Slates You Can Wear
Hotel Ballroom ,
produced by Paul Wolfe, Jeff Iorillo, Corey Stolberg, and Robert Gondell of
Foote, Cone & Belding in San Francisco.
The inevitabilities of age
dictate that Generation Xers grow up, get a job, and go places--whether they
want to or not. But the age-old question remains: What to wear? This spot,
Hotel Ballroom , produced for Levi Strauss by Foote, Cone & Belding,
suggests to Gen-Xers that your pants can have the same attitude as you--still
young (they're Levi's, but not jeans), and a good fit; comfortable in your own
identity, yet at ease in the establishment world. Well, just enough to get
by.
At first look, we don't know
what the ad's about. We see a twentysomething guy, wearing a tie but no coat
(it's in the garment bag--wear it only when you have to), entering a grand
hotel. The lobby, which is shot in black and white, possesses a grandeur seldom
seen today outside beaux-arts train stations. There's a sense of
something older in this space, but not of the past. It's the time-space of
grown-up commitments, where the Gen-Xer has to live--at least part time. Maybe
color is reserved for nights and weekends. But even in the black-and-white
world, the Gen-X attitude is still evident. The clerk, initially seen upside
down, hints at a world turned on its head.
As the guy in the pants
approaches the desk, the clerk accepts that he belongs. Like the pants, our
hero fits--but in his own way. With a wan smile, he asks for the phone. The
clerk half-reluctantly points it out. He can't question the Gen-Xer, who's
carrying an attaché case; this guy could be anything, even a young computer
mogul.
As he strides toward the
phone, we hear the narrator's voice for the first time: "You know those pants
that always fit ..." But our hero doesn't find the phone; he gets a little
lost. This world may accept him as fitting in--but he's in it, not of it. He's
kind of an innocent abroad--innocent, of course, in a limited sense. He wanders
into a political rally and ends up on stage. We see the scene from the
Gen-Xer's perspective: the politician's evident insincerity (aren't all
politics staged and phony?) and the endemic irrelevance of the proceedings. Our
hero's demeanor speaks volumes, as the politician shakes his hand and photos
are taken as mementos of this nonevent. But he does fit in--if only for a
moment and in his own way--before extricating himself and moving on.
Almost Zelig-like in the
succeeding scenes, he continues to fit in without getting permanently trapped.
He backs across the stage toward a podium where they are giving out awards; is
this a case of mistaken award-giving, or is he just a reluctant winner? He's
too young, and there are too many self-congratulatory award ceremonies anyway,
the ad seems to say.
In another scene, he fits
into a wedding ("There you are," the grandmother says); but at least he's not
the groom--he's not yet dressed in one of those (rented) black-tie outfits that
never seem to fit. The background for the picture is a painted outdoor scene.
That's where he'd rather be. Instead, he's suddenly in the hotel hallway again.
Hands on hips, he pauses, then strides toward another of those situations in
which maturing Gen-Xers will inevitably find themselves, as we hear the only
other bit of narration in the spot: "These are those pants ... these are
Slates." The hotel clerk's hand hits the bell, summoning a bellhop to take our
hero to his room--or is it a suite? What happened to the garment bag or
briefcase? Did he check them? Did he ever find the phone--and where's his
cellular?
At the end, we glimpse once
more the rich wood-paneled hallway. Does it lead to a dead end, or to a
doorway? Whatever it is, the ad seems to say, you can go there wearing your
Slates, and still be yourself.
You can
write what you want on a slate; it isn't just a copybook. You can go where you
have to wearing Slates, without losing your identity. You're still wearing
Levi's, even if you're the only one who knows it. In their world, you're still
Gen-X, and you still see it all the same way--mostly.
--Robert
Shrum
