The concept of selling out, sacrificing personal integrity for material gain, is a ubiquitous concept and hardly a new one. The Oxford English Dictionary attributes its first usage to the diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut (1862). In the version edited by C. V. Woodward (1981), about the surrender of Norfolk to Lincoln’s Union, she writes, “Another sellout to the devil. It is this giving up that kills me. Norfolk they talk of now. Why not Charleston next?” (336). Unless you’re anticipating the Confederate South to rise again, then this should be clear: Selling out doesn’t take a negative connotation because to whom or for what one sells out, but rather the act itself exposes the actor’s inauthenticity—hence nobody likes a sellout. To sell out is incoherent, and it leaves others to question the actor’s authentic self. And no one likes a two-face either. (Even Harvey Dent had the integrity to consistently act based on chance.)
As an accusation, selling out has never been more popular it seems since the prominence of the World Wide Web. Before nearly everyone had a voice in the court of public opinion, the average person could only disappoint their closest friends and family or themselves by forfeiting principled values for superficialities. Of course, martyrs are the antitheses of sellouts. The United States doesn’t really have martyrs anymore—for better and for worse. With public scrutiny democratized through the Internet, individuals capable of building an oeuvre become targets for critical analysis, their motives being closely inspected against the content of their work. This outpouring of art and commerce is the topic of the Colin Marshall article about Wes Anderson’s “commercial success.”
Wes Anderson, for those unfamiliar, is the director behind Bottle Rocket, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic of Steve Zissou, and The Darjeeling Limited, to name the films that I’ve seen. His style notably evokes a sentimentality and intimacy about flawed characters. He also has a cult following. Those adherents are probably the most vocal about his recent stint as a corporate shill for the likes of AMEX, AT&T, and IKEA, among others. But is he (and other auteurs who’ve done commercials: e.g., Jean-Luc Godard and David Lynch) a “sellout”?
If we accept the definition above, then for Anderson to deserve the title we need to show that he sacrificed principle for profit. While I’m a fan of the auteurs above, I’m no expert on their works; that said, with the exception of Godard’s Marxist Weltanschauung, none of these directors bolster a particularly anti-commercialist message in their art. Since they create TV spots that bear their distinct marks, one can’t really accuse them of creative prostitution. However, that’s not to say they haven’t done something commercial, and in so doing commodified their style.
Commodification only requires that a thing be transformed through economic relations into a good that is bought and sold. While moviemakers presumably make movies to be distributed in the market, the film per se, and not the artist, is the commodity. When Anderson makes a commercial for a corporate entity, he’s no longer dealing with a distinct product in the open market in which we all participate. Instead, he’s selling his style (read: himself) to the corporation which in turn is selling its brand to us consumers. Commodification differs from selling-out in that the latter, as we’re presuming, requires a betrayal of integrity.
If Anderson isn’t a sellout but is guilty of commodification of the self, the question remains: Has he done something detestable? No. Advertisers extending a hand to directors, and directors taking that hand, is an acceptable way for these artists to produce material within a market economy—the notion of integrity notwithstanding. We the consuming public can determine whether this material is valuable on our own.
Regardless of your stance on the cultural value of commercials, commercials are severe mini-shorts, and they can be as inane as a slogan repeated ad nauseam over an image (HeadOn) or as captivating as a dramatic allusion to an Orwellian dystopia (Apple). Wes Anderson’s overstuffed, rococo, 1970’s-time-bomb style particularly lends itself to the frequency of commercials: Viewers can discover new parts of the mise-en-scène with each viewing.
Of course, advertisements as corporate tools should only be experienced in moderation, always through a critical lens, never passively. All the cultural responsibility shouldn’t fall squarely on the artist’s shoulders. Intelligent fans should be able to discern the craft from the gimmick (as should every consumer!). Alas, people do shop according to envy, emulation, and “mental engineering” (also the title of a good show that analyzed ads that used to be on PBS, by the way). Ironically, the people likely to care about an Anderson or Lynch or Godard commercial are also likely to scrape off the pre-consumer waste from the bottoms of these ads. Those that don’t appreciate the signature of these directors are likely to index these segments in their minds alongside furniture liquidation ads. In the end, marketers foot the bill of expensive furniture liquidation announcements. (At least that’s what I hope.)
Reinforcing my point, Marshall observes how out of place the product is in these ads. Here’s where someone could argue that the director has indeed sold out: These directors’ films tend not to have full-screen, abject product placement. In these ads, though, is anything of the artist’s original idea lost? The sheer incongruity within the advertisement should at least defer the accusation; the branding at the close of these commercials appears tacked on by someone other than the director much the way a Let’s-All-Go-to-the-Lobby-type insert precedes a feature film. Watch Lynch’s commercials. Some of his ads integrate the product, others don’t; either way, the effect is some of the most humorous stuff he’s made. His commercials play like an SNL or Kids in the Hall parody of German/existential advertising: the mark of Lynch is there, but the product is unimportant and seemingly pretend.
As long as artists aren’t belying their vision, why condemn them for commodifying themselves within a system that demands it? One hand washes the other, and if it’s flexible enough, the other hand washes itself once more. So even though AMEX gets to stamp its brand on a Wes Anderson production, Anderson gets an outlet for his creative expression that is divorceable from the brand itself. Fans get one more video to pore over. And the gears of capitalism grind on.