The Band Wagon: You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

The Band Wagon, From Left Cyd and Fred Astaire. Photo - Everett

‘The Band Wagon’ is a fine 1953 musical comedy, directed by Vincente Minnelli with songs by Schwartz and Dietz. Starring Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse, it boasts great tunes and cracking dance routines. And it explores some important themes: the interaction between aging talent, timeless skills and contemporary relevance; between entertainment and art, populism and pretension.

The film begins with the auction of a top hat and cane that once belonged to Tony Hunter (Astaire), the star of now dated dance movies. No one is interested in making a bid. We join Tony on a train from Hollywood to New York where he overhears fellow passengers discuss him as a has-been. At Grand Central he is heartened to see a crowd of reporters, but they are there to greet Ava Gardner. He realises he’s all washed up.

'The party's over, the game is ended,
The dreams I dreamed went up in smoke.
They didn't pan out as I had intended,
I should know how to take a joke.’ 
‘By Myself’ (A Schwartz / H Dietz)

Nonetheless, Tony is welcomed at the station by his friends, songwriting duo Lester and Lily Marton. They have composed a light musical comedy that will make a perfect Broadway comeback for him. And they are excited to have caught the interest of avant garde theatre director Jeffrey Cordova.

When the team meet up with Cordova, he enthuses about the project. He proposes to bring together diverse performance traditions into something startlingly new; to create a radical reinterpretation of the Faust legend. 

To accommodate the director’s vision, the Martons rewrite their play as a dark, cutting edge musical drama. And Cordova signs up youthful ballerina Gaby Gerard (Charisse) as Tony’s partner.

Tony, however, is apprehensive about starring opposite a classically trained ballet dancer, and one so tall. And Gaby is nervous about working with a Hollywood legend. Their initial meeting goes badly.

Gaby: I'm a great admirer of yours too.
Tony: Oh, I didn't think you'd ever even heard of me.
Gaby: Heard of you? I used to see all your pictures when I was a little girl. And I'm still a fan. I recently went to see a revival of them at the museum.

The company embarks on rehearsals. But Tony, feeling he's being patronized by the creative team, storms out. 

'Let's get this straight. I am not Nijinsky. I am not Marlon Brando. I am Mrs Hunter's little boy, Tony, song and dance man.'

When Gaby’s attempt to patch things up with Tony goes awry, she bursts into tears. They decide to clear the air with an evening carriage ride and walk through Central Park.

'Where to?'
'Oh, leave it to the horse.'

Strolling under a full moon, they reach a clearing. They walk slowly, in step, without a word - he in a cream linen jacket with yellow shirt and tie, she in a simple white dress. She spins. He spins. They sway together - he with his hands behind his back, she with her hands by her sides. They rotate, skip, twist and turn. At first gently, thoughtfully. Gradually they become elegantly entwined, and as the swooning string music is punctuated by stabs of brass, the extensions become more dramatic, the embrace more intimate. He lifts her up and they look into each other’s eyes. They flutter gracefully up a set of steps and settle back into the carriage, hand in hand, without a word. 

This famous ‘Dancing in the Dark’ sequence establishes that Gaby and Tony make natural dance partners. They recommit to rehearsals with renewed vigour. 

However, the first out-of-town tryout of the show proves disastrous. It’s a hugely complicated production, with elaborate sets and muddled stage direction, and it degenerates into a farce. 

'You got more scenery in this show than there is in Yellowstone National Park!’

'I should have listened to my mother. She told me only to be in hit shows.’

At Tony’s insistence, the creative team convert the production back into the light comedy that the Martons had originally envisaged. At last it all comes together.

The show's centrepiece is a 12-minute dance tribute to pulp detective novels. ‘Girl Hunt’, a murder mystery in jazz’ relates a private eye’s adventures on the city’s mean streets. There’s a blonde in distress, who’s ‘as scared as a turkey in November,’ and a sinister brunette with ‘more curves than a scenic railway.’ There’s a gunfight in the subway and trilbied villains at a fashion show; an emerald ring, exploding bottles and a murderous trumpet player. And it all climaxes in Dem Bones Café with Charisse in shimmering red dress and black evening gloves, all sensuous strut, long legs and high kicks.

‘She was bad. She was dangerous. I wouldn't trust her any farther than I could throw her. But... she was my kind of woman.’

After the thrillingly successful Broadway opening, Gaby and Tony embrace in front of the entire cast and crew. 

'The show's a big hit, Tony... It's going to run for a long time. As far as I'm concerned, it's going to run forever.'

So what are we to make of the underlying themes of  ‘The Band Wagon’?

There’s no doubt the project had personal resonances for Astaire. He was 54 and had been indelibly associated with high society dance movies. He often worried about taller partners and had previously considered retirement.

At first the film seems to be an assertion of the enduring power of established craft in the face of contemporary trends and pretentious art-house conceits. But Tony’s ultimate success does not reside in him returning to the top-hat-and-tails tropes of yesteryear. Rather he forges a new, more inventive form of popular entertainment, based on a natural partnership with a star from another discipline.

It suggests that traditional skills can remain relevant - not by grafting them onto the latest fad or fashion - but by investing them with new vigour, input and imagination.

As the cast declare in a final reprise of the show’s big hit: ‘That’s entertainment!’

'Everything that happens in life
Can happen in a show.
You can make 'em laugh,
You can make 'em cry,
Anything can go.’
’That’s Entertainment’ (A Schwartz, H Dietz)

No.414

Ravilious: An Eye for Ordinary Beauty

Two Women in a Garden

I recently watched a fine documentary about the artist and designer Eric Ravilious. (‘Eric Ravilious: Drawn to War’ (2022), directed by Margy Kinmonth)

Ravilious was a cheerful soul with an observant eye and gentle touch. His design work was clear, concise and witty. His watercolours gave us an affectionate picture of England – at peace and war. He painted a world of serenity, stillness and restraint - at the same time both romantic and modern. And he had an extraordinary ability to recognise ordinary beauty.

Born in Acton in 1903, Ravilious was raised in Eastbourne where his parents ran an antiques shop. From an early age he was inclined towards art, recording in his notebook precise sketches of everyday objects: a scrubbing brush, bucket and boots; a candlestick, collar and tie.

Ravilious won scholarships to study wood engraving at Eastbourne School of Art and then the Royal College of Art. He went on to work as a commercial designer, creating illustrations for books, magazines and adverts. His woodcut of two Victorian gentlemen playing cricket has appeared on the front cover of every edition of Wisden Cricketers' Almanack since 1938. His ceramic designs for Wedgwood include commemorative coronation crockery and his much loved Alphabet mug. A is for Aeroplane, B is for Birdcage, C is for Cloud. The Y and Z - Yacht and Zeppelin - hide on the inside.

Train Landscape

Although Ravilious’ commercial output was delightful, his clients could still be frustrating.

‘Wedgwood have given me some ceramics work. But I am sorry to say that the family think my beautiful designs above the heads of their public, and that to begin with something should be done which is safer and more understandable. I was for clean sweep, they were for a method of slow percolation.’

While earning a living from his design work, Ravilious also had a passion for watercolours. (He couldn’t stand oils, comparing them to toothpaste.)

He painted the countryside and village life of Essex and Sussex; gentle hills, ploughed fields and muddy tracks, under cold grey skies. Here are the ponds at East Dean and Wannock Dew; chalk paths twisting their way across the Downs; the vicarage at Castle Hedingham in the snow. A field-roller lies unattended. A delivery van pauses at a junction. Here’s Ravilious’ wife Tirzah shelling peas under a walnut tree, while her friend Charlotte is engrossed in her book. A man delivers coal to the back of the house. A woman beats a carpet in the shadows. A camp bed in the attic awaits a guest, in amongst the pot plants.

There is a timeless romanticism about Ravilious’ watercolours. But these are not cosy, traditional images. They often have an unsettling, haunted quality. And modern elements are consistently present. There are barbed wire fences, telegraph poles and cement pits. The ancient chalk horse on the hill at Westbury is seen from inside a third class railway compartment. In the yard old automobiles sit forlorn, hoping to be repaired.

Any item, any perspective, however mundane, presents possibility to Ravilious.

Sometimes the images of the late 1930s seem subtly to suggest impending crisis, peace soon to be disturbed. An empty room has the door flung open, as if someone has left in a hurry. The table in the back garden is set for tea, with an umbrella to hand just in case. 

Eric Ravillious

At the outbreak of World War II Ravilious joined the Royal Observer Corps.

‘As the war was starting this morning I put myself down for observing, and started at 2-00 this afternoon. It’s looked on as an old man’s job, which depresses me rather. But it is useful in these parts, and may even be dangerous. Or enough to count.’

Ravilious clearly relished the opportunity to get away, to see strange sights, to immerse himself in his work.

‘I feel a stir in me that it is possible to really like drawing war activities. It interests me to the bone and marrow.’

Before long he was commissioned by the War Artists' Advisory Committee and given the rank of Honorary Captain in the Royal Marines. His military employment took him to docks, coastal defences, submarine stations and aerodromes all over the UK; and on a perilous naval mission to Norway. 

‘It was so nice working on deck long past midnight in bright sunshine. It never fell below the horizon. I do like this life and the people. It’s so remote and lovely in these parts. And the excitements above and below don’t interrupt much.’

Ravilious’ letters to Tirzah sustain the same jaunty tone. Perhaps he was putting on a brave face.

Norway 1940

‘I’m going up to the cliffs twice a day like a man to the office. We’re bombed in the afternoons about 3-30, just as you want tea.’

Ravilious painted barrage balloons, magnetic mines and gun emplacements; docked destroyers in the dead of night; sentinels sitting among the sand bags; seaplanes seen through the sick bay window. A ship’s propeller rests on a railway trolley in the snow. Biplanes are reflected in puddles on the tarmac. Searchlights trace the night sky.

But Ravilious does not over-dramatise. He regards weapons of death and destruction with the same keen eye as he applies to agricultural implements. Each subject - a depth charge launcher, a fortified fishing vessel, an aircraft carrier - presents its own unique design challenge; its own particular beauty.

'Salt Marsh'

In August 1942 Ravilious was invited to visit RAF Station Kaldadarnes in Iceland. On the day he arrived, a plane had failed to return from patrol, and the next morning the artist joined the search party. He wrote a letter home before he set off.

‘I’ve just been offered a ride with a crew searching for a missing American plane. I intend to stay here drawing and painting ‘til Christmas. Goodbye Darling. I hope you feel well again. Take care of yourself. And kisses to the children. Eric.’

Ravilious’ aircraft did not return, and after four days the RAF declared him and the four-man crew lost in action. He was 39 years old.

For some 40 years after, Ravilious was a forgotten artist. It is only in recent decades that his reputation as a ‘romantic modern’ has been established. He teaches us to prize the landscape that surrounds us; to treasure the everyday sights of home; to find charm in the both the strange and familiar. And to approach life with a light heart and a love of beauty.

'Maybe we'll live and learn,
Maybe we'll crash and burn.
Maybe you'll stay, maybe you'll leave.
Maybe you'll return,
Maybe another fight.
Maybe we won't survive,
But maybe we'll grow.
We never know, baby, you and I.

We're just ordinary people,
We don't know which way to go.
'Cause we're ordinary people
Maybe we should take it slow.’

John Legend, 'Ordinary People’ (J Stephens / W Adams)

No. 413

Dogs Can Anticipate Incompetence. Can’t We All?

Francisco de Goya,: The Dog (c1820)

'Never tell a fool that he is a fool. All you'll have is an angry fool.’
The Talmud

With his long ears, short attention span and boundless energy, springer spaniel Dillon was very much part of the Carroll household. When he wasn’t chasing birds or his own tail in the back garden, he tended to hang around the kitchen in the hope of scraps from his mistress’s table.

One day, at home alone from school, I decided to prepare myself a Bejam meat pie and baked beans. Though no culinary expert, I felt I was up to the task.

Dillon sat up straight, anticipating opportunity.

I located a meat pie in the chest freezer we kept in the garden shed and promptly popped it in the oven, setting the heat at an approximate level. Then I stirred the beans and set to reading the next chapter of my Graham Greene novel. After some time, alerted by a concerned bark from Dillon, I discovered the pie was beginning to burn on top.

That’ll be well done, I thought. And so I slipped it onto a plate and spooned the beans over - with a little dash of HP sauce for good measure.

As I tucked into my mid-day feast Dillon regarded me with fierce intensity.

Blimey. That’s not what I expected. Though burnt to a crisp on the outside, the Bejam meat pie was still frozen on the inside. I didn’t know that was scientifically possible.

I deposited the unsightly mess in the swing bin. 

Dillon retired to his station under the telly, the look on his forlorn face suggesting he should have expected nothing better.

I read recently that dogs are able to identify stress in humans from their sweat and breath. Indeed new research published in Behavioural Processes has found that canines are capable of recognizing people’s competence at completing certain tasks.

In the first phase of the study scientists arranged for hungry dogs to watch people attempting to open a food container. The conditions were set so that one sample of humans succeeded in the task (‘The Competent’) and another sample failed (‘The Incompetent’).

When the same humans revisited the exercise in the second phase of the test, they were observed by the same dogs. This time the canny canines fixed their gaze on the Competent openers, ignoring the actions of the Incompetent.

The study concluded that dogs can recognize ineptitude and anticipate its reoccurrence. The article also noted that females are particularly good at spotting inadequacy.

I suspect it’s not just dogs that can sense incompetence. As you walk into the room to find half the attendees are running late. As you embark on a discussion without any clarity about the objectives and duration of the session. As you observe the debate running off subject without any moderation. You just know this is going to be a meandering mess of a meeting.

I’m well aware that many executives think meeting hygiene is beneath them. But what some consider cool, the rest of us consider feckless.

'Details make perfection, and perfection is not a detail.’
Leonardo da Vinci

I often advise Planners to address their career in two phases: rigorous youth and then cavalier maturity. My suggestion is that we should employ the first years of work to learn the ABC of business, to assemble the tools of our trade. After that we can afford to be more self-confident and bold; more flamboyant and expressive.

On hearing this recommendation, most people tend to focus on the cavalier element of it. It sounds like fun. But the tedious truth is that successful careers are founded on rigour, reliability, discipline and attention to detail.

Although Dillon regarded me as inept, he was nonetheless happy to accompany me on brisk walks to Haynes Park and beyond. He had the capacity to forgive failure. Which is perhaps another worthwhile leadership lesson.

'Maybe I'm a fool
For loving you so.
And maybe I'm a fool,
I don’t really know.
But I can't stop loving you, darling,
Even though I tried.

So if you should decide
To try me once more.
All you got to do is knock on my door,
And I'll say that I've taken you back.
If taking you back would be foolish,
Then maybe I'm a fool.’

Aretha Franklin, ‘Maybe I’m a Fool’ (J. L McFarland)

No. 412

Reboot, Relocate, Reimagine: Making Best Use of Traditional Myths and Historical Literature

Constance Devernay-Laurence in Coppelia. Photo: Andy Ross.

‘Coppélia’ is a late 19th century comic ballet, choreographed originally by Saint-Léon and then Petipa, and set to the music of Delibes. Its narrative derives from a Hoffmann short story in which a reclusive inventor crafts a dancing doll so lifelike that a village youth falls madly in love with it. 

I have seen the work a few times and come to the conclusion that it is a somewhat silly museum piece. 

I recently attended a performance by Scottish Ballet of its new version of ‘Coppélia’, choreographed by Morgann Runacre-Temple and Jessica Wright (Sadler’s Wells, London). The drama has been relocated to Silicon Valley and the inventor is now a black polo-neck wearing tech titan. In his NuLife lab he is creating Coppélia, an AI woman that he hopes to transform into a cyborg. A young man becomes besotted with the digital automaton.

With its futuristic candy-coloured costumes, suggestive of ‘Metropolis’; its athletic bobbed dancers; and its elegant integration of screen technology, this new ‘Coppélia’ is smart, slick and dazzling. In rebooting the ballet, the dance-makers have successfully embraced themes of tech megalomania; clones and the metaverse; the nature of 21st century relationships. ‘Coppélia’ has been reborn.

I can think of quite a few theatre productions I’ve seen over the years that have relocated or reimagined a traditional story or historic work, and in so doing have transformed it into something completely contemporary.

When Shakespeare’s ‘Henry V’ was transposed to the Iraq War, the ethical issues of the conflict seemed terribly real. When Macbeth was recast as a 20th century African warlord, the fierce brutality at the heart of the drama struck home. When Hamlet and Ophelia were presented as gaunt student goths, the audience was prompted properly to consider their fragile youth.

Bruno Micchiardi as Dr Coppelius. Photo: Andy Ross

In 2018 director Marianne Elliott swapped the gender of the main character in Stephen Sondheim’s 1970 musical ‘Company.’ Whereas the traditional male lead in this role can come across as careless and complacent, here we were presented with a successful woman in her mid-30s, unable to commit to a steady relationship and confronted with a ticking clock. It was much more interesting.

'Success is a journey, not a destination. It requires constant effort, vigilance and re-evaluation.’
Mark Twain

Of course advertising campaigns have often drawn on established cultural motifs to achieve immediate recognition and shared reference points.

Back in the day my own Agency, BBH, produced a Lynx/Axe ad that reimagined the fantasy film ‘One Million Years BC’; an Audi ad that channelled Jimi Hendrix; and a Boddington’s ad that mimicked Rene Magritte. And more besides.

The most interesting cultural appropriations not only borrowed from a source story. At the same time they introduced some new interpretation of that tale and integrated the brand in a compelling way.

In 1992 BBH shot a Levi’s ad based on the Cinderella myth. In this version the protagonist in search for love is not a male prince, but a female heroine. She must find the one man who can fit into a discarded pair of worn 501s. Because ‘no two pairs are the same.’

In 2012 The Guardian employed the fable of the Three Little Pigs as a platform to showcase the power of live, participative news reporting; of expert, campaigning journalism across multiple platforms.

At their best commercial reboots, relocations and reimaginings both borrow from, and invest in, the original myths and legends. They make both the story and the brand more relevant.

Inevitably not every new theatrical interpretation I’ve seen has been entirely successful.

One summer my wife and I treated ourselves to some country house opera, booking to see 'La Bohème' at Glyndebourne. As we drove down through rural Sussex, we put behind us the stress, grit and grime of urban life. It was a proper escape. However, this production of the Puccini classic transposed its impoverished artists from the Latin Quarter of 1840s Paris to the hipster scene of present day Hoxton in East London. This was indeed a sound directorial decision. Sadly we’d driven three hours to arrive at a familiar place just a mile from home.

'Back to life, back to the present time,
Back from a fantasy.
Tell me now, take the initiative.
I'll leave it in your hands, until you're ready.
How ever do you want me.
How ever do you need me.’

Soul II Soul, 'Back to Life (However Do You Want Me)’ ( Jazzie B, C Wheeler, N Hooper, S Law)

No. 412

Medea and the Consequences of Love: Should a Company Consider the Victims of Its Success?

Sophie Okonedo. Photograph: Jane McLeish Kelsey

I recently attended a fine production of Euripides’ ‘Medea’, a Greek tragedy first produced in Athens in 431 BC. (@sohoplace, London until 20 April)

‘I want him crushed, boneless, crawling – I have no choice.’

‘Medea’ is a muscular play that grapples with big themes: betrayal and retribution; xenophopia and feminism; how victims turn to vengeance. It presents us with the dark aspects of heroism and the consequences of love. And in so doing it poses questions about our own attitudes to success.

‘I have done it: because I loathed you more than I loved them.’

Medea ( terrifically played by Sophie Okonedo), a princess of Colchis (in modern-day Georgia) and descended from the gods, has fallen for Greek hero Jason, and used her magic powers to help him steel the Golden Fleece. Now married to Jason and settled with their two sons in Corinth, she discovers that he plans to wed the King’s daughter in order to secure his position there.

‘Her sun is rising, mine going down - I hope
To a red sunset.’

The King, anticipating that Medea will cause trouble, has decreed that she and her children should be exiled. She is overcome with rage, a sense of injustice and a passionate desire for vengeance.

‘Poor misused hand; poor defiled arm; your bones
Are not unshapely. If I could tear off the flesh and be bones; naked bones;
Salt-scoured bones on the shore
At home in Colchis.’

Jason confronts Medea and argues that she only sees one side of the story.

‘I see, Medea
You have been a very careful merchant of benefits. You forget none. You keep a strict reckoning.’

Rather arrogantly, he suggests she is lucky to have been taken from a ‘barbarian’ land to civilised Greece.

‘I carried you
Out of the dirt and superstition of Asiatic Colchis into the rational
Sunlight of Greece, and the marble music of the Greek temples: is that no benefit?’

Jason concludes that Medea has brought all this on herself. She, incandescent with anger, plots her revenge.

‘I’d still be joyful
To know that every bone of your life is broken: you are left helpless, friendless, mateless, childless,
Avoided by gods and men, unclean with awful excess of grief – childless.’

I was quite taken with the way that this play presents the collateral damage that comes in the wake of achievement.  

When I was a child, like many people, I first encountered Jason in the 1963 movie epic ‘Jason and the Argonauts’ (featuring the extraordinary stop-motion animation of Ray Harryhausen). This cinematic Jason is brave, ingenious, romantic. He is a luminous hero.

Euripides gives us Jason’s sinister side. He comes across as disloyal and egotistical; bigoted and sexist.

‘A man dares things, you know; he makes his adventure
In the cold eye of death; and if the gods care for him
They appoint an instrument to save him; if not he dies.
You were that instrument.’

The play asks us to consider the victims of Jason’s heroic journey. He has been on a quest for glory and power. But he leaves behind him a trail of death and destruction; of broken hearts and lives.

‘Not justice; vengeance.
You have suffered evil, you wish to inflict evil.’

For Euripides heroism comes at a cost; success creates victims and victims demand vengeance. There’s a price to pay for love.

‘A great love is a fire
That burns the beams of the roof.
The doorposts are flaming and the house falls.
A great love is a lion in the cattle-pen,
The herd goes mad, the heifers run bawling
And the claws are in their flanks.
Too much love is an armed robber in the treasury.
He has killed the guards and he walks in blood.’

This may seem strange, but as I sat in the theatre, I found myself wondering about the world of work.

In commerce we like to celebrate success. We tell tales of battles fought and victories won. We make heroes of our top performers. But how often do we stop to consider the colleagues who don’t quite attain the highest levels; the collateral damage of our leaders’ high standards and impossible demands; the victims of success?

A progressive, modern business should be mindful of the failings of its triumphant talent; should strive to ensure that no one is left behind in the advance; should keep an eye on maintaining a coherent culture, even when everything’s going well and to plan. Because a unified culture can sustain you through the tough times that will inevitably follow.

‘It is dangerous to dream of wine; it is worse
To speak of wailing or blood:
For the images that the mind makes
Have a way out, they work into life.’

As a society we imagine that we have only attended to the issues relating to mental health in the last century, and only taken them seriously in the last decade. And yet in the 5th century BC, Euripedes was well aware of the psychological pressure Medea is under as she builds ‘that terrible acropolis of deadly thoughts.’

Indeed the Chorus recommends that some respite be attained by getting out more, by sharing problems – by embracing a ‘talking cure.’

‘We Greeks believe that solitude is very dangerous, great passions grow into monsters
In the dark of the mind; but if you share them with loving friends they remain human, they can be endured.’

This is sound advice, and perhaps the first step to avoiding seething jealousies in the workplace. We may also heed Euripides’ encouragement to nip prospective problems in the bud.

‘To annihilate the past -
Is not possible: but its fruit in the present -
Can be nipped off.’

I left this production of ‘Medea’ inspired by the compelling performances and timeless themes; by the relevant issues and rich language (an excellent translation by Robinson Jeffers from the 1940s). And I left relieved not to have been born into the aristocracy.

‘Oh it’s a bad thing
To be born of high race, and brought up wilful and powerful in a great house, unruled.
And ruling many: for then if misfortune comes it is unendurable, it drives you mad. I say that poor people
Are happier: the little commoners and humble people, the poor in spirit: they can lie low
Under the wind and live: while the tall oaks and cloud-raking mountain pines go mad in the storm,
Writhe, groan and crash.’

'Now you say you're lonely,
You cry the long night through.
Well, you can cry me a river,
Cry me a river.
I cried a river over you.
Now you say you're sorry
For being so untrue.
Well, you can cry me a river,
Cry me a river.
I cried a river over you.
You drove me, nearly drove me
Out of my head,
While you never shed a tear.
Remember, I remember
All that you said.
Told me love was too plebeian.
Told me you were through with me,
And now you say you love me.
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river,
Cry me a river,
I cried a river over you.’

Julie London,’Cry Me a River' (A Hamilton)

No. 411

Two Singalongs, Two Sentiments: Some People Lack Confidence, Others Lack Contrition

Jan van Eyck - The Ghent Altarpiece - Singing Angels (detail)

I attended a couple of gigs recently. 

The first featured a progressive young jazz act. Abstract melodies, elusive rhythms and virtuoso playing. Very impressive all round.

As the concert drew to a close, the bandleader addressed the audience from behind his keyboards.

‘I’d just like to thank you all for joining us on our journey this evening. I know we’ve been through some hard times together.’

He paused and played a couple of chords in a minor key.

‘These last few years have been tough. And we owe it to ourselves to engage in a little self-care.‘

This thought met with nodding approval from the people sitting near me.

‘So for this final number I want everyone to put their hands in the air and sing along with us: ‘I love myself.’’

The audience duly complied and the whole hall swayed to the euphoric conclusion to the set.

‘I love myself! I love myself! I love myself!’

I confess I didn’t join in. I’m old and not inclined to participation.

I turned to my companion:

‘When I was growing up, this would have been considered a sin.’

The second gig featured Lee Fields, a veteran R&B singer. Born in North Carolina in 1950, Fields is one of the last soul survivors, a representative of an era of soaring vocals, sweet harmonies and deeply felt emotions. A diminutive figure with a sparkly blue jacket and a winning smile, he channelled Stax and gospel; James Brown, Percy Sledge and Bobby Womack. He begged and beseeched, sobbed and swooned, and occasionally performed a dramatic spin on the spot.

Lee Fields

Fields’ exercise in audience participation came with his song ‘What Did I Do?’  - a sorrowful confession of a man’s responsibility for the demise of a relationship.

'I took all the love that you gave to me,
Then I took all my things and set you free.
What did I do?
Baby, baby, baby, what did I do?
You were all the world to me,
But I didn't give you nothing but misery.
What did I do?’
Lee Fields, ‘What Did I Do?'

At Fields’ invitation, the crowd joined him in a mournful repetition of the key refrain. He had the whole of Koko’s Camden swaying in unison with arms held aloft.

‘What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?’ 

Raised as a Catholic, I’ve always been comfortable with doubt, guilt and regret. And so I too joined in.

‘What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?’ 

Afterwards I was quite struck by the difference in sentiment between the singalongs at these two gigs: one was an exhortation to self-confidence; the other an act of contrition.

Both sentiments are relevant in life and work. Some occasions and some people need support, encouragement and reassurance. Other times and individuals require humility, introspection and self-examination.

One of the challenges for a leader is to distinguish between these two modes and to apply them appropriately.

You’ll find colleagues with low self-worth who constantly need to be boosted and buoyed up. But you’ll also encounter colleagues who are too conscious of their own talent and too disrespectful of the contribution of others. They need to be taken down a peg or two; to be exposed to a little proportion and perspective.

This requires some skill. Get it wrong and you’ll destroy the confidence of the humble, whilst enhancing the self-esteem of the arrogant.

 
'I may not be the richest man,
But I'm gonna give you everything I can.
I always try to do my best.
When I fall short, I let love do the rest.
It rains love when I'm with you.
It rains love when I'm with you.
You're my sun when the clouds roll through.
It rains love when I'm with you.’

Lee Fields, ‘It Rains Love’

No. 410

Female Abstract Artists: If You Want To Change the Product, Change the Process – And If You Want To Change the Story, Change the Narrator

Helen Frankenthaler, April Mood, 1974 © 2023 Helen Frankenthaler Foundation, Inc./Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. Photo: courtesy ASOM Collection

I recently attended an excellent exhibition of the work of women abstract painters from the 1940s to the early 1970s. (‘Action, Gesture, Paint’ is at the Whitechapel Gallery, London until 7 May.)

On entering the gallery, you’re greeted by Helen Frankenthaler’s ‘April Mood’, a joyous choreography of colour: royal and pale blue, purple and radiant pink, set against a base of sandstone and tangerine.

‘A really good picture looks as if it’s happened at once. It’s an immediate image.’
Helen Frankenthaler

There follows a selection of work by some 80 artists from all over the world. Big, bold, vibrant canvases. Audacious expressions of raw experience: joy, awe, anger and despair. Emotional responses to a world in crisis and to the beauties of nature.

'I paint from remembered landscapes that I carry with me - and remembered feelings of them, which of course become transformed.’
Joan Mitchell

These artists were liberated from the constraints of tradition and convention. As Ida Barbarigo declared, they wanted to ‘unlearn painting,’ to forget academic teaching.

I was particularly struck by the inventiveness of their working methods.

Some layered the paint on thick. Some scraped it and scratched it. Others spattered, splashed and sprayed; and liberally added dribbles and stains. Their gestures were occasionally spontaneous and occasionally controlled. Some mixed their paint with other materials: sand, sawdust, cigarette ash and cement; lacquer, chalk and carpenter’s glue. 

Work, 1958-62, by Yuki Katsura. Image: Courtesy Alice and Tom Tisch, New York © Estate of Yuki Katsura

‘My paintings are collaged bits of time from my past and present experiences.’
Wook-kyung Choi

Frankenthaler achieved her fluid, organic effects by thinning her paint and applying it to unprimed canvas. Gillian Ayres worked at speed, pouring paint straight from the can, or squirting it directly from the tube. Lee Krasner integrated into her work cut-up fragments of newspapers, burlap and discarded drawings. Yuki Katsura placed wet washi paper on painted canvas and then overpainted it. Franciszka Themerson tilted her paper so that the enamel flowed in loose, curving calligraphic forms. Janet Sobel trickled pigment from a pipette (well before Jackson Pollock adopted his celebrated ‘drip technique’). 

The exhibition repeatedly confirms a truth that pertains to any creative endeavour: if you want to change the product, change the process.

‘To me, art - colour in art – is wonderfully indulging… I don’t see why you shouldn’t be filling yourself up, making yourself happy. Enjoying yourself. Feasting on beauty. I want an art that’s going to make me feel heady, in a high flown way. I love the idea of that.’
Gillian Ayres 

Lee Krasner, Bald Eagle, 1955 (Credit: The Pollock-Krasner Foundation)

One wanders through the exhibition with a faint sense of recognition. Many of these ideas, themes and approaches are familiar to us. But, with a few exceptions, the works and the artists are not.  

The story of Abstract Expressionism, the art movement that emerged in New York in the late 1940s is classically written around titanic male figures like Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning and Mark Rothko. 

There were women artists on the scene, but it was a notoriously machismo culture. Corinne West painted under the name Michael West so as to disguise her gender. Elaine de Kooning signed her work with her initials to evade comparisons with her husband. Grace Hartigan became George and Lena Krasner became Lee.

'It’s quite clear I didn’t fit in. With relation to the group, if you are going to call them a group, there was not room for a woman.'
Lee Krasner 

Elaine de Kooning The Bull 1959 (1) - Whitechapel Gallery

Over time the women abstract artists were marginalised or written out of the movement’s history. Recent retrospectives have included few females.

The Whitechapel exhibition endeavours to right this wrong. Regarding the past through a different lens, it changes our perception of something we thought we knew. And in so doing it has quite an uncanny effect. It is at once both familiar and fresh. 

The show demonstrates that if you want to change the story, you should consider changing the narrator.

'… Sitting at this party,
Wondering if anyone knows me,
Really sees who I am.
Oh, it's been so long since I felt really known.
… Living in the wake of overwhelming changes,
We've all become strangers
Even to ourselves.
We just can't help,
We can't see from far away,
To know that every wave might not be the same,
But it's all apart of one big thing.
… Oh, it's not just me, it's not just me,
It's not just me,
It's everybody.’ 

Weyes Blood, 'It’s Not Just Me, It’s Everybody’ (N Mering)

No. 409

‘Kingdom of Dreams’: Learning from Luxury

‘The kingdom of dreams is this realm focused on creating fantasy, which was transformed into a global industry run by tycoons, who saw the value of these dreams and turned that into beautiful profits.’
Dana Thomas, fashion journalist and author of ‘Deluxe: How Luxury Lost its Lustre’

I recently watched a splendid documentary series about the luxury fashion business.

‘Kingdom of Dreams’ ( written by Peter Ettedgui with Nick Green) recounts the rise of Bernard Arnault and his LVMH group, comprising elite labels like Dior, Louis Vuitton and Givenchy; his employment of maverick talent - John Galliano, Alexander McQueen and Marc Jacobs - to head up those labels; and his rivalry with Francois Pinault’s Gucci group, Domenico de Sole and Tom Ford.

‘Who is not amused by fashion? And even businessmen must amuse themselves from time to time.’
Bernard Arnault

It’s a story of bold vision and fierce ambition; of financial feuds and creative competition; of phenomenal commercial and artistic success, and the collateral damage that came in its wake. There are lessons to be learned by anyone working in an ideas business.

‘These brands have extraordinary evocative power, which allows the whole world to dream.’
Bernard Arnault

Bernard Arnault - Chairman and Chief Executive, LVMH

1. Acquire, Consolidate and Grow

Bernard Arnault, born in Roubaix in 1949, had a bourgeois upbringing in provincial France. After graduating from university, he joined his father’s civil engineering company, rising to president in 1978. In 1984 he acquired Boussac Saint-Frères, a once prosperous textile and retail conglomerate that had fallen on hard times, but whose assets included legendary luxury brand Christian Dior. He stripped the business of its loss making companies and made 9,000 workers redundant, thereby acquiring his nickname, ‘The Terminator’.

‘To be successful you need to dream. You do not need to be a dreamer, but you need to dream. And when you dream you can do things that are impossible.’
Bernard Arnault

In the 1980s the French fashion houses were in disarray. Though their products retained exceptional craftsmanship, couture had a narrow appeal to a predominantly European and American elite, and the brands had grown sleepy and stale. Arnault had a vision of reviving the sector, giving it more dynamic leadership and a broader, global target market.

‘We try to build a large business with one criteria: the best quality and the most elitist product in every level, that we are selling throughout the world.’
Bernard Arnault

In 1987 Arnault followed up his acquisition of Dior by engineering the merger of Louis Vuitton with Moët Hennessy. He was on a mission to acquire, consolidate and grow.

‘My vision of the future is that in 10 years time from now there will be fewer and fewer brands and that they will give even more power to the brands on the market at that time.’
Bernard Arnault

2. Awaken Slumbering Brands with Creative Talent

Though Arnault was tough and financially astute, he was well aware that the fashion business was founded on, and fuelled by, creativity.

In 1994 John Galliano presented his ‘jet-black’ collection for his own label. Staged on a shoestring budget, models Kate Moss, Helena Christensen, Naomi Campbell and Linda Evangelista waived their regular fees to participate. In a dramatic show the Paris mansion of Portuguese socialite Sao Schlumberger was littered with dried leaves, red rose petals and discarded chandeliers. It became a legendary fashion moment.

‘I dare people to dream.’
John Galliano

John Galliano, Photograph: Jacques Brinon/AP

A year later Arnault appointed the young British-Gibraltarian as creative director of Givenchy.

Galliano set about researching Hubert de Givenchy’s work for Audrey Hepburn and Jackie Kennedy, and presented his first couture show for the house in 1996. He was a sensation from the start, reintroducing romance and theatre to the label. Arnault was so impressed that, later that same year, he transferred Galliano to Dior.

‘I think the key of success in a brand as famous as Dior… is to have such a level of creativity and inventiveness.’
Bernard Arnault

This left a vacancy at Givenchy, which Arnault promptly filled with another Brit, Alexander McQueen – a daring and provocative designer, renowned for his exquisite tailoring and historical themes.

‘I don’t beat around the bush when I do a show. I go straight for the jugular.’
Alexander McQueen

McQueen with Model © Salons Galahad Ltd

Then in 1997 Arnault chose American Marc Jacobs to lead Louis Vuitton. Jacobs promised to bring street style and musical inspiration to the world of high fashion.

‘I wanted to create a collection that was basically visual noise.’
Marc Jacobs

And so, in short order, a new cohort of gifted creative directors had been installed across the three major houses at LVMH.

‘I believe we have found the right designers for each brand.’
Bernard Arnault

3. Find Eyes and Ears

In making the critical initial selection of Galliano, Arnault had sought a fashion insider’s perspective, turning to Editor of American Vogue, Anna Wintour.

‘Obviously at the time it was a risk. But I was comforted by Anna about what [Galliano] could do, and finally I took the risk. She’s an eye. To have an eye is key.’
Bernard Arnault

As Arnault built his stable of luxury brands, Wintour continued to provide priceless expertise and insight.

‘I don’t think of myself as a boss. I think of myself as someone who’s giving direction, guidance. I try to be decisive even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.’
Anna Wintour

4. Make Noise

Arnault’s young creative directors were not all successful from the outset. McQueen’s first efforts for Givenchy were regarded as missteps. And in his first ready-to-wear collection for Louis Vuitton, Jacobs failed to present any bags.

‘I was a little bit – how shall I put it? – astonished, because there wasn’t a single bag in the first show.’
Bernard Arnault

But Arnault stuck with his choices. And to some extent what the designers were contributing was more precious than any particular collection. They introduced youth, energy and excitement.

 ‘It didn’t matter. That’s the whole point of it. It still made people talk. It was about making noise.’
Dana Thomas

Shalom Harlow being spray-painted by robots in the Alexander McQueen spring 1999 show

5. Encourage Constructive Rivalry

It could not have been easy housing so much creative talent under one corporate roof. But Arnault was happy to nurture a certain amount of constructive rivalry.

‘John’s more fluid and romantic. He has a great vision for romanticising his ideal woman. I think I really care about a woman’s independence. I don’t like her to look so naïve and so fragile. I like her to look stronger.’
Alexander McQueen

6. Have a Winning Instinct

In building the LVMH empire, Arnault attracted his critics. Many were concerned by his import of American-style corporate aggression to Europe; by his hostile takeovers and the swift removal of the luxury houses’ elderly family members.

‘I think he wants to be a wolf because he needs people to be afraid of him.’
Mimma Viglezio, Gucci

Certainly Arnault displayed a competitive streak, an absolute conviction that he must win at all times and at all costs.

‘Material things have never motivated me. What drives me is to make my company win. Making it the top company in the world, that’s what drives me above all.’
Bernard Arnault

7. Seize the Lucky Moments

Meanwhile in Milan the house of Gucci was beset by dysfunction: lawsuits, tax evasion and family feuds. In 1995 Maurizio Gucci was shot dead in the lobby of Gucci's Milan office.

Harvard educated Domenico de Sole had been legal adviser to the Gucci family since the 1980s and CEO since 1994. Facing corporate bankruptcy, he couldn’t afford a big name designer, and so promoted from within, appointing the relatively unknown head of knitwear, Tom Ford, as creative director.

‘In life being lucky is much better than being smart. Because as much as I thought Tom was terrific, I never imagined that he’d turn out to be a genius.’
Domenico de Sole

Elegant Texan Ford had not risen to the top by the conventional route. He graduated in architecture and his fashion career began as a PR at Chloé. After a couple of years designing for Perry Ellis, he decided to try his luck in Europe, taking a role at the struggling Gucci.

‘You have to be ready for those lucky moments to cross your path and you have to seize them.’
Tom Ford

Ford's Fall 1995 ready-to-wear collection for Gucci, with its metallic patent boots and velvet hipsters, unbuttoned satin shirts and sensuous ‘70s glamour, was a huge hit and earned the immediate endorsement of celebrities like Madonna.

‘The right thing at the right time is the right thing. The right thing at the wrong time is the wrong thing. So it’s got to be the thing that people want before they know they want it.’
Tom Ford

8. Find a Partner You Can Trust

‘You design, I run the company. It will be OK. At least we will give it a try.’
Domenico de Sole

The successful revival at Gucci was very much down to a happy partnership between commercial and creative expertise. Ford and de Sole understood that each had a different but crucial role. They respected each other.

‘He completely trusts me on the design side. Domenico I completely trust on the business side. And so in a sense we can work independently and together, which I think really makes us almost twice as strong as a lot of our competitors.’
Tom Ford 

Tom Ford and Domenico de Sole. Getty Images

9. Keep an Eye on Adjacent Opportunities

Another factor in Gucci’s success at this time was Ford’s decision to send every model down the runway carrying a Gucci bag. Handbags commanded high margins and became a booming business in their own right.

At a 1996 event in New York to mark Dior’s 50th anniversary, Galliano was commissioned to design a gown for Princess Diana. The midnight blue satin and lace sheath dress was not considered a success. Some wags dubbed it a ‘nightie.’ But the mini blue satin bag she carried was subsequently sold the world over.

Marc Jacobs had been struggling at Louis Vuitton. But in 2001 he partnered with graffiti artist Stephen Sprouse to reinvent the branding that appeared all over its luggage – a bold move that was wildly popular, and in one leap revitalised the label.

‘He gave it a youth, a modernity and a wonderful sense of fashion. And now everybody wants the luggage again. And they want the clothes.’
Anna Wintour

Clearly success in the luxury fashion business was about more than couture. One had to take a holistic view and keep an eye on adjacent opportunities.

10. Fight for Your Independence

In the wake of its revival, Gucci became one of the first European luxury houses to go public on the stock market. But this left it vulnerable to takeover. In particular it became a target for Arnault, who had been impressed by the brand’s renaissance and wanted Ford at LVMH.

‘I think Mr Ford is amazing. There’s no reason at all for him to be nervous… If you see him please do let him know.’
Bernard Arnault

Ford and de Santo were concerned about the prospect of Arnault’s assertive ownership and wanted to retain autonomy. They stalled by issuing shares to employees, and found themselves in a prolonged and very public court battle with Arnault as a result. At length they sought a ‘white knight’, a ‘friendly’ investor to save Gucci from a hostile takeover.

They found Francois Pinault - a tycoon who had built his fortune in distribution and then retail. Unable easily to internationalise his retail business, he saw in luxury goods an opportunity to go global.

‘There’s no greater risk than believing you’ve succeeded. It’s dangerous to rest on your laurels. You have to seek out new adventures, new businesses.’
Francois Pinault

Pinault was the opposite of Arnault in upbringing and style. Whereas Arnault had a bourgeois background, Pinault came from a modest rural French family, leaving school at 16 to work in his father’s lumber company. Whereas Arnault planned ahead and acted by stealth, Pinault tended to be instinctive and decisive.

‘I make quick judgements and my first impression is usually right.’
Francois Pinault

In 1999 Pinault purchased a controlling stake of the Gucci group for $3 billion and bought Yves Saint Laurent the same year. He followed up by purchasing Boucheron in 2000 and Balenciaga in 2001.

‘We’re looking for companies where we believe that our expertise could enhance the value of that company and thus enhance the value of Gucci group.’
Tom Ford

Arnault was not accustomed to losing. Confronted with the birth of a competitive luxury powerhouse, he fumed from the sidelines.

‘Now [Ford] has found a white knight. But you know, sometimes a white knight becomes a black knight. So we’ll see how long it lasts.’
Bernard Arnault

François-Henri Pinault. Jude Edginton

11. Put Creativity and Commerce in Harness

In this golden age for elite fashion brands, as the two luxury leviathans fought for dominance, they expanded across categories and geographies, pulling in new consumers who were united in their desire for status and beauty.

‘My goal is to create something that’s beautiful - something that’s so beautiful that people can’t live without it. And when you do that people buy it, it makes sales. And when you make sales, you make money. And that’s what my job is.’
Tom Ford

At their best the luxury groups harnessed creativity to commercial goals.

‘John [Galliano] is about pure creativity. But also he likes to do products that sell. Since he arrived sales have tripled. So what he does is really not only pure creativity, but also what the ladies, the consumers, want to wear.’
Bernard Arnault

If the creative directors continued to deliver designs that sold, then the business leaders, shareholders and investors were happy.

‘[Galliano] has absolutely carte blanche - as long as the business is going out, the business is booming. So he has carte blanche.’
Bernard Arnault

12. Beware: Things Fall Apart

However, the seemingly perfect marriage of commerce and creativity was flawed. Fundamentally the corporate chiefs did not share the same goals as their designers.

‘Bernard Arnault was extremely supportive of his star designers, and he really did believe in them. But his goals and their goals were different. For them money was the bi-product of their talent and their work and their dedication to their passion. For Arnault money was the goal.’
Dana Thomas

Gradually things fell apart.

Firstly the constructive rivalry at LVMH began to fracture. McQueen became frustrated with the smaller budgets that were available to him at Givenchy and with what he perceived as Arnault’s favouritism.

‘[Arnault’s] got great vision. But his vision of what I was like was the same vision as what John [Galliano] was like. Maybe John was more pliable than I was.’
Alexander McQueen

McQueen felt he was not valued.

‘You’ve got to feel the appreciation back. You can only keep on going on for so long.’
Alexander McQueen

So McQueen began saving his best ideas for his own label, raiding the Givenchy stores for fabrics and redirecting funds. And in 2000 he jumped the LVMH ship and joined Gucci group in a deal that enabled him to expand his own label. 

For a while McQueen thrived, becoming healthier and happier.

‘When I signed for Gucci I continually pushed myself to be stronger physically and mentally. And this is the outcome.’
Alexander McQueen 

However, as Ford and de Sole came to renew their contracts with Pinault, there was a falling out, and in 2004 they left the group.

‘Tom Ford and Domenico de Sole believed that Gucci belonged to them. They forgot that I was the biggest shareholder. They wanted to pursue an agenda I didn’t agree with. So one day I told Tom Ford: ‘You’re out.’ He just didn’t understand. He thought Gucci was his.’
Francois Pinault

Ford was devastated.

‘I all of a sudden felt lost. I felt: ‘What do I contribute to the world? What am I doing? Who am I? What is this?’ Because I had worked so hard for so long, and I didn’t really realise how it would feel when I no longer had that platform or that voice. And I felt quite lost.’
Tom Ford

With Ford and de Sole gone, McQueen was isolated. 

‘It can be really lonely. And I think there’s more to life than fashion. And I don’t want to be stuck in that bubble of ‘This is what I do.’ Because everyone in the office, they can go home and they can shut off. But I’m still Alexander McQueen after I shut the door.’
Alexander McQueen

In 2010, shortly after the death of his mother, McQueen took his own life. He was 40.

Meanwhile, over at LVMH, Galliano had increasingly struggled with the work pressures that came hand-in-hand with his accomplishments.

‘Along with the success came more collections. At that moment I was producing 32 collections a year between the House of Galliano and the House of Dior, and each collection would comprise up to a thousand pieces. The drinking did creep up on me.’
John Galliano

In the same year that McQueen died, a drunken Galliano was filmed in a Paris bar directing antisemitic slurs at a group of women. He was fired from Dior.

Jacobs too had issues with alcohol and substance abuse. 

‘I don’t deal with pressure too well. I go off my diet. I smoke twice as many cigarettes and I sometimes get a little angry, rude… I don’t think I deal with it so well.’
Marc Jacobs

Marc Jacobs

In 2013, after 16 years as artistic director at Louis Vuitton, Jacobs presented his last show for the label.

13. It’s Not What Brands Are, But What They Represent

The demise of McQueen, Galliano and Jacobs marked the end of the era of maverick creative directors at the luxury houses.

‘Super-strength designers were absolutely crucial to a particular phase of the luxury industry – which was building it up from being a name to being a brand. But once they had become real brands, they were businesses and therefore you could find people to work in that business who have creativity, but who are a bit less larger-than-life than some of these designers were at the time.’
Thomas Kamm, PPR

LVMH and Gucci group had driven a phenomenal period of growth and expansion in the luxury goods sector. But they had transformed it into a completely different business.

‘The frenzy for these logos - fuelled by celebrities, the billboards, the magazine ads, the commercials, the placement in movies, the logo-heavy marketing – switched the reason everyone had purchased these products in the first place from what they were – beautiful, handcrafted luxury items, rare, special – into what they represented – wealth, success, power.’
Dana Thomas

'It seems the Babylon dem
Come fight 'gainst I, 
Dem-a fight 'gainst I.
I wanna know the reason why.
Babylon fight 'gainst natty dread.
Babylon no fight 'gainst the rum head.
Babylon no fight 'gainst the wine head.
Only natty dreadlocks.
Natty dreadlock in a Babylon.’
Sylford Walker, ‘Burn Babylon’ (S Walker, J Gibson)

No. 408

My Brief Fascination with Yo-Yos: Setting Aside Time for Atelic Planning

'The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.’
Laurence J Peter

When I was young I had a brief fascination with yo-yos.

Loafing around the house or garden, I would focus intently on the repetitive, mesmerising motion - spooling and unspooling, winding and rewinding, over and over again. The world around me disappeared. Time stood still. Not understanding the physics, it all seemed rather magical.

Though mine was not a fancy yo-yo, I kept it as a constant companion. I learned how to make it ‘sleep’ – spinning at the end of its uncoiled string – and even endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to ‘walk the dog.’ 

Bored one summer, I decided to invent an evolution of the yo-yo: a device that had a more erratic, random movement. I imagined this would have a beguiling charm. For my prototype I tied a piece of string to a wooden cotton reel and bounced it up and down, revelling in its haphazard trajectory. 

After a while I determined that my wayward yo-yo didn’t really work, and in fact made me look rather foolish. I’d been wasting my time…

'In his youth Albert Einstein spent a year loafing aimlessly. You don’t get anywhere by not ‘wasting’ time - something, unfortunately, that the parents of teenagers tend frequently to forget.'
Carlo Rovelli

I read recently in the FT (Tim Harford, ‘Why You Shouldn’t Strive,’ 15 December, 2022) about the distinction between telic and atelic projects established by philosopher Kieran Setiya ('Midlife: A Philosophical Guide').

Telos is the ancient Greek word for end or goal. Telic activities are those that have an objective in mind: distance run, mountain climbed, contract signed, promotion attained. Atelic activities have no specific objective. They tend to be pastimes we enjoy for themselves. Reading the paper, visiting a gallery, snoozing in the afternoon, or having a beer with My-Mate-Andy come to mind. We used to call these things hobbies.

It’s possible to engage with the same enterprise in a telic or atelic way. High achievers see most activities as a competition or challenge. They create aims and ambitions, lists and leagues whatever they’re up to. On the other hand, while sport is for the most part telic in character, my football team, the South Indies, generally played in an atelic fashion.

Setiya observes that telic projects can result in disappointment and dissatisfaction: the stress of striving; the frustration of failing; the hunger for another goal once a first has been achieved. There is a risk that an obsession with objectives can rid an activity of its inherent charms. One becomes more concerned with scores and measurement; with ticking a box or crossing off a list. 

And so Setiya concludes that if we want to avoid a midlife crisis, then we should invest more heavily in atelic projects. 

‘We can escape the self-destructive cycle of pursuit, resolution and renewal, of attainments archived or unachieved. The way out is to find sufficient value in atelic activities, activities that have no point of conclusion or limit, ones whose fulfilment lies in the moment of action itself.'
Kieran Setiya, 'Midlife: A Philosophical Guide'

Of course, you can argue this both ways. If you spend your youth only engaging in atelic projects, you’ll probably not achieve very much at all. Another route to a mid-life crisis. 

Inevitably I suspect the answer resides somewhere in the middle: the path to contentment lies in striking a balance between telic and atelic undertakings: sometimes striving for attainment, pushing ourselves to perform; and sometimes merely passing the time, enjoying the distractions that the day affords us.

'Time isn't the main thing. It's the only thing.’
Miles Davis

I found myself wondering about telic and atelic projects in the world of work. 

Work is necessarily a field of timesheets and targets, ambitions and accountability. Shouldn’t all professional activities be telic?

Actually I think it’s important that a Planner occasionally steps back from specific Client responsibilities and tasks - to take a look at social and industry change; to review competitive output; to learn of the latest technological innovations; to consider different ways of working. Such activities may not be particularly telic. But they serve to recharge our strategic batteries; to broaden our professional outlook; to refresh our enthusiasm and revive our appetite.

We all need to set aside time for Atelic Planning.

'If I had six hours to chop down a tree, I would spend the first four hours sharpening the axe.'
Abraham Lincoln

On reflection, I’m not sure there’s much risk of my suffering Setiya’s midlife crisis. If anything I need to embrace more telic activity in order to generate a little more momentum in my week. Perhaps I should put away that yo-yo and invest in a Strava…

'Take it easy, take it easy.
Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.
Lighten up while you still can.
Don't even try to understand.
Just find a place to make your stand and take it easy.’
Jackson Browne, ‘Take It Easy’ (J Browne, G Frey)

No. 407

Film Noir: Lessons from Beyond the Shadows

Still from ‘The Big Combo’

'Yes, I killed him. I killed him for money - and a woman. And I didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the woman. Pretty, isn’t it?’
'Double Indemnity’

I recently watched an entertaining documentary series about the history of Film Noir. (‘Film Noir’, Sky Arts)

Film Noir is a term used to describe a broad category of crime thrillers from the 1940s, ‘50s and beyond. Noir is characterised by strange angles, harsh light and dark shadows; by victims of circumstance, flawed heroes and seductive femmes fatales; by innovative storytelling, psychological insight and a pessimistic view of society.

‘That’s not the way to win.’
‘Is there a way to win?’
‘There’s a way to lose more slowly.’
'Out of the Past'

Let us consider what Noir could teach us today – lessons from beyond the shadows.

1. Question Society and Your Role within It

The term Film Noir was coined by French film critic Nino Frank in 1946 and became popular amongst European intellectuals in the 1950s. It was only used in the United States after the late 1960s.

Noir had its origins in German Expressionist cinema. With society reeling from the defeat and destruction of the First World War, filmmakers expressed uncertainty about hierarchies and tradition; about the impact of industrialisation and technological progress. Prompted by Freud, they were concerned with identity and the subconscious; with what lay beneath the surface.

Films like ‘The Cabinet of Dr Caligari’ (1920), ‘Nosferatu’ (1922), ‘Dr Mabuse the Gambler’ (1922) and ‘M’ (1931) presented a warped world of doubts and dreams; an unstable cityscape haunted by deranged hypnotists and masters of disguise; a culture where ordinary people could be killers.

'You know, this’ll be the first time I’ve ever killed anyone I knew so little and liked so well.’
'Murder, My Sweet’

2. Criminals Can Be Fascinating

The rise of Nazism in 1930s Germany prompted many Jewish and liberal filmmakers to flee the country. A vibrant emigree community of directors, screenwriters and cinematographers formed in Hollywood. Their ranks included many who would go on to play a significant role in Film Noir: Otto Preminger, Max Ophuls, Douglas Sirk, Billy Wilder, Robert Siodmak, Fritz Lang and more besides.

The innovations of German cinema in the 1920s were taken up by the Universal horror movies of the 1930s. Films like ‘Dracula’ (1931), ‘Frankenstein’ (1931) and ‘The Mummy’ (1932) came drenched in shadows as they explored myths, nightmares and the nature of evil. 

In the wake of Prohibition and the Depression, the United States had seen the rise of crime, corruption and the Mob. A cynical view of an unhinged society was played out in the hardboiled fiction of Raymond Chandler, James M Cain and Dashiell Hammett; and evidenced in sensationalist newspaper stories and graphic street photography.

'I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Believe me, rich is better.’
'The Big Heat'

Warner Brothers’ classic gangster films of this period - like ‘Little Caesar’ (1931), ‘Public Enemy’ (1931) and ‘Scarface’ (1932) - acknowledged that criminals were often ordinary people struggling to survive in extraordinary times; that despite their evil deeds, they could be fascinating.

‘After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavour.’ 
'The Asphalt Jungle' 

Still from ‘Out of the Past’

3. Heroes Can Be Flawed

Film Noir was born with America’s entry into the Second World War and was nourished by the alienation and anxiety of the era.

Noir movies were populated by veterans, cops and crooks; by hapless grifters, gormless heavies and wrongly accused innocents. There were hard-bitten detectives like Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade – cynical, world-weary loners who drank and smoked, and were sustained by a sense of duty and a residue of idealism. There was Robert Mitchum in his battered trench coat - at once both menacing and vulnerable. And Humphrey Bogart in double-breasted suit and fedora - tough and stubborn, with an insolent charm.

‘You know what he’ll do when he comes back? Beat my teeth out, then kick me for mumbling.’ 
'The Big Sleep' 

These men were under pressure from without and within. How would they deal with the troubles that fate threw at them? Could they pull through?

4. Glamour Can Be Dangerous

In addressing their trials, the male protagonists often encountered femmes fatales - siren creatures that were both alluring and manipulative; glamorous and dangerous.

‘She can’t be all bad. No one is.’ 
‘Well, she comes the closest.’ 
'Out of the Past'  

Any man that fell for the charms of a femme fatale was in trouble. Relationships were cursed, doomed to failure.

‘I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.’ 
'In a Lonely Place' 

Of course, the femme fatale archetype was very much an expression of masculine anxiety. Some say veterans returning from the war had forgotten how to engage with women. 

‘I was warned.’
‘You mean you’re afraid… of me?’
‘The Woman in the Window’

It’s important to observe that, played by the likes of Joan Bennett, Barbara Stanwyck, Jane Greer and Veronica Lake, the women in Film Noir were smart, resilient and independent. They were navigating the same mean streets as the male characters. They had to do what they had to do.

'What I like about you is you’re rock bottom. I wouldn’t expect you to understand this, but it’s a great comfort for a girl to know she could not possibly sink any lower.'
'The Big Steal’

Still from from ‘The Lady from Shanghai’

5. Shadows and Light Create Tension and Fear

The action was played out on rain-sodden streets and in dark deserted alleyways; in shabby bars, seedy nightclubs and opulent apartments. 

'Kiss me, Mike. I want you to kiss me. The liar’s kiss that says I love you and means something else.’
'Kiss Me Deadly’

The artificial light of neon signs and streetlamps was harsh. Everywhere, inside and out, there were long shadows: at the deserted doorway, in the dingy stairwell, across the empty parking lot; shadows cast by mysterious figures and menacing hoods, by banisters and venetian blinds; shadows that fell across troubled faces. 

'Come on, read my future for me.'
'You haven't got any.'
'What do you mean?'
'Your future is all used up.’
’Touch of Evil’

These shadows prompted foreboding and fear. And the atmosphere of paranoia was often enhanced by low, wide or tilted camera angles; by frequent recourse to mirrored reflections and close-ups on the characters’ apprehensive expressions.

'When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.’
'Key Largo'

Still from ‘Touch of Evil’

6. Style Trumps Story

Film Noir plots were often labyrinthine. (Try explaining ‘The Maltese Falcon’, ‘The Big Sleep’ or ‘DOA.’) There were coincidences, red herrings and MacGuffins aplenty. Characters came and went. They were deceived and double-crossed. Events spiralled out of control.

'We didn’t exactly believe your story, Miss O’Shaughnessy. We believed your two hundred dollars. I mean, you paid us more than if you’d been telling us the truth, and enough more to make it all right.’
'The Maltese Falcon'

Ultimately style trumped story. The perilous settings, confused narratives, woozy angles and stark lighting conspired to express the psychological disorder at the heart of the film.

'You're never around when I need you.'
'You never need me when I'm around.’
'Kiss Me Deadly’

7. Restrictions Liberate

Often Film Noirs were B-Movies, created on low budgets by small studios. But imaginative directors demonstrated that restrictions could be liberating.

Edgar G Ulmer had to make ‘Detour’ (1945) in 6 days with $117k. He was allocated just 15 thousand feet of film and required to shoot within a 15-mile radius of the studio. Despite all this, he managed to create a compelling tale of a doomed hitchhiker’s encounters with death and deception. 

'That’s life. Whichever way you turn, fate sticks out a foot to trip you.’
‘Detour’

For ‘Side Street’ (1950) Anthony Mann employed the lighter cameras that had emerged during the Second World War to shoot on location in New York. The film moved freely through the streets, cut to dramatic overhead shots and culminated in one of the first modern car chases.

'Take that fifteen grand out of your pants or get out! I got a dinner date.'
‘Side Street’

‘Narrow Margin’ (1952) was shot in 13 days, and most of the action took place in a railway carriage. To save money, the train sets were rigidly fixed to the floor and a hand-held camera was moved to simulate motion. It became RKO's biggest picture that year.

'This train's headed straight for the cemetery. But there's another one coming along, a gravy train. Let's get on it.'
‘Narrow Margin’

8. Find a Different Way to Reveal Your Narrative

Noir cinema was always looking at new ways of telling a story. It often employed first-person voiceover, flashbacks, fragmented narratives and multiple viewpoints. These techniques created an uncertain, dreamlike quality. Nothing was quite as it seemed.

‘Doesn’t it bother you at all that you’re married?’
‘What I want to know is, does it bother you?’
‘Gilda'

‘Laura’ (1944) featured a detective who falls in love with the victim of the murder he is investigating. ‘Sunset Boulevard’ (1950) began with the narrator lying face down dead in a swimming pool. ‘DOA’ (1950) commenced with a man reporting his own homicide to the cops. He has been poisoned and wants to track down his killer before the toxin takes effect. He will be ‘dead on arrival.’

'I want to report a murder.'
'Sit down. Where was this murder committed?'
'San Francisco, last night.'
'Who was murdered?'
'I was.'
‘DOA’

Film Noir fell out of favour in the 1960s. The genre lost out to a combination of television, Technicolor, affluence and youth culture. But its influence lived on. And you can detect the spirit of Noir in the shadows and cynicism of ‘Chinatown’(1974), ‘Blade Runner’(1982), ‘The Last Seduction’(1994) and ‘LA Confidential’(1997).

'A woman doesn't care how a guy makes a living, just how he makes love.’
’The Big Combo'

Communication professionals could still learn a great deal from Film Noir: about the power of mood and lighting; about the nuanced depiction of heroes and glamour; about liberating constraints and inventive storytelling; and about great writing.

'Maybe I’ll live so long that I’ll forget her. Maybe I’ll die trying.’
'The Lady from Shanghai'

'The shadows on the wall look like a railroad track.
I wonder if he's ever coming back.
The moon's a yellow stain across the sky.
Oh baby, this one's from the heart.
Maybe I'll go down to the corner and get a racing form.
But I should probably wait here by the phone.
And the brakes need adjustment on the convertible.
Oh baby, this one's from the heart.’

Crystal Gayle and Tom Waits, ’This One’s From the Heart’ (T Waits)

No. 406