by Allan Brandt
Brown & Williamson responded to the publicity by suing Wigand for breach of contract. The company also assembled a five-hundred-page brief accusing him of all manner of personal moral turpitude and fraud. By this time, however, no one in the press was prepared to take a tobacco company at face value. The Wall Street Journal systematically ran through the claims against Wigand and concluded that “a close look at the [document], and independent research by this newspaper into its key claims, indicates that many of the serious allegations against Mr. Wigand are backed by scant or contradictory evidence. Some of the charges . . . are demonstrably untrue.” 76 The suit was in all likelihood meant to send a message to would-be whistle-blowers that there would be real consequences for any who chose to follow Wigand’s lead.
That such a message was even necessary, however, reflected critical changes in the moral climate of cigarette production and promotion. For decades, the industry had maintained an impregnable firewall around its internal research strategies and promotional tactics. But now, with its ongoing denials of the danger and addictiveness of smoking collapsing in the face of overwhelming evidence, the industry began to face new moral quandaries. As the older generation of industry executives and researchers retired, they were replaced by younger men and women—often, like Wigand and Farone, hired to develop safer products—who were not well schooled in a fortressed industry’s complex cultural and psychological processes of collective denial. The scientists who volunteered industry knowledge to Kessler and the media held different values. In their eyes, the very nature of science as a process of determining the “truth” had been violated by industry statements contradicting or disparaging their work. Farone, for example, would insist that he could no longer tolerate the industry denials and suppression of his specific research findings about the addictive qualities of nicotine and the analogs he investigated. Whistle-blowing and the investigative media represented important new developments in the consumer society. One could not exist without the other.
These whistle-blowers typically exposed themselves to considerable risk. They understood that coming forward could lead to litigation, economic ruin, or even prison. Wigand, as we saw, told 60 Minutes that he and his family had received several death threats. At the very least, blowing the whistle would lead to retributive public exposé of their personal and professional lives. Williams’s alcoholism and Wigand’s marital discord became subject to public scrutiny. It was critical to the industry to discredit not only the information but the source.
At the same time, however, whistle-blowers enjoyed the eager support of the media, regulators, and plaintiffs’ lawyers. There were important rewards for coming forward, not the least of which was the notion of taking moral action against the industry’s malice. And there was the fame they got from exposing industry deception and fraud. Wigand’s coming out would ultimately be celebrated in a popular movie—The Insider—starring Russell Crowe in the lead role, with Christopher Plummer playing Mike Wallace and Al Pacino as Bergman. Although the industry would portray them as disgruntled employees with axes to grind—and certainly they were—the whistle-blowers’ accounts of the internal workings of tobacco research and production would be consistently sustained by the documents. The cover-up had been undone.
With Williams’s and Wigand’s revelations, the outlines of Kessler’s regulatory initiative were in place. Nicotine was addictive, and the industry deliberately designed and manufactured cigarettes to enhance their addictiveness. Kessler now documented a second critical assertion: the tobacco industry promoted cigarettes to children, who would become addicted before they were mature enough to make an “informed choice” about the risks of smoking. For Kessler, these two elements were linked, and they added up to a powerful refutation of the traditional industry position that smoking constituted a consensual behavior for adults who assume the risks. Kessler’s research had sucked the volition out of smoking.
The tobacco companies had long considered young smokers critically important in the marketing of cigarettes. Now that the risks of smoking had become undeniable, appealing to youth became more necessary than ever. Without young smokers, eventually there would be no smokers. Kessler quoted from industry documents that offered a sophisticated psychology of the new smoker:Brands tailored for the beginning smoker should emphasize the desirable psychological effects of smoking, also suggesting the desirable physical effects to be expected later. Happily, then, it should be possible to aim a cigarette promotion at the beginning smoker.
The adolescent seeks to display his new urge for independence with a symbol, and cigarettes are such a symbol. . . .
The fragile, developing self-image of the young person needs all of the support and enhancement it can get. Smoking may appear to enhance that self-image in a variety of ways. This self-image enhancement effect has traditionally been a strong promotional theme for cigarette brands.77
During the years of Kessler’s investigation, R.J. Reynolds’s Joe Camel campaign embodied the logic of these internal memoranda. The combination of these documents and Joe Camel’s mug plastered on billboards and in magazine ads betrayed yet another public hypocrisy—if not fraud—on the part of the industry: its avid interest in promoting cigarettes to children.
Joe Camel, the ultracool cartoon “spokesbeast” for R.J. Reynolds, made his U.S. debut in 1987. Soon, his face was everywhere: in newspapers and magazines, on billboards and posters, and on all manner of apparel and products in the form of decals and logos. Joe Camel was just the sort of slightly older figure whom young boys idolize: he was aggressively independent, fun-loving, and eager to flout authority. Unlike his chief rival the Marlboro Man, a lone cowboy with a horse and cattle under the big sky, Joe Camel was an urbanite. Whether wearing shades and playing pool at a nightclub or out for the night in formal wear, he was the ultimate party animal, often fronting his camel band, known as “Hard Pack.” He was never seen without a cigarette dangling from his elongated snout. From the inception of this campaign, few observers doubted that Joe Camel was designed to appeal to young (perhaps very young) smokers.
In the late 1970s, executives at R.J. Reynolds had faced a business dilemma that threatened the very future of their company. The years since the release of the first surgeon general’s report in 1964 had been difficult times for the tobacco industry in general. At R.J. Reynolds, however, there were particular problems.78 The company’s most successful brands, Winston and Salem, appealed primarily to older smokers; they were projected to face steeply declining sales as their principal consumers aged. Camel, once the flagship of R.J. Reynolds, was also an old and failing brand. One of the nation’s most popular and heavily advertised brands at mid-century, Camel had declined significantly over the decades until, by 1984, it commanded only 4.4 percent of the U.S. cigarette market.79 And prospects remained discouraging. In 1986, the brand’s greatest popularity was among smokers over sixty-five, of whom 44 percent chose Camel; but they were among the least popular of all brands among smokers seventeen to twenty-four, only 2.7 percent of whom preferred Camel. Camel’s packaging and pitch had become badly dated.
There was one additional aspect to the problem: the average age at which smokers started smoking had declined over the last decade until by 1985 it was around sixteen.80 Beyond the simple fact that they live longer, young smokers were desirable for two reasons: the first brand one smokes is likely to be the brand one keeps for life, and the younger someone starts smoking, the less likely they are to be able to quit. Now, however, cigarette companies were forced to focus on a segment of the population that was legally off-limits. Though officially unavailable for solicitation and sales, these “replacement smokers,” as the industry called them, were desperately needed to buy the cigarettes no longer being purchased by smokers who quit or died off.81 The future of R.J. Reynolds rested on the illegal buying decisions of teenagers. And these teenagers weren’t buying enough R.J. Reynolds product.
R.J. Reynolds also understood that soliciting underage
smokers was not only illegal, but also socially anathema. As the Joe Camel campaign splashed across billboards and magazines throughout the country, company executives circulated memos instructing employees to avoid all mention of the “youth market.” Terms, such as new smoker, pre-smoker, and beginning smoker were stricken from the corporate vocabulary. The target of the campaign was the “younger adult smoker.”82 Nonetheless, R.J. Reynolds’s interest in underage smokers was explicit in its marketing research.83 Its demographic analyses collected data on children as young as twelve.84 A 1981 memo cautioned researchers to tally all underage smokers in surveys as “age 18.”85
Smokers’ lifelong loyalty to their first brand gave rise to an inescapable logic. If, as was increasingly the case, smokers chose that first brand in their early teens (or younger), and R.J. Reynolds wanted access to beginning smokers, then it had to have a campaign that appealed to children in their early teens. While the industry typically claimed that it was peer pressure, not advertising, that created new smokers, the company now set out to create new smokers—specifically, Camel smokers—through advertising. In a presentation to the board of directors, C. A. Tucker, vice president for marketing, emphasized “the growing importance of the young adult in the cigarette business,” defined as fourteen- to twenty-four-year-olds; these individuals, he explained, “represent tomorrow’s cigarette business.”86
Directly contradicting publicly stated tobacco industry positions that advertising was exclusively aimed at existing smokers, Reynolds argued in its internal memoranda that first-brand choice should be its key goal:Strong performance among FUBYAS [First Usual Brand Young Adult Smokers] is critical to long term share in the total smoker market for both brands and companies. . . . Although switching can be important in the near term market, loyalty and thus FUB smokers are the driving force over the long term.87
By age eighteen, however, most smokers had already started and were committed to their first brand. To capture the true “FUB smoker,” R.J.
Reynolds had to go deeper into the youth market. Given the success of Marlboro in this market, the campaign to win young smokers would need to be aggressive, ubiquitous, and appeal especially to the needs and desires of preadolescents and adolescents. Enter Joe Camel.
Despite public denials, advertising experts at R.J. Reynolds took into explicit consideration the developmental needs of adolescents. Joe Camel was originally introduced in a French youth magazine called Pilote in 1974.88 In the early 1980s, executives began to consider recruiting the “French Camel” to work in the United States.89 From the first trial ads in the mid-1980s, Joe met this group of young and future smokers on their own social and psychological terrain. An early assessment of the “French” camel as an advertising vehicle praised it as a “smash,” noting that “it’s about as young as you can get.”90 Market testing in the United States prior to the major campaign confirmed Joe’s appeal and projected impact on the youth market.91 “These ads were well received due to the fun/humor aspects of the cartoons,” explained the ad agency researchers, who also noted, as a potential “drawback,” that “they may be more appealing to an even younger age group.” Company executives were unperturbed by this warning and soon made a full commitment to the development of the campaign. In July 1985, a “French Camel” T-shirt promotion drew a particularly strong response; redemption of coupons for the shirts ran three times higher than other typical promotion offers.92
In public, R.J. Reynolds vigorously insisted that the Joe Camel campaign was directed solely to adults and further that the company had no interest whatsoever in persuading youngsters to start smoking. In a series of informational ads published widely in newspapers and magazines just prior to Joe’s introduction, R.J. Reynolds explained: “First of all, we don’t want young people to smoke. And we’re running ads aimed specifically at young people advising them that we think smoking is strictly for adults.” Perhaps the ad’s copywriters appreciated the irony, given the research that demonstrated smoking appealed to kids precisely as a way of appearing more “adult.” R.J. Reynolds also asserted that kids have little interest in advertising: “Research shows that among all the factors that can influence a young person to start smoking, advertising is insignificant. Kids just don’t pay attention to cigarette ads, and that’s exactly as it should be.”93 Finally, the company insisted that the cause of teen smoking was peer pressure. But as company documents make clear, peer pressure is precisely what the advertising was designed to exploit. “Advertising will be developed,” wrote one researcher, “with the objective of convincing target smokers that by selecting CAMEL as their usual brand they will enhance their acceptance among their peers.”94
Advertising will rely on clearly aspirational appeals (the me I want to be versus the me I am) to provide the motivation for target smokers to select CAMEL.
Aspiration to be perceived as cool/a member of the in-group is one of the strongest influences affecting the behavior of younger adult smokers.
This approach will capitalize on the ubiquitous nature of Marlboro by repositioning it as the epitome of conformity, versus CAMEL the smoke of the cool/in group.95
And if the overt message of these irreverent ads did not hit the mark, perhaps a more subliminal message would. Observers of the campaign often noted the essentially phallic characteristics of Joe’s face, including his “rather testicular chin.” Barbara Lippert, a well-known commentator on advertising, wrote, “If they wanted to do a penis, they could at least have done a good-looking one.”96 Harvard University cultural studies scholar Marjorie Garber suggested that Joe Camel as phallus was a classic case of “displacement upward.” “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”97 Given that the campaign was initially pitched to young men, Joe Camel’s macho and occasionally sexist character was a crucial aspect of the advertisements.98
Traditional advertising constituted only one element of the campaign; R.J. Reynolds spent nearly half its marketing budget on promotions and premiums. “Camel cash,” for example, could be traded for a wide range of merchandise, all bearing enough logos to turn individuals into walking billboards for the brand. These promotional items—T-shirts, hats, lighters, beach coolers, and other gear—proved a critical and enormously popular element of the Joe Camel campaign. “The new catalogue [of promotional items] represents a veritable Disneyland of fantasy life styles, like Club Camel and Camel after hours, all accompanied by appropriate Camel tchotchkes,” explained the New York Times.99
Even as the advertising industry circled the wagons around its First Amendment rights, many called for the end of the Joe Camel campaign. The aggressiveness of these ads and their obvious appeal to kids raised the specter of federal oversight and regulation of the advertising industry as a whole. For R.J. Reynolds, however, the campaign was a life-or-death affair. If the company could attract young smokers, its future would be secure. If antitobacco advocates could prevent smoking among children, the future of the industry was bleak. But at the same time, the battle for the young smoker exposed the industry to new and more aggressive assault.
Joe’s success in attracting younger smokers was always double edged. The campaign drove the industry into new and marginal territory within the culture of American capitalism. By exposing the industry’s aggressiveness and its critical need for new, even underage smokers, R.J. Reynolds had drawn public indignation and new accusations of illegal practices. Try, though the company did, to deny that it sought young smokers, Joe Camel, in his bright cartoon garb, spoke for himself.
The dilemma in which Big Tobacco found itself had been decades in the making. The strategy of denying that tobacco was harmful and addictive, while offering crucial short-term benefits, had in the long run caused a massive loss of credibility. In this atmosphere, the tobacco executives’ further assurances—that their advertising was not pitched to children, that they made cigarettes only for adults—could not be sustained in the long face of Joe Camel.
In August 1996, following an intensive investiga
tion and a year of public comment on proposed regulations, David Kessler announced that the FDA would regulate nicotine-containing tobacco products as medical devices, restrict youth access to tobacco products, and restrict tobacco advertising that might appeal to children. The FDA based its claim of jurisdiction on its finding that nicotine in cigarettes was a drug within the meaning of the 1938 Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act, which defined drugs as “articles (other than food) intended to affect the structure or function of the body.”100 Kessler and his team believed they could conclusively show not only that nicotine met this definition, but that the tobacco industry explicitly “intended” the nicotine in cigarettes to have this effect. Cigarettes were therefore a “drug delivery system” meriting oversight under the FDA’s mandate to regulate medical devices. If Kessler had sought to bring tobacco products under the drug mandate, he would have had to require the tobacco companies to show that they were both safe and effective. Since they clearly were not, the only alternative would have been to require their complete withdrawal from the market. Kessler knew that this was not a viable political option for the agency. Rather, he argued, by regulating cigarettes as a “device” for the delivery of nicotine, he could devise approaches to reduce the public health impact of smoking.
The FDA’s approval of Nicorette chewing gum in 1984, used as a “replacement therapy” to assist in smoking cessation, underscored nicotine’s addictive properties. Other pharmacotherapies were also available. Transdermal patches, inhalers, and nasal sprays, all laced with nicotine, offered smokers new opportunities for the treatment of nicotine addiction. Kessler found himself in the curious position of regulating these products but having no jurisdiction over the product they sought to replace.101
In marshalling evidence to support his new initiative, Kessler carefully reviewed the results of the agency’s investigation, as well as much that had been learned as a result of the Cigarette Papers and the industry whistle-blowers, all of which helped sustain his case for regulatory authority. First, his research within the FDA had demonstrated that as levels of tar had continued to decline over the last decade, nicotine had climbed by nearly 10 percent across the industry. The highest increases had come in the cigarettes lowest in tars. “It seemed unlikely,” noted Kessler, “that the delivery of nicotine could increase independently of the delivery of tar unless the manufacturers had made deliberate design decisions.” His research team analyzed the nicotine content of low-tar brands like Merit and discovered that those lowest in tars were actually highest in nicotine. “This,” Kessler wrote, “suggested that the manufacturers were compensating for the effects of filtration and ventilation, the principal variables in design used to reduce the delivery of tar, by using high-nicotine tobacco blends in their lowest-tar products.”102