On borrowed interest, mashed potatoes, and flowers

When I was in fifth grade, I rode my bike to school. The route I took went past a bottle brush tree –– at least that's what we called it. It had soft bark that came off in sheets like thick construction paper and white flowers that looked like, well, a bottle brush.

When the tree was in bloom, it smelled like –– and no, I'm not making this up –– the mashed potatoes at the school cafeteria.

We didn't have mashed potatoes every day, but the tree was in bloom constantly, for weeks. Maybe months. And eventually, I came to think that the mashed potatoes smelled like the tree.

What does this have to do with communication, you ask?

Well, I'll tell you.

One of the easiest ways to get consumers to infer certain characteristics with a brand is to associate your brand with another entity that already possesses those characteristics. A classic example is Grey Poupon. In order to be perceived as a luxury mustard, the advertising consistently put it in the hands of rich people.

If a guy with a snooty accent driving a Rolls Royce ate Grey Poupon, the unspoken logic argued, then Grey Poupon would be perceived as equally as luxurious as the snooty accent and the car.

But as much as a Rolls Royce can bestow attributes to Grey Poupon up, the inverse is true as well. Grey Poupon will inevitably bestow attributes to Rolls Royce.

So now let's talk about Timberland.

Timberland used to be all about chopping through the woods, living in a tent, wearing flannel. Then in the 90s, the brand was discovered in the inner city. Urban youth –– maybe being ironic, I don't know –– took it on as kind of a status symbol. And even though Timberland continued to associate itself with woodsy, northwest imagery in its advertising, Timberland increasingly got associated with rap-listening, bling-wearing images in real life.

Ultimately, consumers saw more Timberland products in real life than in advertising, and the brand became disassociated with what it tried so hard to cultivate.

This is the hazard of creating an aspirational brand. SUVs appeal to soccer moms for their rugged safety, but when you see an SUV on the road, do you expect the driver to be an independent, rugged individual? Nope. She's in her mid to late 30s and on her way to Chuck E Cheese's.

Nike keeps hyping its association with elite athletes, but when you see a huge swoosh on a T-shirt, is your first thought, "Hey, here comes a pro tennis player?" Nope. It's usually a fat person carrying a 32-ounce soda.

What marketers so often fail to realize is that advertising is only a piece –– and a very small piece –– of the message consumers get about a brand. Advertising is the part you can control. But you can't ignore the other stuff. The other stuff is more often than not what really defines a brand's perception.

Ignore the other stuff and you run the risk of having your flower turn into mashed potatoes.

Casting trick #1. First impressions count.

Now that I've given an overview of the casting process (http://tinyurl.com/knnno6) and told you how I write a casting breakdown (http://tinyurl.com/ld7dyx), let me give you a trick I use to help make casting go smoother: The first thing I do when I review my submissions is watch each actor slate and jot down my first impression of him or her.

This isn't stuff like "Yuck!" or "Hottie." It's the first thing that comes to mind about the person. On the job I just finished, some of my notes are "Irish cop," "1950s news anchor," and "Al's friend from that New Year's thing."

These aren't judgments. They're impressions. And it doesn't matter if anybody else can make sense of them.

So what's the point?

Most commercials have more than one role and your first submission can be as many as 300 people. So you have to be able to keep them straight, especially when you need to discuss actors with art directors, copywriters, creative directors, and producers. Jotting down a first impression is a way of crystalizing it for me, kind of like a mnemonic device that helps me recall which actor made which impression later.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Brian, how come you do this with the slate and not the head shot?"

Excellent question.

Actors put a lot of effort into head shots, for the simple reason that it's the thing that makes the difference between being called in for an audition or not. That's good, at least in theory. The problem comes when the photograph goes beyond presenting an actor in a favorable light, which a lot of them do.

There's a talent agency in LA that requires its actors to use the same incredible photographer for their head shots. I love getting submissions from them because every single photo is beautiful. But I also hate getting submissions from them because a lot of the actors who come in only bear a passing resemblance to the person in the photo.

Besides, an impression isn’t necessarily based on how someone looks. It could be based on how they move, how they speak, or the way their clothes hang.

As if being a good director wasn't hard enough.

I just got back from a week in New York, screening my latest film for ad agencies there.

At one agency, I got applause.

I don’t bring this up to brag, but rather to make a point. But before I get to the point, you’re going to have to sit through a little more background.

The film was the same at all the agencies. The conference rooms I screened in were more or less equivalent. The food was provided by the same caterers. And the people attending--copywriters, art directors, and broadcast producers--were all equally professional, experienced, and talented.

So how come I got applause at one screening and not the others? Here comes the point.

The set up.

In each of the screenings, I set up the film differently. In some, I talked about my experience as a director. In others, I talked about my background in advertising. And in others, I went into a bit about the film.

I’m not going to divulge which approach worked the best, not because I want to keep it secret, but rather because it’s not important. What is important is that the right set up creates a favorable expectation.

I was fortunate. I got to try out different approaches in person and come up with one that led to a really positive reaction.

But even if you’re not presenting your film in person, you’re creating certain expectations for it with every aspect you create. Everything––from the title to the poster to the typefaces you choose––contributes to the perception.

Don’t believe me? Look at Hollywood.

If you go by The Hollywood Reporter and Variety, all anyone seems to care about is a film’s opening weekend.

Guess what. Nobody who goes to a film on its opening weekend has seen it before. So they’re going not because it’s a good film, but because it’s a good marketing campaign.

Marketing creates expectations. In the same way that standing in front of a screen in a conference room does.

This is why Hollywood studios spend as much money on marketing as they do on production. And why so many films open well and then fall off to nothing.

Make a great film. But do an equally great job marketing it.

How to dress like a director. And why.

It's inevitable.

At some point, you're going to start dressing like a director. Black T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, baseball cap.

Most directors put on the uniform because they want to look like what they hope to be taken seriously as. And it's not until years later that they discover the purpose behind what they wear. If ever.

Here's why you wear what I wear that they wear.

Baseball cap: If you're shooting exteriors, a baseball cap keeps out the sun. Unfortunately, the bill of a baseball cap isn't exactly well-designed for looking through the viewfinder. The reality? We're losing our hair.

Jeans: Jeans are relatively cheap and durable and aren't ruined by stains. As glamorous as directing sounds, I've spent more time shooting in garbage dumps than in the catwalks of Milan. And no, you don't get to ride into the set in a sedan chair, ordering your minions to find a shot. If you're not on your hands and knees with a viewfinder, you're not directing.

Sneakers: There's a famous story that's been attributed to Steven Spielberg, although it may be apocryphal. An aspiring director asked him for advice and he answered, "Wear comfortable shoes." Sounds glib, but it's actually great advice. You're on your feet constantly. Good directors don't bark commands through a megaphone. They generally station themselves next to the DP in order to work with them on the shot, then move into the set to adjust the actors' performances. On a long lens, you're moving hundreds of yards between every take. (I shot a job on location in Namibia, and since the schedule was tight--and I like to keep the energy up--I found myself running 200 yards between the camera and the actors between each take. Over rocky ground. Try that in a pair of Gucci loafers.)

Black T-Shirt: This is the most telling bit of wardrobe, and there are a bunch of explanations put forward for it. 1) Black is a slimming color. There's probably a lot of truth to this, especially if you don't run around like I do on a set. The craft services table is usually brimming with all sorts of candy and cookies. 2) Black doesn't reflect. There's probably a lot of truth to this one, too, especially on car shoots and sets with lots of reflective surfaces. But while black makes you reflect less, it doesn't make you invisible. Even in a black shirt, your reflection is going to be seen. 3) Black goes with everything. Bingo, but probably not for the reasons you think. It's not about fashion, it's about packing. My work requires me to travel--I once had to fly to Zurich for a single meeting--and in order to travel I have to pack. I don't like checking luggage, so I try to condense my clothes as much as possible. A couple of black T-shirts and a couple pair of jeans and I can be presentable (albeit predictable) for a week.

Besides, I look like a director. Which helps when I'm meeting people I need to impress with my authority for the first time.