Airport Journals


The Sneaky Subtle Madison Avenue Revolution	Aug '06

By Cliff Robertson

There's a revolution. On Madison Avenue. It's been going on for a year now. Maybe you haven't noticed it. It's so subtle—almost sneaky. At first I didn't believe it. There were no parades or protests. No demonstrations. No announcements. Nothing in the news. But it was on television. Not obvious. But there and growing and more evident. Daily on all the networks.

So what is it? An electronic virus? Hardly. No—it definitely is man-made. And definitely Madison Avenue made. It is something thoroughly unexpected—until now. Something long missing, and to this observer, much needed.

What is it? It's humor. Not the ordinary variety. But a kind of whacky humor that takes us by surprise. Totally unexpected. I first noticed it some months ago. An American housewife was extolling the glories of a (unnamed to protect the innocent) product in an average matter-of-fact delivery. We—the audience—are suddenly aware of her husband in the far background attempting to spin a hula-hoop around his middle-aged torso. At first she doesn't notice his awkward gyrations. When finally she does, she bravely attempts to continue her spiel—to little avail. The commercial cuts to the end. She is left bereft and adrift. The actress is most convincing. And we—the audience—are left amused and bemused—if we get it. It took my addled brain three times before I finally got it.

Another commercial features a normal, middle-aged pitchman standing on a busy NYC thoroughfare pitching a product, and in the background, we see a pitchman handing out free pamphlets. He is virtually ignored by everyone. Finally, he tosses all the pamphlets in the gutter and attempts to enter a revolving door. Alas, he becomes stuck and we notice he is in a costume of a red dragon. His tail is stuck, as is he. Meanwhile, the pitchman continues his spiel—unaware of the "Dragon-Drama" taking place behind.

These are but two of the upstaging comedies currently playing on our TV of late. There are more. The reader may ask the obvious: "Do I remember the name of the products?" The answer is no. And quite likely I am not alone. But I do remember the comedy. And that is a good and refreshing thing.

I am "Old Madison Avenue." The Madison Avenue that took itself and its products so seriously. Almost reverently. Even the announcers spoke in God-like tones. On the radio and finally on television there was never a hint of humor. The closest thing to change happened in the 1940s when a CEO of a major cigarette company introduced what some called "The Irritant Factor."

Commercials were purposely designed to irritate the viewer and listener. This CEO wasn't stupid. He obviously reasoned that if the audience were sufficiently irritated, they would remember. And we were, and we did. Residuals of the philosophy are evident today. From shock jocks to three-second sound bites, we are bombarded daily throughout America. So much so that C-SPAN and PBS have become listener and viewer havens.

Which brings me to another radio and TV irritant: In the old, less-hurried days, it would be categorized as bad manners—just bad manners. I can't believe that Americans accept conversational rudeness as normal behavior. But apparently we are on the cusp of acceptance. For virtually every talk show practices what I call competitive conversation. Instead of civilized colloquy—even on the more civil channels—talking heads have become increasingly confrontational. Ideas are thrown like darts of disdain at each other. Necessary polite exchange of ideas has been abandoned for competitive "one-upmanship."

Obviously producers of these shows have followed CEO George Washington Hills' formula—disguising rudeness as viable rhetoric. Anything to keep the viewer-listener glued to the tube. One can understand why so many teenagers have slipped into conversational rudeness. Interrupting without pause, without cause, except to "top" the other talker, is a growing virus in American culture. Time we nip it in the bud!

The reader by now might be wondering when my pen will slip into aviation talk. A rather lame attempt would be to remind the reader that "aviation talk" is, or should be, short-succinct-accurate sans "marbles." And—this is important—respectfully polite. Consider the plight of the harried airport controller. After a day full of mush-mouthed anxious pilots, he has to return home and listen to more mush—disguised as meaningful communication. So, in the words of one Fox TV reporter, "Let's keep it short, clear and pithy."

Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. He was recently inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored Cliff as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book.