Put Her on Ice
Put Her on Ice
“Ruthie, are you crazy?” Elliot drops into the chair behind his desk. The color has drained from his face. “You want to spend how much on the television advertising for Barbie?”
“Relax, Elliot.”
“Relax? You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
“God forbid, pooh, pooh, pooh,” she says, warding off the evil spirit. “We already know the power of advertising on TV. We’ll start airing in June, so it coincides with school letting out. That gives retailers plenty of time to place their orders at Toy Fair, get everything shipped and on the shelves in time for summer vacation.”
“But you’re talking about $125,000. Just for Barbie alone.”
“I’ve crunched the numbers, and I’m being conservative when I say we should have Tokyo ramp up production to 20,000 Barbies a week—”
“Oh, Ruthie—that’s an awful lot of—”
“Along with 40,000 outfits—”
“Oh God, you’re killing me. I swear to God you are killing me.”
“Trust me, Elliot. Remember what happened with the Burp Gun?”
How could he forget? It was the biggest gamble she ever took, and he had no choice but to go along with it. Back in 1955, Mattel introduced the Burp Gun. It was just an ordinary cap gun, but Elliot designed it as a machine gun, able to fire round upon round. It was quite the sensation at Toy Fair, and the orders practically wrote themselves. But once the Burp Gun got to the stores, it didn’t sell. At the time, Walt Disney happened to be looking for a sponsor for his new TV show, premiering that spring. Disney wanted $500,000 for fifty-two weeks’ worth of TV spots. At first Ruth dismissed the idea. A TV commercial in the middle of March? The only time anyone advertised toys on television was the two weeks before Christmas. Besides, if it failed, $500,000 could have put Mattel out of business. But then again, Ruth came from a family of gamblers, and with knots in her stomach, and Elliot hyperventilating, she decided to do it. As soon as the Burp Gun commercials began airing on The Mickey Mouse Club , sales took off. They filled over a million orders that year alone, and the Burp Gun is still their bestselling toy.
—
With just eight and a half weeks until Toy Fair, Ruth and Elliot arrive at a soundstage in Burbank. Mattel’s advertising agency, Carson/Roberts, is about to shoot the Barbie commercial.
The amount of equipment and number of people needed to film one commercial is staggering. There’s a Bell their synthetic hair begins to wilt and weld together, forming helmets. Barbie’s bangs are plastered to her forehead.
“Cut,” the director calls out.
They replace those dolls, redo the set and push the spotlights off just a bit. They’re all ready to go again. No sooner does the director call “Action” than the same thing happens again. The third time they try to film as quickly as possible. Halfway through the second take, the bridal Barbie’s cheeks bubble up and blister. Ruth’s entire body slumps. She feels like she’s the director’s chair folding in on itself.
“This is a disaster,” says Elliot after another botched take. “I’m going back to the office. I can’t watch this anymore.”
After Elliot leaves, Ralph Carson, the numbers man, huddles with Ruth. “There’s no way this is going to be an eight-hour shoot like we planned on,” he says. “I’m afraid we’ll be going into overtime.”
“That’s time and a half, isn’t it?” asks Ruth, already calculating what this does to their budget.
“Afraid so.”
“Well, that’s bad news for you.”
“For me?”
“I’m not eating the overtime costs. You are.”
And that’s the end of that discussion. Now Ruth has Carson watching the clock as closely as she is. After another forty-five minutes and two more fruitless attempts, they break for lunch. The entire morning has been a waste. There’s a trash bin full of ruined dolls and outfits drizzled in plastic. Nothing with Barbie has gone smoothly. As a team, they were nimble, though; they always found ways to work through all the production hiccups and naysaying and overcame every other obstacle. This was supposed to be the easy part. She can’t live through another setback. There has to be a way to make this damn commercial.
Maybe they need to bring in fans? But that would mess up Barbie’s hair, flutter her clothes. Can they shoot without the spotlights? Maybe lighten the film in postproduction? She’s thinking, thinking, gnashing her teeth and her brain, but the director, his crew and the ad agency people are lined up at the craft service table, filling their plates with macaroni and cheese, roasted chicken, lima beans and rice pudding. Why the hell am I the one trying to solve this mess when the people I hired are more interested in lunch?
She can’t bring herself to eat. Her stomach’s upset, roiling from nerves and too much coffee. Instead, she reaches inside the ice chest for a bottle of Coca-Cola, and as she wipes away the condensation and takes a sip, an idea comes to her.
Turning to Carson, she says, “Why don’t you keep the Barbies in the ice chest until it’s time to shoot?”
“Are you serious?”
“You have a better idea? Let’s put those Barbies on ice.”
And that’s what they do. The stylists gently wrap each doll in plastic, careful not to mess their hair or outfits, before plunging them deep into the ice. They work quickly to get each take before re-icing the dolls for the next setup. Barbies’ little legs and feet are sticking up in the air like bottles of champagne.