Commercial Review: KING COBRA MALT LIQUOR AD- PART 1 (1985, Fred Williamson)

Stars 5 of 5.
Running Time: 30 seconds.
Notable Cast or Crew: Fred Williamson aka "The Hammer" (1990: BRONX WARRIORS, FROM DUSK TILL DAWN, VIGILANTE, THE NEW BARBARIANS, ORIGINAL GANGSTAS, BLACK CAESAR).

Well, I suppose I have a tradition to maintain of publishing beverage reviews every St. Paddy's day (past reviews include DAD'S OLD FASHIONED BLUE CREAM SODA, BLUE DIAMOND BEER, CHAMPAGNE COLA, and IRISH POTCHEEN), and while I missed out on it yesterday, this year, I'll continue my examinations of mind-altering celebrity beverage hucksterage, á la James Mason's Thunderbird Wine ad, Ice Cube's St. Ides Malt Liquor Jingle, or Rutger Hauer's partnership with Guinness. So I present to you now: Fred Williamson's King Cobra malt liquor ad.

Fred Williamson has lived many lives– a football star (for the Oakland Raiders and the Kansas City Chiefs), a bit player in classics (M*A*S*H), a TV love interest (JULIA), 70's American blaxploitation star (HAMMER, BLACK CAESAR, HELL UP IN HARLEM), Western and Spaghetti Western star (THE SOUL OF NIGGER CHARLEY), a writer and director (MR. MEAN, NO WAY BACK), Italo-plagiaristic trash star (THE INGLOURIOUS BASTARDS, 1990: BRONX WARRIORS, THE NEW BARBARIANS), William Lustig hero (VIGILANTE), and 90's comeback genre film actor (ORIGINAL GANGSTAS, FROM DUSK TILL DAWN). He was also the star of a series of King Cobra ads.

For those who have never experienced the malty, manly bite of King Cobra, it's one of the more easily attainable forty-ounce malt liquors, produced by Anheuser Busch, and available at grotty convenience stores and grungy bodegas everywhere with the intent of brightening hobos' days by dulling their senses and polluting their bladders.



Our journey begins on Same Old Malt Liquor Street, a monochrome byway that most of us are acquainted with, and altogether too well. Some of us spend out entire lives there, never knowing that a better path could await us, if only we'd open our minds.

Then, Fred Williamson crashes the party- The Hammer himself.

"If you've only ever experienced harsh malt liquor taste– it's time to change!"

With a mystical touch from The Hammer, accompanied by a whooshing sci-fi sound effect, we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, we're on–

...KING COBRA BOULEVARD. It's electrifying. Color washes over us like a cleansing hand of God. Suddenly everything seems so clear. Fred Williamson walks by, and the others follow. They know not why they follow, but some primeval organ, long forgotten by man and etched upon their spinal columns, compels them to follow when a prophet is in their midst.

"King Cobra's the only malt liquor that's so good when the taste grabs you, it's a different breed- that's quality."

Now would probably be a good time to mention that whenever The Hammer expounds upon the benefits of upgrading to King Cobra, he is accompanied and punctuated by a heavenly chorus who sings: "Kiiiing Co-Bra!"

Regardless, Williamson begins to amass a veritable army of disciples who leap for joy and spin and dance and pirouette in unison, driven into a righteous frenzy by the divine right to better malt liquor that The Hammer is offering them. He's like the Jean Bodin of malt liquor!



I was just thinking of the Pied Piper of Hamelin but I can't remember why. Anyway, the swarm of King Cobra-acolytes prances ever-forward, and then in silhouette–

"King Cobra is cold malt liquor satisfaction with a smooth taste."

The destination is revealed to be one swingin' party being hosted at, ostensibly, Fred Williamson's apartment. An exceptionally foamy can of The 'Cob is opened. What, did they shake that up beforehand? Or did it come from the handbag of one of these twirling ladies?

"So when you pop the top, what's the clue?"

'So when you pop the top, what's the clue?' is the question posed to us by The Hammer. What does it mean? Is the clue...foam? How is foam a clue? And in general, why are we talking about a clue? I was not aware that a mystery of some kind was involv– ah, I get it! I see what you did there, Fred. Divine mystery. As explored in the 'Mystery Plays' from the Middle Ages, which are quite obviously being referenced here. Clearly, The Cobra was the snake whose temptations caused Adam and Eve to be expelled from Eden. But now King Cobra is in charge, inviting us back to Eden, where the rockingist forty-ounce party of all time shall now commence! There's a new daddy in town, and he has been crowned KING!

But back to the riddle– "So when you pop the top, what's the clue?" It's soon answered by a boisterous partygoer who sings her reply in verse:

"Don't let the smoooooth taste foooool ya!"

And she's right! Don't let the smooth taste fool you into thinking that this advertisment is only about malt liquor, because the taste is not smooth! It's an aside to the initiated, so that they may begin pondering the next step of their King Cobra devotionals. Also, I like that guy in back with the 'stache.



Williamson then returns with additional wisdom:

"Anheuser-Busch...to give cold malt liquor satisfaction. ...Don't let the smooth taste fool ya..."

He places an unusual emphasis on fool, as if there is something of greater importance being said between the lines, which, of course, there is. The commercial comes to a close, and today's lesson is ended.

Soon afterward, Fred starred in a trilogy of films made by Italians looking to cash in on the 'success' of Cannon Film's COBRA, starring Sylvester Stallone. They were: COBRA NERO (BLACK COBRA), THE BLACK COBRA 2, and THE BLACK COBRA 3: THE MANILA CONNECTION. Coincidence?

Regardless, don't let the five stars fool ya....KIIIIIING CO-BRA!

-Sean Gill

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Commercial Review: THUNDERBIRD WINE AD (196?, James Mason)

Stars 5 of 5.
Running Time: 22 seconds.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Mason.

Submitted, for your consideration: Thunderbird. The American Classic. What's the word? Thunderbird. How's it sold? Good and cold. What's the jive? Bird's alive. What's the price? Thirty twice. That's just sixty cents, ladies and gentlemen. Now for those of you still asking, 'What the hell is Thunderbird?,' let me lay it out for ya. It's a low-end, fortified wine. Also known as a blockparty breakup, a poverty punch, or a gutter punk champagne. A cheap n' grubby beverage, which, despite possessing a translucent 'white wine' hue, is known to turn the mouth a tenebrous, inky black. Existing somewhere on the chemical spectrum between Clorox, gasoline, and rubbing alcohol, it's like something out of STREET TRASH.

Over here we have James Mason. Veteran actor of stage and screen and a memorable collaborator of Alfred Hitchcock, Carol Reed, Stanley Kubrick, Michael Powell, Nicholas Ray, Tobe Hooper, Sam Peckinpah, and George Cukor, among others. Nominated for three Oscars, he's played General Rommel, Brutus, Captain Nemo, Joseph of Arimathea, and Humbert Humbert. He even had his own TV show for a little while: THE JAMES MASON SHOW. His deep, velvety voice has delivered exquistely-worded put-downs to co-stars as disparate as Charles Bronson, Cary Grant, and Marlon Brando. A class act if there ever was one. So, you're probably wondering why I even brought him up in the context of Thunderb–

Now that may be the finest celebrity endorsement I have ever witnessed, this side of Bronson/Mandom.

James Mason begins with a moment of hesitation...

You can see it in his nervous eyes and his stiff demeanor. He knows exactly what he's about to endorse. In fact, he may have grown that seedy moustache expressly for the occasion. He's come to grips with the sacrifices that must be made in the name of earning a living, yet still he finds it difficult to maintain eye contact with the viewer. He looks downward, using the excuse of a steadier pour.

"I like the unusual flavor of Thunderbird wine. It's an exceptionally good drink for every occasion."

He slowly pours himself a glass. He hasn't lied to us yet. Not directly. Perhaps he does like that unusual chemical taste in the same way that some of us enjoy the occasional whiff of gasoline from a passing automobile. And note that he doesn't say it's an exceptionally good drink per se, he simply finds it well-suited for every occasion, just as I find Drain-O well-suited for every occasion I have to unclog a pipe.

"Thunderbird has an unusual flavor, all it's own. Not quite like anything I've ever tasted."

Still he looks away. He even uses the descriptor 'unusual' once more. He's falling apart. Under that silken neck scarf, he is sweating buckets. You can't tell because he's a pro, but he's never lied to his public before. He still manages to avoid coming straight out and saying that 'Thunderbird is worth your time and money because it is delicious,' though, which is admirable. I like that sculpture, too.

"I suggest that you try Thunderbird. It's really delightful."

'Delightful' is stretching it. And James Mason knows it. That's why he toasts us with his tumbler-of-Thunderbird-on-the-rocks-with-lime-garnish as he says it. It's an old magician's trick: sleight of hand, distraction, and visual flourish. I like that he never takes a sip of Thunderbird. Now most will probably cite advertising laws and so forth, but I'll always hold that he can't bring himself to do it. It's also possible that the fumes have generated some kind of temporary paralysis.

Ah, and only now do we see that it's officially described as an aperitif, which might be the most egregious example of false advertising yet. Perhaps it could stimulate an appetite for slow-roasted packing peanuts served with rubber cement sauce, or something of that nature. I have to assume, though, that James Mason has tried Thunderbird at least once, or else he wouldn't realize the necessity of so carefully tiptoeing through his adjectives. But it's all in that first look–


It's only for an instant, but he really does look like a turtle out of its shell. The bird may be alive, but the Mason's mortified. And yet, at the same time, he looks scuzzier than Humbert Humbert at his scuzziest. This is the look of a man who is about to hawk some toxic chemicals in the form of a wine bottle. Then again, it doesn't resemble wine in any way, so let's say it's the look of a man who's about to hawk some toxic chemicals in the form of a bottle of bottom-tier Triple Sec. It's like that Philosophy 101 conundrum whereupon if you grab the carrot to feed yourself, someone across the world who you don't know dies. Except here, it's James Mason's livlihood versus a couple of dozen melting bums and dissolving hobos. It's the cycle of life, and it's all laid out quite beautifully. Thank you, Mr. Mason. Now pass that Thunderbird. Let her gentle wings soar.

-Sean Gill

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Commercial Review: CHARLES BRONSON'S MANDOM: 6 (197?, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 2 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Charles Bronson.

Prepare yourselves- we're nearing the mother lode. Fugue state. Disassociation from reality itself is forthcoming. If you need to catch up, here are Bronson's Mandom ads 1-3, and here are installments 4-5. But let's not beat around the bush- onto #6:



Alright. Let's do the blow by blow and attempt to derive some meaning from this rich document. A man plays the piano in a well-furnished lounge. Is his name 'Sam?' I don't know. It certainly could be. He's twinkling the ivories in a rather swank rendition of the classic 'Mandom' theme.

By this point we should need no prompting, we should already be internally reciting, "All the world/Loves a lover..."

The camera wraps around to reveal: Bronson.


The camera zooms out, tracks a little, then zooms in again once more. Obayashi loved his camera movement. And if ever there was a moment where the camera itself had to be stationary, he'd make sure he was adjusting the shit out of his focal length in a majestic ZOOM.

It's one of those slow nights where Bronson has nothing special planned besides staring at the house piano player at club near his home that he likes to frequent on his evenings off. Now, it bears mentioning that Bronson possibly had no concept of same-sex attraction, as outlined here. So while he may have no idea that he's doin' it, Bronson- in Obayashi's universe- is definitely cruisin'. I wouldn't be surprised if Obayashi had told Bronson to pretend he was looking at Jill Ireland. "All the world loves a lover..." mutters Bronson in his internal monologue. "All the world loves...Mandom." The lens then irises out, inviting us to imagine what sorts of acts were just performed in the hotel's bath-room. We respectfully decline the invitation.

We're back with a snap! Newly invigorated, Bronson heads home, stopping to exchange pleasantries with his favorite, giggling doorman. "Good night, Sam."

"Thank you, Mr. Bronson," replies the sickening doorman. This exchange is important for two reasons: #1. It reveals that Bronson's 'Mandom' character has never been a character at all- it's always been straight-up, unadulterated Bronson. And #2. The name of this establishment becomes visible in the background- "Pandora Club." Perhaps there is some greater, mystical meaning here– "The Pandora Club." A place where forbidden desires can be unleashed upon the world, spun open like the cap on a Mandom bottle. A place where dreams (and nightmares) come true. A place where there's hope at the bottom.

"Good Night, Mr. Bronson. Sleep tight!" "Thank you, Sam," replies Bronson. It's an in-joke. They both know that Bronson's not going to sleep– he's got a hot nightcap lined up with his extensive Mandom collection. Bronson's car speeds home along the slick asphalt that bears the dampness of recent rain.

A silhouette at the door–

The lights pop on with a click–

Thank God– Bronson. He grabs his pipe and whips off his shirt with genuine urgency. He playfully takes a few steps back, then whips the shirt toward the heavens at such a velocity that it breaks free of the Earth's gravity and spirals into the void of space.

But pay no attention to the Herculean acts of strength- it's Mandom time. Like extracting a fine cask of Amantillado from one's wine-cellar, Bronson chooses the right Mandom for the right occasion. No time like the present.

Gin-flavor is a fine choice. But then again, they're all sort of gin-flavored.

He spins the cap and flings it away with élan. Anyone who's ever held a bottle of Mandom realizes that it was designed for this express purpose. Of course you have to go back later, find the cap, and put it back on, but it's totally worth it. Kinda like when you pull the cork out of a bottle with your teeth and *Pfft-too* spit it out and get straight to drinkin'– though you know full well you'll have to find it later, dust it off, and reinsert it. Livin' in the moment. That's what Bronson and Mandom are all about. I guess I also forgot to mention that this is accompanied by a veritable mélange of gunshot and ricochet sound effects.

Bronson starts splashin' the stuff all over his nude upper body and the gunshots intensify to the point where one might call it "a cacophony of gunblasts."

He dashes and splashes– and we see crossfaded imagery of Bronson in mountain man attire- fringe jacket and everything– actually firing the shots that we're hearing.


When Bronson showers his back with Mandom's fragrant elixir, we see Mountain Man-Bronson-id contorting his back to fire accordingly.


It's hard to say if Bronson is remembering via the Mandom (like Proust with his madeleine) back to a time when he wore a fringe jacket and shot a bunch of dudes, or if he's actually having an out-of-body experience. Horses neigh! The Mandom has freed Bronson's id from its primitive, sinewy constraints and released it into a world– a domain- where a man can be a Man. A MAN-DOM, if you will.

Inside the man, there is another man.


Bronson sees himself, riding off into a Southwestern sunset through a rotating, transparent cap on a Mandom bottle. What a strange and wonderful trip!

Bronson touches his face. It's as if he's touching it for the very first time.

And he is. He has been reborn. Baptized by the sweet flowing waters of the Mandom. Like a spiritual bath in the old lilac-gin. The camera tracks straight ahead through Bronson's apartment, zooming out at the end (á la Hitchcock in VERTIGO and later Spielberg in JAWS) to create a disorienting redefinition of depth. A new perspective on life.

And so it ends. It's hard to say if it's merely a commercial or possibly a call to arms? The resounding trumpet-call for a new religion? A new way of living? Would their Lord's Prayer begin with a somber recitation of "All the world loves a lover, all the world loves Mandom?" Is Bronson the deity in this new denomination, or is the little Greek statue guy on the Mandom bottle? Where does Eastwood fit into this? Is he an antagonistic force, á la the Bronson vs. Eastwood rivalry?

There are a lot of unanswered questions here, and perhaps they're best left for another time. Who knew such mystical riches were resting within the golden confines of the Mandom bottle?

Five stars.

To be continued...

-Sean Gill

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Commercial Review: GUINNESS 'PURE GENIUS': PART 1 (1987-1993, Rutger Hauer)

Stars: 4.2 of 5.
Running Time: 1:40.
Notable Cast or Crew: Rutger Hauer.
Best one-liner: "If you keep an open mind... you'll discover dark secrets."
Today's review will examine just one small facet of a much larger ad campaign, mounted by Guinness in the late 80's and early 90's. Further examinations, as is the case with the ongoing Charles Bronson/Mandom analysis, will be posted at a later date.

Alright. Let's look at a few pictures, shall we?


How vanilla can ya get? Who could be offended by a toucan? Who wouldn't welcome a lovely day? How does he balance that big ole pint on that whacky long beak? You get points for vintage charm, bud, but you're not pushing any envelopes, not by a long shot.

It's good for you?! Not so edgy. We're in search of darkness, weakness...the demons within. We want Oliver Reed. Self-destructive behavior. A three-day bender.

Alright, now we're talkin'. This one introduces an element of danger. But look how goofy the gosh darned lion is. He's not interested in tearin' that mustachioed man limb from limb, he just wants a sip of that Guinness. After he gets it, he'll probably lick his lips, make some puppy dog eyes, and say something adorable like "Luvely day fer a Guinness!"

But things are about to change. Yes, they're about–

TO

GET

LOCO.

Unsatisfied with your dreary ad campaign? Feel like you're in a bit of a rut? The ads are starting to blend together? Well allow me to introduce you to the shot in the arm that is RUTGER HAUER. The seven year ad campaign made Hauer a millionaire and apparently boosted Guinness sales by 22%- 37 million pints. No more quaint little toucan piffle– we're talking an ice cold mystery man who gazes deeply into a black pint of Guinness and solves the mysteries of the universe. You are invited. And so is Abe Lincoln. More on that in a minute.

Now I can't find too much information about the creative team that actually scripted and directed these ads (at different times, Ridley Scott, Paul Weiland, and Hugh Hudson were involved), but they're full of such non-sequiturs, mind-bending imagery, and utter bizarritude that they beg the question, did Rutger write these himself?

Today we'll look at an extended commercial from 1993 which blends imagery from several prior ads and acts as a sort of overview for the 'Pure Genius' campaign as a whole. It's more like a short film than a television commercial. More LAST YEAR AT MARIENBAD than Budweiser Frogs, if you will.


We begin with a slow track in on a can of Guinness as it is popped open- the yawning perforation expels foam, dominates the screen, and we venture within- we're about to go on an extraordinary journey, ladies and gentlemen.

The foam gives way to a cliffside Tibetan monastery, looking perhaps like something out of Powell & Pressburger...


Said monastery is inhabited by a solitary monk, deep in thought. The original Zen master himself, Monk Hauer. Monk Hauer shares his thoughts–

The world revolves at a thousand miles an hour.. it's enough to make you dizzy-zy-zy-zy-zy...

With a flourish of reverb, the camera spirals up, up, and away, past a hanging bulb and into the cosmos, whereupon we... see the Big Bang happen. And that's not even the highlight of this commercial. Billions of space particles converge into constellations, which appear on a map that is immediately thereafter cruelly crumpled by mysterious fingers, belonging to an unseen giant form. The monstrous man checks his watch, where a tiny Rutger Hauer casually strolls amongst the clockwork. With the bare minimum of effort, he stops the rotating second hand, hoists his glass, and cryptically instructs–


"Talk amongst yourselves....I may be...some time..."

Water flows from a porthole within the watch and the camera tracks back to reveal the esoteric swirl within a newly poured pint of Guinness. Yes, it's a good thing that it takes three days for a greenhorn bartender to slosh out your pint of Guinness- in fact, it deliberately takes so long to settle because Rutger thinks you should be taking that time to meditate on a few philosophical matters of great importance. Or you can just wait impatiently and tap your fingers on the bar like a real douchebomb, it makes no difference to Rutger whether you become enlightened or not, you unwashed hooligan.

The swirl gives way to amber waves of grain. The wheat rustles forebodingly as a storm brews on the horizon. A single scarecrow, complete with top hat and perched crow, stands watch.

And, yeah, that scarecrow is Rutger Hauer. He smiles.

If you keep an open mind, you'll discover dark secrets...

A drop of water on Rutger's eyebrow transforms into the domain of a terrifying whale whose mouth we are entering presently...

Within the belly of the whale, a ghostly, forlorn harmonica pipes out a tune. (Is that a trace of the Mandom theme...?) The camera pans past sunken shipwrecks, derelict covered wagons, and eerie whisps of smoke to reveal...


...Rutger Hauer quaffing a Guinness and playing checkers against Abe Lincoln. Rutger leans in, and half-sincerely, half sarcastically says,

"Have you been here long?"

I'm still not sure if he's seriously asking him because he wants to know, or if he's snidely affirming his own timeless seniority over Abe Lincoln. That is the power and ambiguity of Rutger Hauer's performance. Well, it doesn't matter, cause Hauer makes a smooth move and jumps one of Abe Lincoln's checkers. Before Hauer can say 'King me,' the white checker transforms into the head on a pint of Guinness, and the ad is over.

Whew! What a fucking ad! We saw the Big Bang. We got swallowed by a sea creature. We saw Rutger Hauer meditate in the Himalayas, stop time itself, play a human scarecrow, and kick Abe Lincoln's ass at checkers... and all this in under two minutes! Plus, now we got a mouth-watering urge to swig some Guinness and ponder the mysteries of the universe. Hell, we even got in a sideways plug for whale rights. We've come a long way since "Guinness is Good for You," and we've still got a long way to go... until then...

EDIT: In reflection, it's probably not actually Abe Lincoln. Being as he resides in the belly of a whale, it would make more sense if it was Captain Ahab (think the Gregory Peck incarnation). Not that the rest of the commercial embodies this sort of adherence to logic or reason. Regardless, whether Abe Lincoln or Captain Ahab; it's still impressive that Rutger so casually vanquishes him at checkers and affirms his superiority: Have you been here long? Like, go find another whale or something, right?

-Sean Gill

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