Let’s Call Her Barbie

Original Creations

Original Creations

1961

While they’re finalizing the last details for the Ken doll before he goes into production, Mattel’s general counsel, Henry Pursell, calls an urgent meeting with Elliot, Ruth and Jack. Closing Ruth’s office door behind him, Henry buttons his suit jacket and says, “We just received a notice from Louis Marx and Company.”

Ruth shakes her head. “What the hell does that shtoonk want this time?”

“They’re suing Mattel.”

“For what?”

“Well,” says Henry, “Louis Marx now owns the license to Bild Lilli and they’re suing us for copyright infringement.”

“That’s a load of crap,” she says, reaching for a cigarette. Despite her bluster, Ruth’s instantly rattled. Her stomach twists as her mind flashes back to the night she was in Barbara’s bedroom, looking at her daughter’s doll collection, and how shocked she’d been by the similarities between the two dolls. Something like this could put Barbie out of business, and that’s the same as putting Mattel out of business.

“That is total bullshit,” Jack says, backing Ruth up. “It’s just sour grapes because Miss Seventeen flopped.” Their doll is still sitting on the toy store shelves collecting dust.

“That may be true, but according to the suit”—Henry pauses here to consult his notes—“it comes down to the hip joint. They’re claiming you used their construction for Barbie.”

“That’s absolute nonsense,” says Ruth, noticing that Elliot hasn’t said a word. “Jack worked around all their patents. He owns his own Barbie patents.”

Henry holds up his hand and continues. “They claim that Barbie isn’t an original creation. They’re basically just coming right out and saying you stole the idea from G and H.”

“Oh, that’s absurd,” says Ruth.

Henry looks at her. “So are you saying you want to dispute it?”

“You bet your ass I do,” she says.

“Okay,” says Henry. “Do we have grounds to dispute it?”

“Hell yes.” She thumps her fist to her desk. “In fact, you know what—I want to countersue.”

“On what basis?”

“Louis Marx copied us.”

“She has a point,” says Elliot. “You’ve seen Miss Seventeen. They only issued that doll in direct response to Barbie.”

“And Miss Seventeen’s not half the doll ours is,” adds Jack. “If girls buy Miss Seventeen, thinking it’s a Barbie, that’s going to hurt our sales.”

The more they talk, the more they convince themselves of this.

“The main thing,” says Elliot, “is we have to keep this out of the press. Can we do that?”

Henry shrugs. “We’ll do our best.”

“Elliot’s right,” says Ruth. “We’re trying to downplay Barbie being too sexy, and if word gets out that there’s any association between Barbie and a German prostitute, it’ll be the end of her.”

And so Mattel countersues Louis Marx, who retaliates with a countersuit to Mattel’s countersuit. Round and round it goes. Meanwhile, Ruth tells herself that Barbie has no relationship to Bild Lilli. And besides, isn’t everything derived from something else? She could argue that there’s no such thing as a truly original anything . Something always exists before the next, better thing comes along. Isn’t that the whole point of inspiration? Imagination? Creativity? Where would artists be without other paintings to study? Or writers without other books to read? Musicians without someone else’s music to listen to, filmmakers without other movies to see? How else are you supposed to unlock what’s never been done before? That initial spark has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it? Barbie may have been inspired by Bild Lilli, but they made so many changes to the doll that Ruth would swear on her sister’s grave that Barbie is Mattel’s original creation.

But just to be sure, as a precaution, they make some modifications to Barbie. They soften the extreme arch of her eyebrows and lighten her eyeliner, change the glint in her pupil from white to blue. They fill in the holes in the balls of Barbie’s feet and give her a different stand. They’re looking for anything that won’t be too costly that can put some distance between Bild Lilli and Barbie.

—

Ruth and Elliot are eager to capitalize on Barbie’s success, and now that Ken is in the works, they’re looking for additional ways to keep expanding the doll line. They want more outfits, more accessories and more projective play ideas—more, more, more. They have Barbie meetings every day, and every day there are more people joining the team. But no matter how many engineers, developers and sample makers come on board, the core Barbie team under Ruth is still Charlotte, Jack and Stevie. If Stevie’s not in Charlotte’s office, she’s in Jack’s.

For the past two weeks, however, Charlotte’s been in Japan, working with the seamstresses there on Ken’s new wardrobe: red swimming trunks, sandals and a little terry cloth towel. In her absence, Stevie’s taken the lead and lately has been spending more time with Jack than anyone else, including Vivian, Patsy or her parents.

One evening, the third or fourth late night that week, it’s Stevie and Jack again. Jack is sprawled out on his bearskin rug, ankles crossed, his fingers laced behind his head. Stevie is across the room sitting at his drafting table, where so much magic has been born. It feels a little like sitting down at Hemingway’s typewriter or trying to play Paganini’s Stradivarius. Jack is a master in his own right; his creativity and ingenuity seem boundless.

Stevie, on the other hand, feels tapped out at the moment. She’s just finished working with Charlotte on Winter Holiday for the 900 series and is convinced she’ll never have another decent idea. So for now she’s stuck and sketching—doodling, really—hoping it will free up some inspiration. She knows that what she’s drawing will never make it into production. It’s a long strapless dress that flares at the bottom, almost like a mermaid’s tail. She’s lost in concentration and doesn’t notice that Jack is now looking over her shoulder.

“What is that?”

She jumps with a start, pulling the sketchpad to her chest. “It’s nothing. I’m just fooling around.”

“C’mon, let me see.” He reaches for the pad, his hand brushing against hers.

That simple touch of his is enough to send a current through her body. These bursts of attraction she feels for Jack always take her by surprise, though really, they shouldn’t. Stevie’s always been drawn to older men. Even Russell was twelve years her senior. Each time she’s close to Jack like this, she’s reminded of what Patsy said, about him giving her an orgasm. She’s curious about him, but he’s married and he’s her boss. But he also smells good, and so she releases the sketchpad.

“Very sexy gown,” he says, squeezing in closer, adding to the heat coursing through her.

“But it’s not practical,” she says, forcing her eyes from his lips back to the page. “It would never work for Barbie.”

“May I?” He gestures for her pencil, and she hands it to him, feeling another spark. “You just need to trim back some of this hem…Gotta be careful, though, you don’t want to spoil the drama.” He adds some strokes to her sketch. “Open it up, so it blooms like this—” He adds a few more details.

She’s watching, amazed by how he’s transforming her concept.

“Now picture this dress in black. All sequins, top to bottom.”

What he’s just done unlocks her own ideas. “And what about black satin opera gloves?”

“Love it.” He sketches them out. “Let’s not stop there. What about adding just a burst of color. Maybe a single flower on the dress?”

“Or a scarf.”

“A scarf. Yes, something long and silky.” He nods, his hands working so fast it’s mesmerizing, especially when he adds the final touch, a microphone on a tall slender stand. “Now you’ve got that torch singer, nightclub feel.”

Stevie brings her hands to her face. “I can’t believe what you just did.”

“ We —what we just did,” he says. “We’re a hell of a team, you and me.”

Their eyes lock. There’s an exhilarated energy pulsing in the air. It’s coming from him, from her, and together they just made something incredible and now he’s looking at her like he wants to kiss her. And just as he leans in, his lips mere inches from hers, she places her hand on his chest. “Hey.” She gently pushes him back.

His eyes grow limpid. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping away, running his hands back through his hair. “I just…It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Stevie doesn’t say anything. She’s still a little stunned that they came so close to kissing, and they would have kissed, too, if she hadn’t stopped him, and for that, there’s a kernel of something in the pit of her stomach. It feels a little like regret.