by Peter Mayle
Details such as these, while they may be considered bizarre or bad-mannered, are necessary in order to make it clear who is in charge. “Every cock,” as the old proverb reminds us, “is king of his own dunghill.”
Pecking Order and Deportment
Junior people arrive first, if they know what’s good for them, followed in ascending order of seniority by the others. Layouts, computer printouts, and files should be carried loose—never in an attaché case, which arouses suspicions that you were late getting into the office and haven’t had time to extract the relevant documents. As the papers are shuffled and coffee is sipped, the nominal leader of the meeting (as opposed to the true leader, who is the senior person) will make an opening statement about the decision that confronts the assembled gathering. It may be to set a level of advertising expenditure, to assess a new campaign, to ponder the merits of a brilliant but promotion-hungry executive, to interpret a turgid piece of research, or to work out how best to deal with a client who has expressed a willingness to accept free airline tickets. The subject having been put “on the table,” the meeting turns its attention to the most junior member present, who is expected to give an opinion.
A nasty moment indeed, particularly if minutes are being taken that will subsequently be circulated and that might easily be used in evidence at some embarrassing future date. A slip of the tongue here could jeopardize chances of promotion, that new BMW, and upgrading to business-class on business trips. Why in God’s name do they have to put the least experienced person on the spot first?
One might think that it is the proper beginning for a truly democratic decision-making process in which every voice, however small and unimportant, has its say. It is nothing of the sort. The reason for soliciting opinions from the bottom upward is to ensure that the senior person, whose judgment is obviously delivered last, doesn’t make a fool of himself by overlooking an obvious point that could render his wisdom suspect. He, after all, doesn’t have the time to pore over the fine print of every piece of paper that comes across his desk; that is minions’ work. The senior person is there to assess the information presented to him and then to decide on a course of action that will steer the agency ever onward and upward.
So the junior member says his piece and the others try to gauge how it has been received before it’s their turn. If there is an encouraging nod from the senior person, the next in line to speak will elaborate on what has just been said, adding a few flourishes or, to be on the safe side, a couple of minor concerns. This continues up the pecking order until it is clear that a consensus is there for the reaching. The senior person seizes it, adding a flourish or two of his own, and everyone gets back to work. It has been a good meeting.
But, given the assortment of egos and ambitions that exist in any agency, good and constructive meetings do not happen all that often, and it is much more likely that there will be a healthy measure of conflict. Advertising is a matter of opinion rather than a matter of fact, and there is little in the way of indisputable proof that can be used to demolish the misguided ideas of the lunatic who opposes you. This leads, at best, to reasoned argument followed by deadlock; at worst, to reviled insults, sulking, studied inattention to the other point of view, passing notes to a supporter, gusty sighs of boredom, and other, less wholesome signals of disagreement—nail clipping, nose picking, muffled belches, investigation of the inner ear with the end of a pencil, or any minor distraction that can be achieved short of physical violence.
This puts the senior person in a quandary because the meeting is not getting anywhere, and a choice has to be made between democracy and dictatorship. Democracy is tiresome and time-wasting, but at least it keeps most people more or less happy, whereas dictatorship can lead to mutiny in the ranks, resignations, and potential problems with the client. Not surprisingly, democracy usually wins—“we all need to give this a little more thought”—and another date is fixed so that everyone can lock horns again next week. With a little luck, some vigorous lobbying during the intervening days can modify attitudes and prepare the ground for a good meeting—the result, naturally, of mature reassessment. Compromise is never mentioned. Compromise is for wimps.
The Act of Creation
Eventually, some of the decisions made at meetings have to be given form and substance and turned into advertising, and for sheer drama, unconscious comedy, and excitement, nothing can approach the speculative new business pitch.
The agency is given a brief and a deadline by the client (who has decided after some exploratory discussions to give these bright people a chance). A creative team is allocated to the task, a date is set to review their endeavors, and everyone involved waits, with varying degrees of impatience and optimism, for the act of creation to take place. The time allowed for this can be as little as a few days or as much as several weeks, but somehow it is never enough; creative people are instinctive procrastinators, and they consider it unwise to complete work in advance of a deadline, because this might encourage their colleagues to try to change what they’ve done. Experienced executives realize this and will often set a fake deadline. Experienced creative people will assume that it’s fake and disregard it. But that is only one aspect of the complicated and often puzzling process by which a bundle of documents becomes a campaign.
Whatever the product or service being advertised, there are certain standard but unhelpful vague criteria that all good agencies insist upon. (Bad agencies have only one criterion: Give the client what he wants.)
The first requirement is that the advertising should be intrusive. It will be competing for attention with editorial matter, with TV and radio shows, with films, or, in the case of posters, with traffic. If the message isn’t noticed, it’s money down the drain.
There is a school of thought that claims producing noticeable advertising is relatively simple; just get a woman to take her clothes off and feign some sympathy with the product. A carefully structured piece of research will confirm that this does indeed attract attention from both men and women. However, if you’re advertising frozen peas or tennis rackets, the uncontrived and persuasive connection between naked flesh and the product is not immediately obvious. So being noticeable isn’t enough; the advertising should be relevant, as well.
It should also be distinctive within its own category so that it stands out from competing brands and services. It should also be persuasive. It should also be memorable. It should also be on the creative director’s desk by the end of next week. Small wonder that the members of our creative team, electrified by the challenge and opportunity for greatness that confronts them, feel the need for a long and reflective lunch.
In addition to the technical details under discussion—the length of the TV spots, the size of the press ads, the inadequacy of the brief, and the lack of time—there are two more personal considerations to be taken into account. The first is mentioned quite openly, and it is the mutual desire of writer and art director to produce a campaign of such brilliant originality that the entire industry will notice it, talk about it, and bestow upon it the supreme accolade of a major award. (As we shall see later, there are a number of these given out every year, and since they are instrumental in procuring job offers, promotion, salary increases, and a moment of fame, they are deeply loved.)
The second, even more personal hope, is not talked about. Although in theory the creative team should march hand in hand as they proceed toward the great idea, in practice each of them wants to get there first, to be the originating genius: I did it; he helped. This arouses the critical faculties, as far as the other person’s suggestions are concerned, to a degree that can cause days of stalemate and a feeling of tension in the creative team’s office, which any seasoned executive learns to expect. In fact, it adds to the reputation for being difficult that creative people secretly enjoy. Artists are always difficult.
The lunch finished and the bill carefully preserved for expenses, writer and art director return to their desks for a session of mental
pencil sharpening. Magazines and old copies of the Art Director’s Annual are leafed through. There are long periods of silence and gazing out of the window. An odd line is tapped out on the typewriter; a desultory scribble is made on the layout pad. To an observer, the scene has all the creative drama of two people waiting for a bus.
Every so often, the executive in charge of the account will poke his hopeful head in the door to see whether his team has been visited by the muse.
“How’s it going?”
The writer and art director look up from their reference book—Masterpieces of Erotic Photography, The Hundred Greatest Advertisements Ever Written—and glare at the intruder. What does he think this is, a factory? Just press a button and get a campaign? Doesn’t he realize that he is interrupting a most complex and delicate chain of deliberations that will ultimately lead to the great idea? How can the act of creation take place with idiots like him trampling in and out and disturbing these highly tuned brain cells? Fuck off.
The executive withdraws and the team resumes its pondering. At last, one of them puts forward a line or a visual idea. “What about if we…”
Almost before the words are spoken, they’re rejected. If no other reason comes quickly to mind, there is always the old dismissive standby: It’s been done before. In fact, plagiarism and the use of images and personalities that are already established in the public consciousness have often worked very well in advertising campaigns, but not this time—or at least not yet. There are still a few days to go before the deadline, before the serious panic sets in. Let’s see if we can find something really different. (Which, translated, means: Let’s see if I can find something really different and much better than that terrible idea of yours.) The window gazing and pencil sharpening continue.
As the days pass, the visits from the executive become more frequent and exchanges become more heated. Still nothing emerges from the temple of creativity. It is time for the trump card, which the executive delivers with some relish: The client has called the chairman of the agency and insisted on a meeting to see the new campaign, and of course the chairman has assured him that it will be ready. More than that; it will be a gem of a campaign, loved by the sales force, adored by the public, envied by the competition.
But where is it? The creative team’s office is like a submarine under attack from depth charges. Every five minutes, it seems, people are coming in to nag about their own particular deadlines: The production manager needs the roughs so that he can put in hand the typesetting and finished artwork that will transform scruffy bits of paper into advertisements of presentation standard; the TV producer needs the storyboards so that the commercials can be costed and maybe rough commercials made; the executive needs to see the idea so that he can tailor the marketing evidence to support it; the planners, the researchers, and the media buyers all come and go, cursing about the impossible lack of time. The creative director, who often has the job of presenting the campaign, takes up semi-permanent residence in the office, and even the chairman, conscious of his promises to the client, may hover briefly before going to lunch.
It is all very gratifying to our heroes. Now that they have succeeded in bringing most of the agency to a state of desperate expectation, they can get down to work. Social engagements are abandoned. Husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, and the bartender at “21” are made aware of the inhuman pressure being applied. Weekends are ignored. The lights burn late. It’s a brutal business, this quest for inspiration.
But when it comes, as it inevitably does in one form or another, what a satisfying change in relationships takes place. Instead of being hounded for work by every busybody in the agency, it is now the turn of the writer and art director to do the hounding. Of course roughs can be finished, commercials estimated, media and marketing plans revised, and slides and charts prepared in the space of forty-eight hours. These are mechanical tasks, nothing compared to the sweat and genius that have gone into the act of creation. Relaxed and triumphant, the writer and art director head for the local watering hole for a quiet celebration while their colleagues work on into the night.
There is barely time for a rehearsal before the day of presentation, and this is not always as useful as it might be because many of the props are still being prepared. Never mind. The presentation team is now united and optimistic. Anyone but a complete knucklehead can see that this is one of those rare campaigns that will run and run, making handsome profits for the agency and expensive reputations for its creators. The stage manager, usually the account director, goes through the order of events and checks the cues that will activate the lighting and the battery of audiovisual equipment concealed behind and around the conference room. Tomorrow is the big day, and it is awaited with nervous confidence.
It begins early, and with more panic. Despite working through the night at triple overtime, one of the studios has not quite finished putting the final gloss on some material that is absolutely vital to the presentation. Cabs and messengers crisscross the city while the account director tries to devise some plausible distraction that will delay the proceedings without making the agency look like a bunch of last-minute amateurs. Maybe the chairman could engage the senior client in some man-to-man talk about the broad canvas of industry, but what the hell are we going to do with the rest of them?
Meanwhile, the receptionist has had her copy of Cosmopolitan confiscated and has been reminded for the eighteenth time of the client’s name. All secretaries who are likely to be visible as the visiting entourage makes its way to the conference room are given something, anything, to type so that the agency will exude an atmosphere of diligent efficiency. The reception area is double-checked for dirty ashtrays and dog-eared pornographic magazines that have been left behind by printers’ reps and space salesmen. And then, not a minute too soon, the creaking, leather-clad hulk of a messenger shambles in with the missing material.
Right! We’re ready for them. The agency welcoming committee can now assume the confident air of people who have never known a moment’s anxiety in their lives, and the account director abandons his emergency plan for delaying the start of the presentation. The damn client will probably be late anyway.
But, punctual to the second, the elevator doors open and a covey of young businesspeople in dark suits, led by the senior client and bristling with attaché cases, makes its purposeful way into the reception area.
There is a hasty adding up of numbers by the account director, because it is a part of presentation politesse that every member of the client’s party should have an agency counterpart. Normally, the attendance figures are advised in advance, but sometimes the client will bring along a surprise guest, and the agency is obliged to find an extra body. It would never do to be caught short of one young man in a dark suit.
The seating arrangements in the conference room have been worked out with an eye for protocol that would do credit to a diplomatic banquet. The senior people from both sides are within murmuring distance of one another, and the lower ranks are paired off in less important seats. The account director opens the meeting with a few brief remarks—delighted to have the opportunity, rare to have such a thorough and helpful brief, please feel free to ask questions as we go along—and then hands it over to the agency demolition squad.
Their job is to dissect the advertising of the competition—to point out its flaws, its shaky positioning, the opportunities it has missed, the gaps it has left, the insights it has failed to perceive, the errors of execution. This is done in a detached, logical, almost scientific fashion. Vulgar jeering is carefully avoided. The tone is restrained and academic and, if it is done by experts, very effective.
Its purpose, of course, is to set the client off down the path to the inescapable conclusion that all will be revealed later on. As in other meetings, signs of encouragement are hoped for, but the senior client is professionally impassive, and the entourage is careful to follow his example. For the agency people who are on their feet trying to coax a glimmer o
f sympathetic response from the audience, it is like preaching to zombies. But they plow on with their slides and charts and statistical analyses and meticulously supported assumptions until the background has been well and truly filled in and the moment of truth arrives: The campaign, in all its ingenious manifestations, is about to be exposed.
Academic observations now give way to something akin to cabaret. The agency’s best presenter, redolent with charm, produces one great ad after another as though he were pulling rabbits out of a hat. Jingles are played through the conference room’s sound system at a volume just bearable to the human ear. TV commercials, rough but promising, appear on the screen. Evidence of creative effort comes bursting out of the walls, and all that is missing is someone jumping out of a giant cake. (Although even this, if the client is a cake manufacturer, can’t be ruled out.)
At the end, as the conference room’s lights come up and the best presenter sits down, the agency people look expectantly at the client people, modest smiles of achievement on their faces, not expecting applause, perhaps, but eager for some token of appreciation.
The senior client, however, is not to be rushed. There is no chance that he will flout years of tradition by expressing his own opinion before he has put his young colleagues through their paces, and the most junior of these is told to share his thoughts with the attentive group around the table. Notes are consulted. A throat is cleared. The young man is not quite sure whether to address his remarks to his boss or to the agency chairman, and even less sure of what those remarks ought to be. In the chasm between unqualified enthusiasm and outright rejection lies the prudent course to take, but there should be some hint somewhere of a point of view, otherwise he’s going to look like a dunce, incapable of constructive thought and therefore not senior-executive material.