Truth in Advertising Page 0,106
the truth. It elevates the business, transcends a mere ad to something better, more valuable. It connects with another human being, breaks through the inanity and noise to find something essential and real and lasting. Like art. Not always. Not often. But sometimes. You have seen it done. You have admired the people who do it. And you have come to the realization, in spot after mediocre spot, that you are not that good.
• • •
Day two.
The rain has stopped but it is overcast and cold. Still dark on our way to the set. Pam gets a call while we’re in the van. Jan wants to meet before we roll. Probably not a great sign.
My phone rings. I hold it up for Pam, Ian, and Keita to see.
I answer. “Martin.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, we had a good day yesterday . . .”
“That’s not what I heard. Jan called last night. Had concerns, she said. Worried, she said. Too big to screw up, she said. What the hell is going on?”
His voice is low, angry.
I revert immediately to my go-to mode when confronted by angry, displeased superiors: frightened child. Pam, Ian, and Keita are watching me. We pull into the Universal lot, past security, to our soundstage.
I say, “We can handle this. Yesterday was a little rough, but . . .”
We come to a stop.
Martin says, “Listen carefully, Fin. Don’t fuck this up.”
I say, “I won’t.” But he’s already hung up.
We get out of the car and there, standing at the door to the soundstage, is Martin.
• • •
More babies.
We’re shooting the wide shot of all the moms and babies sitting in the auditorium, facing the screen. Try getting one hundred babies to look at the same place at the same time. I dare you.
Martin’s anger has turned to endearing British charm as he air-kisses Jan, Euro-style, both cheeks.
“Martin.” Jan beams. “What a lovely surprise. You didn’t have to do this, but thank you.”
Ian and I don’t look at each other. But I feel him not looking at me.
“I have a meeting here tomorrow but figured I’d come out a day early and observe,” Martin lies. “Pretend I’m not here.”
“I’d certainly like to,” Pam says.
Karen comes over. “Jan? Sorry to interrupt. But we need to get on that call.”
Jan excuses herself. Martin says, “Come with me.”
Pam, Ian, Keita, and I follow him to the camera, where Flonz is looking through the lens.
Martin says, “Mr. Kemp. Martin Carlson. A great honor. Fan of your work.”
Flonz smiles, “Hey, Marty. Glad you could make it out.”
They’re shaking hands but Martin’s not letting go.
Martin, still smiling. “I’m not sure what kind of arseholes you’re used to working with but if the next two days don’t go flawlessly, and I mean flawlessly, I’ll see to it no one ever wants to work with you again. Clear?” Still smiling. “And it’s Martin, not Marty.” He takes his hand back.
You can see remnants of the old Flonz temper. His eyes narrow, his cheeks color. But his fame and power are long gone. He needs the job. Welcome to the new world, Flonz old boy.
Flonz says, “We’re going to be fine.”
“So glad we had this little chat.” Martin turns and walks away.
Pam, looking at Martin walk away, says, “Wow, I like him so much more now.”
• • •
Martin sits in video village with Jan. Ian, Pam, Keita, and I stand a few yards back from the camera, watching on a monitor. Martin’s chat with Flonz seems to have inspired him. He’s moving faster, the shots coming more smoothly. The baby gods are kind to us and we get the wide shot as well as several tighter shots on moms and babies looking to the screen. Now we’re shooting extreme close-ups of moms and babies, just babies, just moms. Everyone on the set with access to a monitor can’t help smiling. The perfect little faces fill the frame in close-up, wide-eyed and gorgeous.
There’s a break as they reset. The moms stand and stretch. Some change their babies.
Ian and Pam find a space to sit and open Pam’s laptop to log on to the website of a digital design company in New York. They’re the ones who will create the not-Big-Brother–like bunny figure on the screen. We will then fill that image in during post-production. It’s art-related, which means Ian’s in charge. Keita mingles with the crew.
One of the moms comes over. She says, “What do you do?”
“I’m the writer.”
“Oh, wow. That’s cool. Seems like a neat spot. I’m Cindy.”
“Fin. Thanks. We’ll