Bad Casting

I'd like to have a quick word with whoever is in charge of outdoor marketing for Mango's Nigerian operation. As I got to the mall yesterday, I was assaulted by the image of Kate Moss bearing down on me from a great height, looking decidedly edgy and defiant from the billboard on the building. Nothing against ole Kate, I just found her being here jarring. She looked so out of place. It put me in mind of watching a good movie with an actor/ actress one really likes, but having to admit that they were badly cast for the role.

Why, in the middle of sweltering Lagos do we have Kate Moss dressed in black leather flogging us clothes? Surely there are myriad Nigerian (and at a push, even African) models, celebrities, fashionistas, etc who would have embodied the Mango ethos and made it more relevant to this market.

I find Kate an odd choice for Mango in the first place as she has positioned herself in recent years, mostly via the Topshop and Rimmel campaigns as being the ultimate custodian of 'The London Look'. She is not the person whose style comes to mind when you think Mango. Furthermore, for Nigeria, I would have thought they'd go for someone with more of a diverse, international feel.

Of course, I must admit that my argument rests on the assumption that Mango would want to tailor their marketing campaign to the Nigerian market because as a former practitioner, my approach to all outgoing communications is still very geared toward delivering relevant and tailor made messages to each group of stakeholders. My initial tack would have been to get a Miss Nigeria, or a Nigerian Miss World up there. An Oluchi, or an Agbani Darego or a Tiwa Savage or an Eku Edewor.

But maybe that isn't their strategy at all. Maybe they are trying to be 'aspirational' and do the opposite of what I've said which is to amp up their status as a foreign, imported and therefore superior brand, which only a select few with Euro-centric sensibilities can relate to. It could be that rather than trying to Nigerianise their brand, they are trying to Mangofy Nigeria.

On a purely commercial level, I understand why they might want to do the latter of course. In retail terms, it creates justification for nice fat margins which they can slash once a year during the 'sales' and make customers feel special for buying a slinky little top at 150% markup, instead of the usual 300%; I get that. However, I do think that it is crucial for consumers to be able to identify, even just a little it, with the images they see on marketing campaigns aimed at them and I don't think the two are mutually exclusive. It is the reason why brands like Guinness don't have a bunch of Irish guys in their Nigerian campaigns, they have a bunch of Naija guys, hanging out after work. It is this crucial stage of mirroring the audience that I think Mango have missed out.

A final thought occurs to me, and though I find it unpalatable I must share it. What if prior to commencing operations in Nigeria, they carried out all the marketing due diligence one would expect and found out that for ready to wear / pret a porter fashion, Nigerians respond better to non-Nigrian images? It would not surprise me one bit; it is possible, think about it. I truly hope this is not the case as that would be very sad indeed, but one can never rule these things out. There is no point exploring the whys and wherefores of that particular possibility, but if that unfortunate possibility does have some truth to it, then I think it is safe to assume that it is bedfellwows with the category of reasons Nigerian women are so ardent in their pursuit of all the hair in the world, that is, all except their own. But I digress. The fake hair problem is a discussion for another day.

In any case, even from an aesthetic point of view, Kate stands out on that billboard at the Palms and it isn't the successful kind of standing out. Neeeeext!

The Cous Cous Coup

Another colossal waste of time I encountered this week is the infamous Cous cous. I can't believe I used to enjoy this stuff. I used to think it was a beautifully versatile little accompaniment to almost anything. When I made my chickpea, cous cous, roast pepper and cucumber salad, it looked like the sort of meal that would usually be right up my street. But as I chewed, those infuriating little grains, which previously whispered sweet nothings of wholesomeness to my palette, began to feel like little serrated ball bearings on assignment to rouse my temper.

They were just there, EVERYWHERE. Dietary shrapnel, seemingly reproducing like grainy amoeba on crack in my mouth; jamming the spaces between my teeth, obstructing my natural chewing pattern and making the area under my tongue feel an abrasive carpet. I am still puzzled as to how this happened. Did something snap in my head? Did a neural anti-cous cous pathway just sprout in my brain, or did the pro-cous cous neural pathway just get zapped suddenyl? One day I loved the stuff; and the next day I didn't. T

Now, the way I see it, you may as well try to eat the stamen of a hibiscus plant, or the bleached/deodorised droppings of a really small rodent.

Eugh. Never again. So long cous cous; it was good while it lasted.

Good night.

Colossal Waste of Time

I decided last night that following a fairly gruelling day, I deserved to tuck myself into bed with a movie. Now, I am in no way a film buff. My criteria is this: I like a good Romcom or Drama or Action Thriller with just enough intrigue to keep me engaged, but not enough weirdness to get the real film buffs excited (that is the point where I fall asleep).

Also, if I am to watch anything, my preference is for it to be from the comfort of my sofa at home. I don't understand why anyone would want to sit in a dark room with hundreds of strangers, very many of whom are unsavoury, and all of whom are potential obstacles blocking you from the fire exit, should you ever need to use it in an emergency. I do however love popcorn and have been known to buy the popcorn and skip the movie. This is not to say that I never go to the cinema; just that it is not my favourite place in the whole wide world to be. I prefer to watch stuff at home, where the possibility of smug, fat rats scuttling up the walls isn't at 80% and I don't have to wonder about the virulent bacteria that proliferate in places like cinemas that shun the occasional, redeeming light of day.

But now at least you understand how I don't turn to film by default the way some people do, and how I despise going to the cinema. So the opportunity cost is huge for me if I decide that I will watch a film, rather than read the ever growing pile of books I am eager to get through.
So you can imagine my disappointment when I watched Karate Kid (with the little Smith boy) for the first time yesterday. Is this really what people have been raving about? Glad I didn't pay to see that in the cinema!

Oh what poorly rendered characters. How simplistic and underdeveloped they were. Why was the mother so stereotypically African American, whoopin' and hollerin' every other minute? Why did the kid have to be called 'Dre AND have such a foul personality? And how insulting that they would have us believe that his great internal discipline was learnt by being made to pick his jacket up a few times by the random Kung Fu gentle giant down the road. It was an inadequate acknowledgement of the need to break his obstinacy, and the transformation of his character was no where near sincere enough. How immature the pen that wrote the script; where 'Dre's eulogistic glory came from winning the very first tournament he ever competed in. I mean really? We all know his character needed to have been broken a few more times, defined by a few more challenges.

Maybe it could have worked as a silent film for spastics (very basic plot, inconsequential dialogue and one dimensional characters) but not really my cup of tea, thanks.
What a colossal waste of time and it wasn't at all worth the ache in my neck and arm from propping myself up in bed to watch it. That's two hours of my life I won't ever get back.

Jackie Chan my dear, the despairing, tortured character thing isn't really your style. Here is one situation in which you need to #staywithinyourcomfortzone. I like you much better when you're doing happy kung fu! And the little Smith boy has a ways to go before he is ready to be a convincing actor.

Happy Birthday, Charles Dickens

Yesterday was Charles Dickens' 200th Birthday. There have been lots of celestial birthdays recently. For example, we recently remembered my paternal Grandfathership on what would have been his 98th birthday. In celebration, there was lots of Handel and Dvorak and Debussy all round. But I digress... It was so great to see Dickens so fondly remembered decades after the time he inhabited, by other authors, the general public, and even the clergy of Westminster Abbey where he is buried.

Apparently he had asked to be buried in the yard of a sweet little village church somewhere, a place he associated with serenity and rest, but his eminence at the time of his death was such that he was instead upgraded to the rather more fancy Westminster Abbey. He is therefore now posthumous flat mates with the likes of Charles Darwin; not because he asked for it but because the honour was conferred on him by virtue of his contribution to society.

For me, Charles Dickens will always be the author who got to grips with the metropolitan/cosmopolitan subculture way before it was deemed so achingly cool to do so. His documentation of Victorian London is second to none. His ability to evoke the putrid smells, the pungent squalor, his keen observation of social disparities, and the sheer mastery of human motive make for great reading every time. And he is still very much alive in modern Literature.

About 5 years ago, I had to read the first Harry Potter book for one of my Creative Writing seminars (I do not subscribe to Pottermania so I treated it as a transactional exchange of sorts, a bit like taking cough mixture). It struck me then, that the old Dickens appeared to be reaching through the ages and signing off on fiction with his trademark flourish. I'll explain. Now I don't know whether JK Rowling esteems him as one of her inspirations, but there seemed (to me anyway) to be a certain Dickensian rendering of names going on. What I mean is that Dickens' characters names are generally fantastically onomatopaeic and Rowling captured this in names like 'Voldemort' for instance, who was the big bad deathly baddie, and 'Hermione' the goody goody gosh goody two shoes, etc etc. Not to say that every onomatopaeic name is attributable to Dickensian influence, but you know what I mean.

So hey ho for old Dickens. Thanks for all the inspiration and hilarity, and I hope that in these disgraceful times where young people are unable to read or digest any information over 140 characters long, that the work of great authors like him will not pale into obscurity.