Storyboard, page 14
So Keith would begin with the Strategy. He would review the Marketing Objectives: “to achieve a substantial share of the high-quality, cosmetic soap field, specifically to attain an annual consumption equal to at least 75 per cent of this market (or 1.2 of the overall toilet soap market). Marketing efforts generally should be directed against younger women of all classes, with a bias towards the urban centres of population.” Then the Copy Strategy: “Our aim is to establish an image for Product X of a high-quality cosmetic soap, suitable for use instead of, or in addition to, the normal cosmetic range used by women, and having a superlative end-result in terms of skin-care, though without any suggestion of actual medication.” And then he would run over the list of footnotes in which each statement of aims was correlated with what was known by the Hoppness Research Unit of wants in this field. “Reassurance as to quality may be obtained by specific mention of the expensive and exclusive ingredients of the new product. Details of performance in use will include a reassurance that no ring of scum is left in the bowl or bath, even in hard water areas.” (A panel of younger women of all classes in the urban centre of Cardiff, asked if they would prefer a soap which left no ring round the washbowl, had answered, “Yes”.)
There wasn’t any mention in the advertising either of the exclusive ingredients or the ring which wasn’t left in the bowl, but P.A. had said, “Never mind. Go over it all anyway. It gives them confidence to hear it all again. At least they won’t think you’ve forgotten.” So Keith would go over it all again, and he would touch lightly on the Agency’s recommendation that Water Nymph (as he at least would call it) should be put out first in the London area, with advertising on television and in the London evening papers, but he would be showing them a colour page anyway, he’d say, because of course they’d want to use the women’s magazines when the product was available nationally. Then he would show them some wrappers which Fidge had devised, using the name “Water Nymph”—since, although the Agency quite realized that Hoppness might wish to change the name eventually, a name of some sort had to be used, at least for the wrappers. And then he would show them the advertising. And then they would talk about it.
He cleared his throat, and glanced hesitantly down the table at P.A. Dave Amber, who had arranged his copy of the Strategy where he could read it easily, had zipped up his brief-case again, and placed it by his chair. Arnold Brady put both elbows on the table. P.A. gave Keith a little nod. “Well,” Keith said winningly, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what our strategy for this product is,” and began to do so.
*
“Mummy, I want some water.”
“What?”
“Water.”
Stephen wanted some water for his transfers. There were only two. It was ridiculous to do them now. All that mess and clutter for two transfers! Sylvia said, “Why don’t you wait until you’ve got the lot? We’ll send for that book to stick them in.”
“I want to do them now.”
If only it weren’t raining, he could go outside, if only it weren’t too cold. If only it were Saturday, he could be taken to the Saturday Morning Cartoon Show at the local cinema, except that, if it were Saturday, Keith would be here to play with him anyway. When Sylvia had a cold (and she was certainly going to catch his; she could feel it coming), all she wanted was quiet and a chance to go to bed. But a cold made Stephen more of a nuisance than he usually was. “Where are you going to stick them, then?” she said.
“On my hand. Roger’s brother’s a sailor. He’s got pictures all over his hands. He’s got ‘I love you’ and ‘Mother’, and he’s got ‘Kiss Me Do’ on his fingers, and——”
“Stephen, don’t be silly.”
“He has. He come——”
“Came.”
“Cehme.”
“Don’t put on that affected accent; it’s not at all funny. You can speak properly when you want to. Just talk English.”
“Can I have some water, then?”
“You’re not putting transfers on your hands, Stephen.”
“I want to!”
If only she weren’t so tired, she could be more patient with him. She gave the pan of boiling handkerchiefs a jab with a wooden stick, composed her face, and said, “Stevie, you don’t want transfers all over your hands. They’d never come off, darling; they really wouldn’t. Even when you’d got tired of them, they’d still be there for ever and ever, like that poor little girl with the red shoes; remember? You don’t want Daddy to come home and find you with transfers all over your hands.”
A silence while Stephen thought. Then he said, “I’ll get some paper, then.”
“Why not wait till we can buy the book?”
He went resolutely into the drawing-room, and she could hear him at her desk. He knew he wasn’t allowed at her desk. Perhaps she ought to follow him, catch his shoulders, and firmly turn him the other way—but anything for peace and quiet. She had finished the dishes, and tidied up the drawing-room, and now there were the beds. She might lie down for a moment. “Darling, you know you’re not allowed in mummy’s desk,” she called. “Come back in here.” Stephen came back into the kitchen, with a piece of her best, blue writing-paper, with the address embossed at the top.
“Couldn’t you find anything else?”
He looked at her sulkily without replying.
“Oh, all right. You can have it.”
He put the sheet of paper flat on the kitchen table with his transfers, climbed on a chair, and began studying the instructions on the back of the cereal packet. “Can I have some water now?” he said.
Sylvia filled the chipped kitchen saucer with water from the tap, and set it on the table. He watched her, not helping. Then he dipped one finger into the water. “It’s cold,” he said.
“I know it.”
“Cold water’s no good for transfers.”
“Any water will do, Stephen.”
“It says warm water. You don’t use cold water, when it says warm water.”
“For Christ’s sake, shut up!” He was amazed. In a moment, he would begin to howl. Oh God, he was only eight, after all. She couldn’t cope this morning. If this sort of sulkiness and non-co-operation went on, she would lose her temper, and hit him. He didn’t seem to realize she had a cold coming on. But children were not expected to think of such things. She brought her voice under control again. “Look! You read your book, Stevie,” she said. “Mummy’s going to lie down for a moment. She’s very tired.”
“It’s only breakfast time. It’s not sleepy time.”
“It doesn’t make any difference. Mummy isn’t very well, Stephen.” The appeal to pity. He was too young for that. “I won’t be long,” she said. “I’ll just do the beds, and lie down for a second. Then we’ll have our Ovaltine, and do your transfers together. All right?”
Silence. Well, if he wanted to sulk, let him. She wouldn’t be around to put up with it. She left the kitchen, and went upstairs, dragging herself from one step to another. People didn’t realize how tiring children could be. Consumer Research! How could she do Consumer Research or anything else, when she felt so drained of energy the whole time? When Stephen was eleven, and going to Grammar School, she would feel better; no doubt of it. Then she would go back to teaching, and deal with somebody else’s children for a change.
Back in the kitchen, Stephen sat for a while in sullen thought. If his mother ever bothered to listen when he talked to her, she would know that he had finished reading his book. You needed warm water for transfers; it said so on the back. He swung his legs round the side of the chair, and let himself slide off; it was his new way of getting off chairs. He didn’t need help with his transfers, or want it. Warm water. The heavy, cast-iron saucepan was on the gas stove, simmering and bubbling, with the gas turned low. He wasn’t little now; he could reach it quite easily. He could see steam rising from the pan, and there would certainly be warm water inside. He had been told never to play with the Ascot, and anyway the Ascot made a whoom when you turned it on, and she might hear. But nobody would notice if he just took a little warm water from the hankies. He stretched up, and began to lift the pan from the stove. He hadn’t realized it would be so heavy.
“Well, I think that covers the Marketing background and the Media recommendations,” Keith said. “You’ve seen the wrappers, but you’ll probably agree that in any case they’re subsidiary to our main advertising recommendations.” Dave, he noticed, had already filled two pages of his memo pad with notes, and was ready to begin on a third. “I don’t know whether there are any comments you’d like to make at this stage,” he said uncertainly. At the foot of the table, P.A. frowned. Let them begin to comment now, and the advertising would be compromised from the start. P.A. had known one campaign which was never presented at all because Hoppness had been asked to comment at this stage.
But luck was with the Agency. “Not at this stage,” Arnold Brady said, from his place opposite P.A., “Let’s see the whole thing clear, and come in then,” and Dave, who had flicked over to page one of his pad, and opened his mouth to comment, closed it again, and flipped back to page three.
“Well, I think I should warn you we’ve got something pretty bold and imaginative here,” Keith said, and gave a little laugh. “You won’t like it; I can tell you that. It’s not what you could call the usual Hoppness approach, not by a long chalk. There’s a tough job to do here, and we felt you needed something really different this time. We wanted to get the real cosmetic feel into this. A really strong, tough, mood sell. We can’t sell this product as if it were just an ordinary toilet soap; I’m sure we all appreciate that. Maybe we shouldn’t treat it as a soap at all. Because we’ve got to make people believe they’re getting something pretty special.” He repeated the last two words, lingering over them for emphasis. “Prett—tty spesh—ul. And they are, of course.”
He turned over the two press lay-outs, the one in black and white and the one in colour, and read out the headline, which was the same for both. “Like a child’s caress comes the dawn of a new kind of beauty,” Keith said. “Like a child’s caress. Comes the dawn. Of a new kind of beauty. I’d just like you to look at those a moment, if you don’t mind. Tony, would you please pin them up?” Tony pinned the two lay-outs to the asbestos-covered board which was on one wall of the Meeting Room. The pins had little coloured heads like beads; brass drawing-pins were not used at a Client Meeting. Dave Amber took his spectacles from a soft leather case in the top pocket of his jacket, cleaned them, and put them on. They caught the light, and glinted, so that Dave’s eyes disappeared, and Dave became for a moment the man of the future, some robot technician of the the year 2250.
“I’m going to give you some copy to go with that,” Keith said. “But I’d like to play you a tape first. I want you to get the feeling of the thing before we get down to the details. Once we’re agreed on the feeling, there’s no end to the adjustments we can make. After all, that’s why we’re here isn’t it—to work this out between us? But we ought to agree about the feeling first.” (Each adjustment would be a separate wound to Sophia, but one had to say these things, and do them too.) “If we weren’t agreed on the feeling,” Keith said, “no amount of adjustments would do us any good. We’d be working against each other”—which was, broadly speaking, what happened at every meeting with Hoppness, but the fiction of a Working Party had to be kept up.
So Keith played the tape—the music and the gentle persuasive voice, now speaking Sophia’s words. And they listened in silence.
Then Keith played the tape again, and said, “Now let’s look at some pictures.” He handed round the photo-statted copies of the storyboard, and the typed copies of the script. The master copy of the storyboard was pinned beside the lay-outs, and Keith went over to it to explain it, picture by picture.
*
This was the script:
Hoppness, Silch & Co., Ltd.
Product X.
TV—45 seconds.
“Little Girl”.
VIDEO AUDIO
1. Medium Long Shot. A YOUNG
MOTHER and DAUGHTER (age 6/7)
sit in a window-seat together,
watching the sunset. 1½ seconds mute.
Music under: soft, romantic.
FEMALE VOICE OVER
(gentle).
Beauty like the touch of a
child.
DAUGHTER puts out a hand, and
touches MOTHER’S hand. MOTHER
looks down, and smiles. Natural beauty.
2. C.U. MOTHER. Your own true beauty.
Yours—all yours.
TRACK IN to B.G.U.
SLOW MIX.
3. A LITTLE GIRL (age 11-12)
wonderingly examines the
paraphernalia of make-up on a
dressing-table. There is a big pot of
cream, a little pad of rouge, mascara
and a brush, eyebrow
tweezers, tissues, a box of powder,
lipstick. Shot is from above, pulling
back with the LITTLE GIRL as she
wanders towards camera, and
settling on the table, keeping only
her head in shot. When you were a little girl,
you thought make-up was
so grown-up.
CUT. So grown-up.
4. C.U. from below the face of the
LITTLE GIRL, as she examines the
make-up on the table. You didn’t know
beautiful you were.
MIX.
5. C.U. the LITTLE GIRL as she
begins to pull the lipstick over the
line of her lips. You didn’t know!
CUT.
6. High angle: the dressing-table
as before. Do you know now?
MIX.
7. C.U. the YPUNG MOTHER, who
is towelling her face after washing
in the bathroom. She uses an
attractive, white fluffy towel. Shot
begins as her face emerges from
the towel, glowing with beauty.
Camera moves to the shelf above
the washbasin (basin itself never
seen in shot); this is a leisurely
movement, not just a cut to reverse
angle. The shelf is of glass. All that
it contains is a very beautiful
bottle of cologne and a wrapped
bar of water NYMPH. Move in to
B.C.U. of the soap, and hold. Don’t hide your beauty.
Don’t ever hide it.
Help not hide.
There’s a new soap to help
you.
Water Nymph—remember
that name!—Water Nymph,
the new soap you buy at the
chemist’s.
The new soap to give you
natural beauty all the time, every day.
Your own beauty—the real
true you!
MIX.
8. Two-shot. YOUNG MOTHER and
DAUGHTER as before. DAUGHTER
nestles in close.
Keith took them through the storyboard frame by frame, indicating what was happening in each shot, and acting out the words. Then he played the tape for the third time. “Oh, I know it’s bold,” he said. “It’s bold. Pack shot not even at the end, but I think you’ll agree we spend a lot of time on it.” Then he asked Tony to give out the sheets of press copy. Then he said, “Well, gentlemen, I think that covers it. I’m not going to pretend that every one of the copy points in our strategy is written out, syllable by syllable, on those pieces of paper you have in front of you. But I think we all know that there are more ways of making copy points than just by saying them in words, and sometimes those are the strongest ways.”
He sat down. There was a silence. The procedure at a Hoppness meeting was invariable; the most junior of them spoke first. So, after the silence had been prolonged for long enough to let the Agency people know that things weren’t going to be easy, Arnold said, “Peter?” and Peter Pope briskly ripped the notes off his memo pad, laid them out in series on the table before him, and began.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “I’d like to take this opportunity of saying that I think the Agency has shown us some very interesting and imaginative work here. That’s how it struck me, anyway. And I think that probably all of us on this side of the table would agree with that.”
