Exceeding My Quotient for Products

When I was in graduate school, I discovered a popular drinking game called “Bob.”  It involved gathering your friends and a couple of cases of beer and propping yourselves up in front of the television to watch re-runs of the Bob Newhart Show.  The object of the game was to take a gulp of beer every time one of the characters said, “Bob.”  Even if you haven’t seen this show in decades you probably remember the sound of Suzanne Pleshette’s voice as she whined, “Bo-ob.”  It is amazing just how much of the show’s dialogue turns out to be a symphony of quirky characters crooning the star’s moniker, from Jerry the Dentist, to Carol the secretary, to Howard the dimwitted neighbor (who, remarkably and hysterically, was a commercial jet pilot).

(A similar, if less effective, version of this game is called Radar.  It involves the long-running show, M*A*S*H.)

I would like to propose an updated version of this game:  "product placement."   Selling exposure to consumer products has become so pervasive in the entertainment industry that our television shows and motion pictures are becoming protracted commercials.  To make it worse, we are charged $10.50 for a 100 minute dose.

Product placement originated in the 60s with the Steve McQueen movie Bullitt.  For a famous chase scene, Warner Brothers negotiated the use of a couple of Mustangs from the Ford Motor Company.  Ford continues to transport our large and small screen heroes to this day, from the Men in Black to the American Idols.  

I first became aware of the product placement phenomenon in James Bond movies.   Gadgetry is an accepted element of the Bond story lines.  There was something cool about the fictional functions underlying his manly Omega watches.  I did not mind the pandering camera shots that flashed to the face of his watch, imprinting our brains with the Omega brand, forcing us to make the visual connection when we later glimpsed the back cover of a popular magazine.  I found it fun that an ordinary person with a vivid imagination and a few thousand dollars to burn could buy the same watch as James Bond. 

On television, Seinfeld's producers were shameless about integrating brand-name products into its sets and plotlines (though, apparently, not for financial gain).  Jerry maintained a healthy shelf of breakfast cereals (including Kix and Cheerios) and an Apple computer (which I do not think he ever used).  There were entire plots built around the Oh! Henry bar and Junior Mints.  These were believable and effective as comic elements rather than as endorsements.  The use of the J. Peterman catalog, as well as John Hurley’s hilarious deadpan characterization of J. Peterman himself, plays more at the company’s expense than our own.

By contrast, the show Two and a Half Men leaves various random and unrelated projects strewn shamelessly across the kitchen counter, the labels facing square to the camera and caught strategically in the sight lines between the actors.   Recently, Ashton Kutcher got into trouble with the show’s producers.  The laptop that his Internet billionaire character uses was covered with stickers representing companies in which Kutcher is an investor.

I understand that product objectivity can be difficult; choices must be made.  On a cooking show, for example, the chef must use some sort of oven and food processor.  I derive utility from learning that an expert chooses to use a specific brand.  It is revealing, however, when Emeril Lagasse cannot use the Oster food processor planted on his work surface.  Clearly this is not his brand of choice.  I have no tolerance for this type of sell out.  I also feel like a stooge when commercial plugs have nothing to do with the television or movie premise.  My daughter and I are big followers of Design Star, an HGTV reality series that chooses a host for a new design show.  On this week’s show we endured a 15-second segment featuring host, David Bromstadt, driving out to a trio of yurts (badly in need of some decorating by contestants) in a bright red Volvo.  We were treated to glamor shots of the auto's grand entrance, brandishing the Volvo logo from the front, the rear, and on the hub caps, not to mention the gleam of the exclusive new color in the midday sun.

I have no difficulty seeing brands on television or film when they are true American icons.  Seeing an old Chevy or a pack of Camels contributes to the authenticity of a period, evoking bygone days as much as chipped turquoise Fiestaware or an old kitchen table of tri-colored boomerang Formica.  In the show Mad Men, for example, the use of vintage products, such as classic Cadillacs, adds to the nostalgia for the 60s that the show evokes.  In the Toy Story movies, Mister Potato Head and GI Joe are effective in conjuring our memories of lost toys from our own lost youth.  In the film, The Help, Crisco is elevated to a supporting character.  When Minnie Jackson delivers her diatribe on the virtues of Crisco ("the most important invention since they put mayonnaise in a jar") it plays as a touch of Americana rather than a product endorsement.  Try making a movie about women in the South without Crisco.  I can hear Paula Deen laughing.  If the producers of The Help received promotional consideration from Crisco, I can live with it.  

Every rant has a last straw, and mine occurred last night while watching Rizzoli and Isles (taped from the night before).   Rizzoli’s out of touch mother is promoting a (hopefully, please G-d) fictional concoction called “Can-O Espresso.”  She is given a company car with a giant can on the roof, making it look oddly like the Oscar Mayer wiener mobile.  In what can only be described as the Trojan horse of all product placements, this car is equipped with an electronic dashboard.  Mrs. Rizzoli, a normally daft character, is forced to look into the camera and demonstrate its larger-than-life Bing portal.

I do not understand why consumers, who endure the results of product placement through these compromised art forms, do not demand greater benefits from blatant commercial subsidization.  Why do ticket prices continue to rise?  Should not my movie ticket include coupons for the products I have helped to hawk?  And why must I still endure commercial segments that interrupt my favorite shows when the shows themselves are now just elaborate commercials?

Join me in my new game of "product placement."  Sit before your television with a plain glass of water.  Each time you spot a product placement, lift your glass and toast the producers.  Don't drink the Kool-Aid.  Get the last laugh.