moore, it's all plastic!
Anyway, by far the most frustrating aspect of the job was having to deal with the FCC-enforced rules governing truth in advertising. It seems as if I was forever writing commercials in which some kid playing with a Mattel race car would suddenly fantasize himself beating out Mario Andretti at the Indy 500. My superiors would point out that we couldn't show the toy doing unrealistic things. My defense was that, to a kid, there is nothing unrealistic about coming in first at the Brickyard. What the hell did everyone think was going through the lad's head when he pushed the toy car across the floor, his eyeballs rolling around like marbles, all the while going "Vroom! Vroom!"?
My logic, as is usually the case, fell on deaf ears. The rules were the rules, they'd say. Okay, so how is it that I couldn't get away with my little flights of fancy, but Joel Siegel, Rex Reed, and Siskel/Roeper, whose thumbs spend so much time in the up position that I sometimes wonder if rigor mortis has set in, can lie like lawyers and nobody does a thing about it?
How is it that I couldn't suggest a profound truth about the mind of a child, but these goofy guys are allowed to put a positive spin on every piece of mindless tripe that Hollywood churns out? I swear, Siegel is the Will Rogers of movie reviewing; he's never met a movie he didn't like. Just wait until he dies and finds out that the afterlife, for some people, consists of spending eternity watching "Analyze That!" over and over again. I mean, there are millions of people trying to decide whether to pay the rent this week or to blow the money, instead, on movie tickets, babysitters and stale popcorn the price of caviar, and these shmoes are shamelessly raving about the likes of "Alexander," "Sideways" and "Phantom of the Opera," for heaven's sake. Some bums push drugs, these galoots push movies.
How is it that even with a thesaurus at hand, I finally ran out of words with which to describe Barbie's fabulous new spring wardrobe, but these shills show no sign of running dry when it comes to hustling Hollywood's endless supply of turkey sausages? What I'd really like to know is where is the F.C.C., the F.B.I, or, better yet, the N.R.A., when you really need them?
Burt Prelutsky
Burt Prelutsky has been a humor columnist for the L.A. Times and the movie critic for Los Angeles Magazine. In addition to freelancing for everything from the N.Y. Times and TV Guide to Playgirl and Sports Illustrated, he has written several award-winning TV movies, along with episodes of Dragnet, McMillan & Wife, MASH, Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, Rhoda, Family Ties, Dr. Quinn and Diagnosis Murder.
Ellie