In ordinary years, a political convention is a loosely made for television event: a mix of political rally and insiders’ party, filtered through chattering TV anchors and breathless commentators. The pandemic turned this year’s socially distanced Democratic National Convention into nothing but a TV show. It channels a range of genres, from reality shows to daytime talk to the earnest public-television telethon. But distilled to its essence, the convention is a TV sales pitch, with Biden as its product. In other words, an infomercial.
So if you want to grade how successfully the Democrats sold Joe Biden to the public this week, the best point of comparison might be the way one company convinced millions of Americans they needed the Showtime Rotisserie. Or the Inside-the-Shell Egg Scrambler. Or the Cap Snaffler. Those were the 1990s-era Ronco products that became near-household names through the power of the infomercial. And the Democratic National Committee might have been taking notes. Because as far as infomercials go, their Buy-This-Biden show was a textbook product pitch.
Infomercials rose to prominence in the 1980s, after the Reagan-era Federal Communications Commission loosened restrictions on television marketing. By the ’90s, they were a cheesy staple of late-night television and a vibrant arm of commerce, hawking everything from exercise machines to Ginsu knives. The New York Times reported that in 1991 alone, infomercials drove more than $750 million in sales, and the numbers rose from there.
And the gold standard of the infomercial was the Ronco ad, which introduced drowsy viewers to rotisserie grills and egg scramblers, along with the Veg-O-Matic slicer and the Pocket Fisherman, a handheld portable fishing pole preloaded with fishing line. The products were designed to insert themselves into consumers’ daily lives and solve some previously unarticulated need. And the infomercials that sold them were “a singular artform,” the Wall Street Journal declared in a 2017 video, timed to Ronco’s (ultimately unsuccessful) IPO.
The video laid out five key elements of every Ronco ad: the problem; the product that solves the problem; the urgent deal; the surprise (“But wait, there’s more!”); and the trusted salesperson. Take the vintage infomercial for the Ronco Electric Food Dehydrator and Beef Jerky Machine. There was the problem (too many additives and preservatives in food; also, beef jerky is expensive). The solution (now, you can make beef jerky yourself—for around $3 a pound!). The urgent deal (“This $130 value for only two easy payments of $19.99!”). The surprise (promise to tell a friend and you get the new Dial-o-Matic Food Slicer, absolutely free!).
The fifth element was Ronco founder Ron Popeil, inventor of the dehydrator and other fantastic gadgets—and, as he described it, his own most eager customer. He had a tinkerer’s enthusiasm and common-man touch; the dehydrator infomercial starts with a brief interlude about the bald spot on the back of his head, followed by a demonstration of the spray-paint-for-hair consumer product that could hide it. He offered testimonials, demonstrating that he used his products the same way his customers would and for the same reasons. He sliced the vegetables himself on TV.
The Ronco formula, it turns out, maps fairly directly to the Democrats’ convention messaging. There’s the problem: Donald Trump, agent of chaos. The product that solves the problem: Biden, a decent, caring guy. The urgent deal, voiced most concisely by Michelle Obama, who implored viewers to “Vote like your lives depend on it!” The surprise: Heartwarming glimpses of Americana that you wouldn’t get from a generic campaign backdrop, projected behind a podium. An American-flag dishtowel in U.S. Representative Brendan Boyle’s kitchen. A wall of cut firewood behind Senator Bernie Sanders. A Rhode Island chef in a mask, displaying a plate of spicy calamari during the roll call vote.
And who is the salesperson? Not the moderators, who serve as anodyne emcees but aren’t central to the event. Not Biden, the product, who makes cheery cameos, but no direct pitch, at least not until the end. The closest thing to Popeil’s breezy, unpretentious salesmanship is the regular-American spokespeople, who deliver brief testimonials that underscore the Democratic platform, or turn up in Zoomlike arrays of cheering fans—or, most charmingly, delivered the roll call vote live, on location.
The convention isn’t structured like a Ronco ad—it’s too long and sprawling, loaded with messages and procedural requirements and boxes to check off. And a half-hour infomercial is easier to control than an eight-hour affair spread out over four nights, so it’s unsurprising that the production design has been uneven. Some politicians speak from homes or classrooms, or in front of local landmarks. Other times, the mood is stilted officialdom: Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez before a bank of American flags; Kamala Harris delivering her “normal” vice presidential acceptance speech in a conspicuously empty faux convention hall.
The tone has also been less relentlessly positive than the standard infomercial—a nod to the need to acknowledge troubled times. The Zoom-call nature of the proceedings can feel like a sad reminder of how many people have marked birthdays, holidays and funerals with digital approximations of togetherness. The first night, in particular, was a downer, filled with doom-and-gloom messaging about the state of the nation, punctuated by Kristi Urquiza’s rage over her father’s death from coronavirus and Michelle Obama’s call to action. (A low point, moodwise, may have been Maggie Rogers, playing a mellow song on acoustic guitar, standing literally on the rocks.)
Still, the ordinary people’s enthusiasm broke through, and the remote format made it easier to highlight their quirks and relatable needs. It’s striking that some of the flattest convention moments have come from politicians standing at garden-variety podiums. (Even worse are the on-the-nose metaphors: Senator Catherine Cortez Masto of Nevada talking about kitchen-table conversations while sitting at her kitchen table. Or former Ohio Governor John Kasich, saying America is at a crossroads while standing at an actual crossroads.)
By contrast, most of the nonfamous people have no pretensions, careers to burnish or political roles to fulfill. They earnestly describe their encounters with health care, immigration, economic stress, Biden himself. Their homes aren’t marvels of production design. There are bikes in the background and plants sticking out from behind people’s heads, Cookie Monster scrubs and bad hair days and messy countertops and other trappings of authenticity. And that makes them salespeople in the mold of Popeil—projecting a kind of urgent sincerity, an honest belief that this product will make their lives easier.
They also demonstrate the party’s ethnic diversity, which happens to be one of the Democrats’ most compelling selling points, especially in contrast to the overwhelmingly white crowds at Trump rallies and Republican conventions.
In normal times, the focus was always on the podium and the officially sanctioned voices. This year, the media hasn’t dropped that fixation. The New York Times is mapping airtime as it would a horse race. The chattering classes are drilling into the hidden messages behind the official agenda—parsing every word of AOC’s just-over-a-minute-long speech, questioning why Julián Castro didn’t make the short list in a montage of 2020 presidential also-rans.
But to viewers at home, it’s the regular folks who got the most airtime, especially on the convention’s first two nights. Joe Biden is the politician they’re buying off the shelf, the vessel through which, they told the viewing audience, they believe they can get the America they want. Yes, they’re taking part in a sales operation at a massive scale—laid out in a choreographed, made-for-TV production. But they’re buying what they’re selling.
"Hour" - Google News
August 21, 2020 at 04:23AM
https://ift.tt/3aGPgR0
This Convention Was an Eight-Hour-Long Infomercial—And a Pretty Good One - POLITICO
"Hour" - Google News
https://ift.tt/2WcHWWo
https://ift.tt/2Stbv5k
Bagikan Berita Ini
0 Response to "This Convention Was an Eight-Hour-Long Infomercial—And a Pretty Good One - POLITICO"
Post a Comment