After watching last night’s run of commercials, Paul Venables was not impressed. Now the San Francisco ad man is calling for a creative New Deal.
An armistice in the battle being raged in American homes every Super Bowl. A peace accord in the war over garnering cheap laughs. Let us lay down our loveable chimps. Our crotch hits. Our disrobed women. I advocate a cease-fire between our talking babies and our computer-generated dancing reptiles. Can we not live without another Grim Reaper gag? Or another mawkish tale about a horse realizing his dream to pull a beer cart? Yes we can.
Let’s show the world that our writers have the potential to avoid the three-story fall/ski mishap/bus accident when selling a beverage or salty snack. Surely we can shelve our giant fake boobs, too, or at least make them incidental to the ad, rather than its point. And if we do try to pull off a much ballyhooed 3-D extravaganza, can we make sure it a.) has lots of shit flying at the viewer seeing as that’s all 3-D is good for, and b.) is better than the original trailer?
It should be noted somewhere that Venables’ firm produced a Super Bowl spot for Audi, one built on race scenes that while clearly tasteful, are not exactly tailor made.
