by Oren Klaff
“I need someone with acting talent, someone with poise and calm, with a presence.” Had I said that aloud?
Before Trevor could register what I’d said and feel insulted, Jonathan pointed at the TV screen and said, “Someone like that guy.”
We couldn’t figure out how to change the channel from the Czech soap opera playing on the TV, and had left it on in the background. Jonathan was pointing at the star of the show, a heartthrob businessman type who at that moment was wowing a room of other business types with some kind of impassioned speech—no idea what it was about. I had to admit, Jonathan was right. That was the kind of guy we needed. A warm face with cool blue eyes, a voice that could read the phone book and make it sound interesting, someone who could learn the script, deliver the lines, stick to the plan, and do it all in the local language.
A thought struck me. “I mean, it’s Czech Republic TV,” I said. “There’s no SAG or AFTRA [American Federation of Television and Radio Artists]. How much could it possibly cost to hire this guy for a few days?”
Catching on quickly, Jonathan agreed we had to throw some serious money at this problem. He said, “Yeah, let’s find him, buy him out for the week, pay him ten thousand, twenty thousand—whatever, who cares? The meeting is on Friday; we need this!”
With a bit of quick googling, I found his agent, and a short while and two thousand euros later we had hired Lukas, the best actor in the Czech Republic (at least as far as we were concerned).
Now that we had officially hired an actor who knew nothing about pitching or advertising or Volka manufacturing, I had three days to prepare him to be in front of a huge client, where he would need to tell our story, deliver a complicated pitch, and negotiate a 10 million euro advertising account for Volka UK, an account we had already lost a week ago.
“I need a coffee,” Simon said.
I was thinking, “Move over, coffee, this is a job for alcohol.”
A SURPRISE IN THE WAITING ROOM
The Volka factory is a giant facility sprawled across the otherwise motionless meadowlands of the Czech Republic. The plant itself is organized and clean in a way that only Eastern Europeans can conceive, with spotless white pine floors and gleaming assembly lines. As we walked in, I glanced through an open doorway to the factory floor, where conveyer belts carried half-built vehicles past assembly and inspection stations. Men and women in white jumpsuits examined every detail, testing every aspect of the machinery. The place was literally humming.
The executive offices were in the south end of the factory, in a building that looked a lot like the entrance to any building you might find somewhere more familiar, like New Jersey, only this had better landscaping and reliable trash removal.
Leading our team was Lukas, our Czech soap star.
The past three days had been a whirlwind. I’d spent every waking minute with Lukas and I was completely burnt out. In person, the guy was nothing like his businessman personality on TV. He talked incomprehensibly fast and said, “Please, you know what I mean?” every two seconds. He would argue with a point I was making, then would scowl and pout for an hour. Then he was happy and easygoing, until the next meltdown. It was the opposite of what I needed.
Every time I attempted to lead him on a training exercise, it turned into a lengthy ordeal as he monologued about the importance of “method acting” and needing to know the motivation of his character so he was perfectly in sync with the actions and reactions of the story’s antagonist—so the plot’s rising action would correctly climax in a moment of gravitas leading to an emotional denouement for the audience.
“Hey, buddy,” I said repeatedly, “we aren’t doing Shakespeare here. Let’s just focus on the scripts as they are written and not get caught up with all of that.” But it was no use. He claimed he could not act until he had completed his “inner work.”
At one point I came dangerously close to firing him when he wouldn’t stop asking me about my “true purpose” in the role-play we were doing. “My purpose is to get the money,” I kept repeating. “To win the deal.” Apparently that wasn’t the right answer.
Anyway, as difficult as the guy was—and seriously, he was a bit nuts—in the end he was really a brilliant actor, which I will get to in a moment. And it turned out he used to drive a Volka, it was his first car, first speeding ticket, first romp in the backseat, and so on.
* * *
—
FIGHTING LIKE A married couple, we had practiced the key elements of the scripts over and over again during those three days, and the pitch really started coming to life.
But now it was time to put all that training to the test. As we stepped into the lobby of the Volka corporate headquarters building, our fate was in the hands of Lukas the 33-year-old temperamental Czech method actor and soap opera star.
The receptionist nodded when we introduced ourselves, and led us down a long hallway to a small but comfortable executive waiting area. The six of us—Simon, Lukas, Trevor, and I, along with two creative types—sat down on a couch right outside the CEO’s office complex. Just across from us sat a pair of men in charcoal suits with tightly cropped hair and narrow ties, who exchanged knowing glances as we sat down.
“Hello, gents,” Simon said, engaging the men in friendly conversation, as he does with every person he meets. “American? What brings you this way?”
“From Bradford-McCoy, New York,” said one of the men. “Here to meet with Wolfgang. So you’re Simon from 12 Kings, right? Well, it’s my second trip to Czech Republic in two weeks, thanks to all your whining and complaining about a second pitch meeting.”
Wait. Bradford guys at our pitch meeting? Before we could ask any questions, an admin poked her head through the door and waved us all in. There was nothing else to do. We stood up, along with the two guys from Bradford, and followed her into the CEO’s massive offices.
The interior of the Volka executive office suite was Spartan and felt strangely empty compared to the quirky furnishings of 12 Kings’ offices. It was large, and jutted out from the rest of the building so that it had windows on three sides. But we only had a few seconds to take all this in before we were shuffled over to some empty chairs and told to have a seat. The guys from Bradford sat down next to us.
“Next, we have representatives from the ad agencies here for a final decision meeting on the new campaign,” a little man holding a clipboard and wearing a Volka polo shirt said, announcing us to the room. I glanced over at the men seated in the back of the office. Wolfgang was easy to spot. He sat right out front with an attitude of absolute authority. Obviously, he was the boss. Just from the body language, and having been in thousands of these kinds of meetings before, I could also make out the CFO, COO, director of marketing, and even the head of the legal department. I noticed a few board members were present as well. This was a big decision. The men nodded and looked toward us as our introduction continued: “First, we have Bradford. And second, we have . . . um . . .”—the man glanced down at his clipboard for an awkward moment—“the Kingsford agency.”
“Bollocks,” Simon whispered, nudging me in the ribs. “They got our name wrong.”
“Who cares?” I whispered back excitedly. “At least they said it in English. I’ll be able to do the pitch myself. We won’t need to use Lukas!”
Just at that moment, the executives offered some polite welcomes and the man with the clipboard waved at us to send our representative forward. One of the Bradford-McCoy men stood up and strode toward the first podium. Oh, God. This was high school debate club all over again. I got up, heart thumping in chest, and stepped over to my assigned podium.
DEBATE CLUB FOR 10 MILLION EUROS
“Why should we pick your firm to create our new UK ad campaign?” Wolfgang asked, gesturing toward the man from Bradford.
“Thank you, I’m Kevin, representing Bradford-McCoy,” he said with a confident smile. “As one of the largest, most well-
established marketing firms with major offices in London and New York, we are excited to partner with Volka on this fantastic project. We think you have been an Eastern European brand for far too long and we want to make you more well-known in the West, including the UK. We want to show Western Europe how a Volka automobile meets their needs. So stop hogging all of that greatness for yourselves. Let us reserve you a seat at the global commerce table with the big guys. We have a plan that will serve up another half billion in revenue for you, within twelve months.”
I glanced at Simon and he was sitting stiffly, tight-lipped with arms crossed, because I had been 100 percent right about Bradford’s pitch and now he knew it. These guys didn’t talk about how creative they were or how many awards they had won or what colors they had invented. They spoke the language of money. No time to gloat at being right again, though, because Kevin continued to give a very credible presentation about market size, cost-per-customer acquisition, advertising metrics, KPIs, and return on investment.
Eventually, his presentation petered out and I was up to make the rebuttal.
“Hi, I’m Oren,” I began, “with 12 Kings. I hope you take my comments in the spirit they are intended, because I think the Bradford plan we all just heard will take Volka in completely the wrong direction.”
I saw them looking at me skeptically. As the losers of the previous pitch, we were starting off in a handicapped position, so I knew it would be especially important to open with status alignment. “Think about it for moment,” I said, and pointed at the Bradford team. “They want to adapt your cars and your brand to fit European values. But what is so good about Western European values? Seriously, not much. We think Western European values are in decay. Oh, I get it—England, Germany, France are the nations who made the modern world truly modern and ushered humankind into the great cultural Renaissance. Sure, these countries gave us the Mona Lisa, Romeo and Juliet, Beethoven’s Fifth, and a bunch of other cultural achievements. But all that happened centuries ago. Today, the sun is rising in the East, and Western aesthetic values and moral values are fading fast. In the UK, most every consumer product is fifty percent or one hundred percent made in China, which is to say it’s designed by a computer, made cheaply as possible, and meant to be thrown away in a year. Clocks and watches are digital, books are read online, business meeting attire is sneakers and a T-shirt. Dinner is ordered on an app and arrives in a cardboard box. Millennials in the UK don’t even want cars. Most of them are not going to get a driver’s license.”
I was starting to get nods of approval from the men in the room. Bingo, a little Status Alignment achieved. These men felt like I understood them, that the West was not superior to the East. Now I would move to the next step using another flipped script. I’d have to pitch their own brand to them to demonstrate my deep understanding of their company, culture, and product.
“Why attach ourselves to Western European values?” I asked. “Instead we should be exporting Czech values. Let me explain. No one should try to make you look cooler or hipper than you are, or to reinvent your brand at all. In my experience, that’s very risky. Sometimes it works out. Most of the time, it doesn’t. The best campaign for Volka is one that’s simple and Plain Vanilla. We have prepared a pitch that new customers will recognize immediately because it captures what has made your brand great for a hundred years, and I might tell a prospective Volka owner something like this:
“Driving a Volka is a way of telling people, I’m practical, not cheap. I’m tough, and I’m the kind of person who can either find a way, or make one. I’m reliable. I may not be from the Czech Republic, but my values sure match, because I have an inner strength I don’t need to show off. I’m strong and I’m uncomplicated. My life has just two purposes: work and family. When I’m working, I do my business without a fuss, I deal with the things that come across my path, and people can rely on me. At home, we are not too fancy, we tell each other the truth, we make time for each other and appreciate what God has provided.
“Driving a Volka is not a flashy thing to do. Volka cars are not designed by futuristic robots and 3-D lasers from China. They are designed using pencils, paper, and clay models that are carefully sculpted by Bohemian craftsmen. People might think our designers are too old, drink beer that is too dark, and take too many smoke breaks. But we like them exactly for these reasons, and because they don’t design the swoopiest, shiniest, coolest-looking car in the world. I think Kia does that just fine, which is why their marketing depends on singing hamsters. Instead, the people in this room are designing a car like the one my dad would have bought—except with better brakes, a more reliable engine, and better overall features to keep the passengers safe.
“This is the car my family would want me to have; it’s the car my dad would have bought me. It’s made the old way, but with new stuff that makes it even better. That’s a Volka. It might look utilitarian, but it has brakes that could stop a dump truck, a heater that works at the North Pole, and a motor that never quits. Go anywhere, do anything without a complaint—experience your adventures without having to worry about the machine that’s taking you there.”
I glanced at the man with the clipboard and he gestured to his wrist. Time to wrap it up. I had to find a way to wrestle this account out of Bradford’s hands into ours and decided on giving a quick Buyer’s Formula.
“I know you asked what we can do for you in the UK,” I said, getting to the point. “Sure, we can promise you five hundred million euros in new sales . . . we can promise a billion euros too. But the number has no meaning until you find the agency who understands your brand and can communicate with your customers. I’d ask you a question: How would the average worker on your production line sell a car? I’m talking about the guy on the floor who is actually putting the cars together. What does Volka mean to him? That’s what the campaign needs to say and that’s what the agency who creates your UK campaign needs to understand.
“The workers will know how to talk about the cars. The agency’s job is to boil down that talk-track for consumers in the UK. Nothing fancy. So pick the agency your workers would actually pick. At least, that’s what I would do, and I’ve been doing this kind of thing a long time. But of course, I can’t tell you what to do; you guys will obviously do whatever is best for the Company.”
And I stopped talking.
It was Bradford’s turn to explain how bad my idea was. That’s how debates work. But they never got the chance.
“Yes!” Wolfgang exclaimed after barely a second had passed. “I love it! So let’s do it.”
“Do what?” I wondered.
With that, he jumped up out of his chair. “Come, everyone. To the factory. I want you both to explain all this to our workers directly.”
I glanced over at Lukas and he was already looking back at me, eyes wide. We both knew factory workers at Volka Brinz-Prisk don’t speak English and that he was going to be onstage next, which quite possibly meant we were dead.
ON THE FACTORY FLOOR AT VOLKA HQ
It was a strange scene, this huge group of executives in suits, trailing their assistants and admin staff, followed by these buttoned-up New York ad guys and, finally, Simon, me, and Lukas bringing up the rear. I was using the extra time to prepare Lukas as much as I could, whispering under my breath.
“What’s your first step going to be in there?” I asked.
“Status Alignment,” Lukas said. “They need to feel like I’m one of them.”
“Right,” I said. “And remember you’re going to be talking to factory workers, not corporate executives. The Status Tip-Off will be important to show that even though you look like a corporate executive, you’re really part of the local scene.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I can do that. I know what to say.” Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small model car. It was a Volka Speedomatic, an older model from about five years back. He smiled. “My Flash Roll. I
sell them this car. And they need to buy, because Oren, I explain Winter Is Coming.”
The awkward group of executives and admins and marketing people was now making its way into the main factory. We squeezed through the large sliding door and stepped right up onto the factory floor.
“One more thing,” I whispered to Lukas as we followed the herd toward the front of the room. “These guys are tough-as-nails mechanics and line workers. They are going to be highly skeptical of an outsider wearing a suit, and you’re wearing a really nice suit. How will you stay compelling in the face of that?”
“I don’t pretend to be big shot. I’m just me, some local guy. Yes, I’m lucky guy to work for ad agency, but no, not a big shot. I stick to guns, not change story to make them happy.” Lukas beamed.
Volka’s CEO, Wolfgang, was getting everyone’s attention now. He pressed the emergency shutdown button and brought the humming, whirring, and hissing of the factory to a stop. Each press of the button held the line up for eleven minutes, and cost twenty thousand euros. There was a small area perfect for addressing the crowd of workers, and he stepped onto a little platform, grabbing a microphone that had appeared from a helpful administrative assistant.
“Good morning,” he said in Czech, his low voice booming over the small crowd. “These men here have come from advertising agencies. I’d like you to listen to them and help me decide which one understands us the best. Which one of these firms should we hire to tell the UK and maybe even all Western Europe about Volka? Today, I want you to help make the decision.”
Wolfgang gestured toward us to send our representatives forward. I nudged Lukas and he jogged over and climbed up to the platform. He grabbed the microphone with a smile and, unbelievably, followed his training. He started his Status Tip-Off, Czech-style as Trevor translated for me.
“Hi. My name is Lukas. I got my first car when I was eighteen. The parking brake didn’t work, the alarm went off when it rained, and you had to kick the trunk twice to get it to open. Oh yeah, and it only came in two colors. I had the best one: red. But that car was special because it started every time, no matter what. And one time a police officer borrowed my car because his car was stuck in the mud and I was driving around with no problem. Do I really have to tell you what model of car it was?”