Very little of Ed Wood Jr.‘s early TV commercial work has survived, but what little we can see already exhibits some of the tropes he would return to again and again (angora sweaters, cowboys, girl gangs) in his infamous films.

Wood wrote and directed approximately 125 low budget (apparently generic so local sponsors could customize them) commercials for a production house called Story As Films, but just four of them are known to still exist today. The ads seen here are “Surprise,” where a groom gives his bride to be a used car; “Treasure and Curves” which features “Captain Kitty” and her fellow female pirates going on about a jewelry store and buried treasure, “The Bestest” which is about cowboy boots (That looks like Wood stalwart Don Nagel as “Alabam,” doesn’t it?), and “Magic Man” which features the skid row auteur himself and is about a magical men’s clothing store.

Wood didn’t only direct for Story as Films, he made a few dozen spots for other outfits as well. None are known to be extant.
 

 
This must have been the easiest money Francis Ford Coppola ever made: an advert for FUJI cassette tapes, in which the hirsute director of The Conversation is filmed in medium close-up, dreamily caressing the C60. It’s kind of weird and bizarre and I can almost hear the ad director prompting, “Now, rub it in your beard, Francis, rub it in your beard. Make love to it with your chin.”

In a comparative terms of time and effort, the money Coppola made for this 1980 FUJI advert (and who knows he may have given all the earnings to charity?) was as easy (if not easier) as the extra half-a-million-dollars Marlon Brando was said to have earned during the making of Apocalypse now, when the beefy actor supposedly spent a week listening to Coppola read him the film’s source story, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. 
 

 
H/T Indiewire, with thanks to Bessie Graham!

 
The out-of-left-field commercial success of grunge in the early ‘90s took practically everyone by surprise, and produced a lot of amusing and embarrassing attempts to play catch-up (couture flannel on fashion runways and the brilliantly played grunge-speak hoax at the expense of the New York TImes were among my favorites), but watching the advertising and marketing industries in particular caught with their pants down was illuminating. Never before or since have the massive promotional machines that drive the American status-anxiety economy been caught so unprepared, and forced to scramble so publicly to chase a demographic it hadn’t yet even begun to comprehend. Some of them nailed it—Fruitopia, for example, was pretty gross, and its pandering was shamefully transparent, but they sure did sell a metric shitload of sugar-water for awhile. But successes aren’t as funny as massive public failures.

In 1992, somebody decided that it would be a great idea to sell Subaru’s newly-introduced Impreza by filming a grunge kid making proto-Dane Cook gesticulations and explaining to us that “This car is like PUNK ROCK!” Nevermind (sorry) that in spite of grunge chart successes most people still thought of punk as the milieu of unhygienic, violent, misanthropic dropouts—because IT WAS. Never mind the utter absurdity of drawing an equivalence between an explosive expression of rage against complacency and a drab, modest grocery store assault vehicle. And never mind that almost nobody who might be moved by such an appeal had money or credit for a brand new car. There were so many perfectly sensible arguments against attempting such a stupefyingly dumb marketing tactic, and yet this happened anyway… Talk about Crass commercialism (again, sorry!)

Astute readers (and people who can see the plainly visible caption on the video) may recognize the young actor in this total mistake as Jeremy Davies, who would quickly overcome all this unfortunate business with his starring role in the well-received indie feature Spanking The Monkey. He’d go on to a lauded performance in Saving Private Ryan, and he even appeared in Lars von Trier’s daring experimental films Dogville and Manderlay. His filmography is impressive, but he’s probably most widely recognized from his portrayal of Daniel Faraday in seasons four and five of ABC’s cult hit Lost.
 

 
This stern, cheerful, inane PSA from Counselor Films about graffiti says a lot of things that are mostly true, and yet doesn’t seem to get anything right at all. The graffiti depicted in the video (some of it concocted for the video, of course) is indeed a blight in visual terms—it’s hard to argue the point. Either they didn’t know that some graffiti can be aesthetically appealing or the “golden age of graffiti” hadn’t really happened yet—I suspect it’s a bit of both.

Meanwhile, the need to express oneself, the benefits of outlaw behavior, the fundamental need for protest—you won’t hear about any of that here.
 

 
The video features a sublimely silly pop song that suggests what might have happened if your parents had descended into the rec room and wrested control over Rod Torfulson’s Armada:
 

Hey is it fun or just dumb?
Yes, either it’s fun or just dumb
You know there are kids in school
Some of them break the rules
Hey is it fun or just dumb?
Maybe what they’re doin’s funny
Maybe it may look that way
But maybe if it’s costin’ money
I wonder what it’ll cost—who’s gonna pay?
Hey is it fun or just dumb?
Yes, either it’s fun or just dumb
Either it’s fun or just dumb

 
From A/V Geeks

 
“Of all arts, for us cinema is the most important.”—Lenin, 1919

An exhibition of Soviet silent-era film posters now underway at London’s Gallery for Russian Arts and Design features, among many treasures, a fair few of the important works of the design team of brothers Vladimir and Georgii Stenberg. Far from household names, it’s true, but their place in art history is difficult to deny. Their success was somewhat serendipitous—it happened that their Dada-inspired method of found image manipulation dovetailed perfectly with the conceits and priorities of the Constructivist movement that was dominating Soviet graphics of their time. They enjoyed a nearly decade-long run of superb work that ended only with Georgii’s untimely death in a 1933 traffic accident. I quote at length here from curator Christopher Mount’s essay in the exhibition catalog of their 1997 MoMA retrospective:

The 1920s and early 1930s were a revolutionary period for the graphic arts throughout Europe. A drastic change took place in the way graphic designers worked that was a direct consequence of experimentation in both the fine and the applied arts. Not only did the formal vocabulary of graphic design change, but also the designer’s perception of self. The concept of the designer as “constructor”—or, as the Dadaist Raoul Hausmann preferred, “monteur” (mechanic or engineer)—marked a paradigmatic shift within the field, from an essentially illustrative approach to one of assemblage and nonlinear narrativity. This new idea of assembling preexisting images, primarily photographs, into something new freed design from its previous dependence on realism. The subsequent use of collage—a defining element of modern graphic design—enabled the graphic arts to become increasingly nonobjective in character.

In Russia, these new artist-engineers were attracted to the functional arts by political ideology. The avant-gardists’ rejection of the fine arts, deemed useless in a new Communist society, in favor of “art for use” in the service of the state, was key in the evolution of the poster. Advertising was now a morally superior occupation with ramifications for the new society; as such, it began to attract those outside the usual illustrative or painterly backgrounds—sculptors, architects, photographers—who brought new ideas and techniques to the field.

Vladimir and Georgii Stenberg were prominent members of this group, which was centered in Moscow and active throughout the 1920s and early 1930s. The Stenberg brothers produced a large body of work in a multiplicity of mediums, initially achieving renown as Constructivist sculptors and later working as successful theatrical designers, architects, and draftsmen; in addition, they completed design commissions that ranged from railway cars to women’s shoes. Their most significant accomplishment, however, was in the field of graphic design, specifically, the advertising posters they created for the newly burgeoning cinema in Soviet Russia.

These works merged two of the most important agitational tools available to the new Communist regime: cinema and the graphic arts. Both were endorsed by the state, and flourished in the first fifteen years of Bolshevik rule. In a country where illiteracy was endemic, film played a critical role in the conversion of the masses to the new social order. Graphic design, particularly as applied in the political placard, was a highly useful instrument for agitation, as it was both direct and economical. The symbiotic relationship of the cinema and the graphic arts would result in a revolutionary new art form: the film poster.

 

 

 

 

 
More after the jump…

 
The 1989 Pontiac Stinger was the ideal car for those drivers whose activities ranged the whole spectrum—from surfing all the way to wind surfing. The Stinger was going to clean up on that surefire demographic, blond 23 year olds who average four or more picnics, clambakes, bonfires, keggers, bakeoffs, and/or badminton tournaments every week of the year.

The less I reveal about this promotional clip, the better—suffice to say, it truly had me in stitches. A quarter of the way in, you’ll wonder what the fuss is all about. By the time it’s over, you’ll be forced to conclude—narrowly—that it wasn’t really a Phil Hartman-esque fake commercial from Saturday Night Live.
 

 
Here’s to the Pontiac Stinger, a car with more tools up its sleeve than a Swiss Army Knife and probably more durable than a Swatch wristwatch—probably.
 

 
via Das Kraftfuttermischwerk

 
Dirk Bogarde “coveted the dream” of making a change in his cinematic career. He longed for some “self-respect,” but that day in May, 1968, Bogarde was in Rome, earning his living, filming an advert for sunglasses on the city’s Spanish Steps.

This was not how he hoped his future career would progress. Though thankfully, as Bogarde later recalled in the second volume of autobiography, Snakes and Ladders, it didn’t last long and was less “shameful” than he had imagined.

I ran up and down the steps twenty or thirty times, inanely smiling, blacked-out by the sun-glasses which successfully concealed my face, mute, since I spoke no word, sweltering in a flannel suit and new shoes which slipped on the polished stone.

Of course, Bogarde did not know it then, but this advert would bring him into orbit of the director who would bring him his greatest artistic success.

Luchino Visconti was in Rome casting for a movie, which was partially inspired by Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Bogarde had read a first draft of the screenplay, but thought the central character of Freidrich Bruckmann “wet.” However, his partner and manager, Anthony Forwood arranged for Bogarde to meet with Visconti to discuss the project further. Though against the film, the actor followed Forwood’s advice.

On meeting in an hotel, over whisky and sodas, Bogarde was impressed with Visconti, and despite his original misgivings, agreed to take the role of Friedrich in the film, which became The Damned. It was from this first fortuitous meeting that Bogarde and Visconti went on to work with each other on Death in Venice.
 

 
In October Paul Gallagher brought Dangerous Minds readers an early peek at the provocative promotional materials for Nymphomaniac, Lars von Trier’s five-plus-hour movie in two parts, of which a shortened version (only four hours long) was released in Denmark and the United States on Christmas Day.

The posters featured attention-getting pictures of upwards of a dozen of the film’s actors, unclothed and in character (one assumes), in a pose suggesting sweaty post O bliss. The cast—and the posters—feature actors prominent and not-so-prominent, among them Uma Thurman, Christian Slater, and Charlotte Gainsbourg.

In this image you can see all of the posters all kind of jammed together:
 

 
A little before the Christmas release of the film several Danish film critics, all or most of whom can be presumed to like it, decided to use the necessity of promoting the Bodil Awards—Denmark’s equivalent to the Oscars—to pay homage to the movie by staging a bunch of orgasmic photographic portraits of their own!

The text in the poster reads, “This is what Danish film critics look like when they are enjoying good movies. . . . They are coming to the Bodil Awards. Are you?”

 

 
In a statement, Denmark’s National Association of Film Critics said, “Some may think that we all just sit in our ivory towers, looking down on the film landscape with critical eyes, having no fun at all. But just like anyone else, also we can be excited by great movie experiences—and we are not afraid to share the excitement with all of you!”

And then just a few days ago, several prominent Polish film critics banded together and did the same thing.
 

 
We in the United States of America await our own titillating posters with A.O. Scott, Harry Knowles, Dana Stevens, Rex Reed, Manohla Dargis, and J. Hoberman doing their best O-faces.

After all of those pics, I’m ready for a cigarette ...
 

 
Thank you Michał Oleszczyk!

 
There exist countless tons of hidden cultural artifacts that were never meant for public consumption, all commissioned by private companies or corporations for exclusive distribution to their own employees and executive boards. The collectible 1979 McDonalds flexi-disc is a fairly well known example. I find such things fascinating when they surface. Since I haven’t worked directly for a huge corporation since I think probably 1995, I honestly have no idea if such things even happen anymore. Oftentimes, they’re worthy bits of cultural product, made by perfectly reputable entertainers. Such an example that I ran across recently easily won my smile. It stars the late, great comedian Jonathan Winters—in his prime, no less—performing a variety of roles in this goofy film for the edification and enrichment of Caprolan nylon rug salesmen, back in 1960! It’s hokey, safe comedy befitting the audience and era, but Winters is as charming and funny here as he ever was. Enjoy!
 

 
Previously on Dangerous Minds
A seldom-seen side of comic genius Jonathan Winters, 1973

 
In 1967 legendary adman and designer George Lois conceived a hip new ad campaign for Braniff International Airways, in a style that was remarkably similar to his undying Esquire covers from around the same time. (If you’re at all interested in design, you’ve definitely seen a bunch of those covers, just Google it.)

In two TV spots, Andy Warhol tries to convince a not-buying-it Sonny Liston, then the world heavyweight champ, as to the artistic validity of his Campbell’s soup cans, and Yankee hurler Whitey Ford quizzes Salvador Dalí about the differences between the screwball and the knuckleball.

Lois, in his egotistical and yet charmingly frank (“out-bullshit” etc.) style, explains on his website what he was getting at with the Braniff ads. He mentions a bunch of other pairings that were presumably filmed, but, well, they ain’t on YouTube, anyway.
 

WHEN YOU GOT IT—FLAUNT IT!

A JUXTAPOSITION OF CELEBRITY ODD COUPLES, PORTRAYED AS LOVABLE SPOTLIGHT HUSTLERS, TRYING TO OUT-BULLSHIT EACH OTHER AS THEY FLY BRANIFF.

In 1967, When you got it—flaunt it! became an American colloquialism as well as a standard entry in the anthologies of American sayings, almost instantly. It was my slogan for Braniff—a zany, outrageous campaign that featured a smorgasbord of the world’s oddest couples, exchanging the screwiest and most sophisticated chatter heard on television. Our juxtaposition of unlikely couples was unprecedented, creating the perception that when you flew Braniff International, you never knew who might be in the seat next to you. Pop guru Andy Warhol tried (but failed) to engage the sullen heavyweight champ Sonny Liston…Salvador Dali (Wen yo godet—flawndet!) talked baseball with Whitey Ford…black baseball legend Satchel Paige talked about youth and fame with neophyte Dean Martin Jr….poet Marianne Moore discussed writing with crime novelist Mickey Spillane…Rex Reed dueled with Mickey Rooney…British comedienne Hermione Gingold trumped film legend George Raft at his own game, whilst inundating him with pretentious palaver.

Sounds wacky on the face of it, but as we eavesdrop on these odd couples trying to outflaunt each other, we hear everything that has to be said about Braniff. We also imply that you might bump into a celebrity or two on a Braniff flight. (Yet another spot was produced with a Braniff stewardess welcoming an eclectic procession of business travelers: Joe Namath, Emilio Pucci, the Italian fashion designer to the Jet Set, thespians Gina Lollobrigida, Tab Hunter and Sandra Locke, jockey Diane Crump and the Rock group Vanilla Fudge.) They are not idealized celebrities—they are famous people who are portrayed as lovable extroverts, combined to radiate a surreal kind of believability. A commercial has little credibility if we think its spokespersons are hustling a buck. Celebrities must not look like mercenaries. I make them believable by showing them in a human way, downplaying their celebrity.