Developing Anti-Prop. 65 Spots : Commercial Litmus Test: Will TV Viewers Buy It?

A month before Election Day, pollster Gary Lawrence headed out on the focus-group circuit one last time. He traveled to Glendale, Fresno, Sacramento and West Los Angeles, playing the entire collection of anti-Proposition 65 commercials to a dozen registered voters at each stop.

By now there were nine advertisements--covering the distance from the Rancho Seco nuclear plant to Prof. Irwin Corey. An initial commercial staged in a movie theater had been dumped; it just didn’t seem to work.

Everywhere, Lawrence heard similar comments about the commercials. Insipid, confusing, trivial, stupid. This spot missed the point, the focus-group participants would complain. That one ducked the issue. Irwin Corey’s gags, so funny on the set, crashed into unforgiving walls of blank stares. “How insulting!” was a common refrain.

This was all pretty much as expected.

“I call it the Cecil B. DeMille effect,” Lawrence said. It rears up whenever television watchers are presented an opportunity to evaluate political commercials. If they can’t find fault with content--and they usually can--focus-group participants will take the ad-makers to task on such technical fineries as the camera work, lighting or narrator elocution.

There are two explanations for this venom. Either the spots are truly awful and deserve the wrath, or--and this is what campaign consultants prefer to believe--no one wants to praise political advertising because to do so would suggest it can influence their vote.

An exception turned up in Fresno. Her name was Agnes.

Agnes happened to be seated next to the focus group’s dominant participant, an elderly woman who was proud that she had returned to college. This woman had strident criticism for every ad:

Stupid!

I’m insulted when something is presented to me in that way !

It doesn’t say one thing about the issue!

Finally Lawrence sought to derail this woman’s runaway train of invective by asking her, in an almost exasperated tone, if there was any kind of political commercial she would like.

“What I’d like,” she said, “is to have two League of Women Voters representatives discussing the issue.” Right, we’ll get back to you next election.

Lawrence turned to Agnes.

“Agnes,” he said, congenially, “we haven’t heard from you for a while. What are your thoughts?”

Agnes is a tall, red-haired woman, and she spoke with that slight suggestion of twang found often among Fresnans. In short, Agnes inspired appreciation for whoever cast Carol Burnett as a Fresno matron in the satirical miniseries “Fresno.”

Looking for Entertainment

“What I want most from my commercials,” Agnes said, “is entertainment.

“I think our commercials are sometimes more entertaining than the programs around them. And at home we vote--my husband and I--according to the quality of the skit.”

So far Lawrence had played three loony Corey spots and the Ira J. Sleazebaum ad, a humorous but more sedate poke at profiteering lawyers.

“OK,” he told Agnes now, “let’s put you in the role of being on the no side for just a minute. If you could only play one commercial of the four we’ve seen so far, which would you play?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“If it was my money, I’d want the funny man.”

A lonely vote for Irwin Corey.

Although rare are the Agneses who admit it, spots do influence votes--not all, certainly, but enough to sometimes decide elections--and some spots do work better than others. Despite the intellectual barricades thrown up by most focus-group participants, Lawrence needed to learn what they really thought about the Proposition 65 commercials. He had some tricks.

He would, for instance, ask participants how their neighbors or spouses might react to certain spots. Rarely would they give others as much credit as they gave themselves, and in answers to these questions they would provide a window into what they themselves considered the commercial’s strengths. Also, Lawrence would instruct participants to provide written evaluations of the spots, and these judgments often contradicted their harsh talk and were considered more reliable.

Doug Watts, the political consultant responsible for the spots, was pleased with results of the testing. For starters, he said, the focus groups had served their purpose as a last “disaster check” prior to airing the new spots. The creative process can be blinding to otherwise obvious errors, and Watts wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed any. He had.

Wrong Impression

The Irwin Corey spot about peanuts created exactly the wrong impression with viewers. Missed was the suggestion that peanuts would carry warning labels under Proposition 65 because of natural toxins. Instead, focus-group participants concluded that tainted irrigation water was ruining the nation’s peanuts--a notion that Watts would prefer to leave unexplored. The spot was canceled.

What pleased Watts most were responses that Lawrence elicited when asking focus groups what advice they might give the producers of No-on-65 commercials. The responses were nearly unanimous: More expert testimony, more facts, more figures, fewer jokes. Warn what the consequences of Proposition 65 might be. Would it undercut current laws? Would it create confusion by requiring an overabundance of toxic labeling?

Watts had always intended to unload a barrage of credible witnesses in a closing round of commercials. The question was one of timing. These ads, he thought, would work only if the electorate had been awakened first to the issue--and that was why he gave them Irwin Corey lectures and farmers toiling beside nuclear reactors.

The focus-group responses convinced him that--at least in the laboratory environment of marketing research, where every participant has digested every ad, and in the order intended--his first two rounds of spots had moved the electorate where he wanted it to be.

It was time to bring out the serious men in serious suits.

If this were television, and not a newspaper report, the next sequence would be shown at fast-forward speed. It would capture a herky-jerky parade of important-looking men as they trooped one by one into a sound studio, tolerated a hasty makeup job, quibbled over a few lines of script, received a crash course in acting movements and, finally, stepped in front of the camera and read from a teleprompter a pitch against Proposition 65. After each produced a usable rendition, director Randy Bond would toss out a line of praise--”You and Lawrence Olivier, babe,” “Robert De Niro, take a powder,” “Nothing but goose bumps”--and then start preparing for another spot.

Next.

Five of these so-called testimonial spots were produced in two days in late October. The Santa Clara County district attorney, three Democratic state legislators from the San Joaquin Valley, and the president of the California Medical Assn.--all for their own reasons--joined the credibility cattle call and endorsed a no vote on the toxics initiative.

The state legislators’ spots would air only in their districts and were the fruits of a long effort by the Proposition 65 opponents to splinter unified Democratic support for the measure. The endorsements of the district attorney and medical association president were more important, and their spots would run heavily throughout California in the final days of the campaign.

Santa Clara District Attorney

Leo Himmelsbach, the Santa Clara district attorney, was first.

“I prosecute toxic polluters for a living,” he read. “Good laws are the tools of my trade. That’s why I’m concerned about Proposition 65. It’s unfair, and it’s a bad law.”

Proposition 65, he went on, would “restrict funds needed for tougher enforcement . . . substantially limit my ability to seek stiffer fines (and) exempts some of our state’s biggest polluters. As a prosecutor I urge you, don’t tie my hands with Proposition 65. It’s a bad law.

“Really.”

The testimonials were shot on videotape, allowing Watts and Bond to monitor the performances live on a television set positioned next to the camera. It was obvious to them that Himmelsbach’s first few deliveries of the tag line were flawed. His eyes darted about just as he finished with the word “really,” suggesting an almost comic shiftiness. Bond instructed the district attorney to stare straight into the camera for a few seconds after reading the script.

That last word seemed to dangle oddly, almost pathetically, from the end of the script. “It’s a bad law . . . really.” Watts explained why he wrote the tag line that way: “I know he doesn’t bring it off quite right, but I did it for sincerity. Everyone is out there pitching right now, but no one is pitching on a human basis. So, I thought I would just throw it out there for a little sincerity. A human touch.”

Watts was not finding much humor in anything this day. It had begun with a telephone call from Lt. Gov. Leo McCarthy. Watts had hoped to persuade the state’s leading elected Democrat to endorse a vote against Proposition 65. He had made his case face to face, Watts said, at a meeting early in the campaign.

He said McCarthy, with a reputation as a skillful politician, had only listened, giving no indication of how he might be leaning. But Watts--confident that he can engage in “political outfighting” with the best of them--had believed that McCarthy eventually would realize the political wisdom of the Republican consultant’s pitch: a chance to stand out from the Democratic herd, solidify support among rural Democrats in the San Joaquin Valley, and gain some free statewide television exposure.

McCarthy Backs Proposition

That morning the lieutenant governor, running for reelection against Republican Mike Curb, had scheduled a press conference to announce his position on Proposition 65. Watts already knew what it would be.

“Leo today came out in support of it,” Watts said. “I talked to him twice this week, and I really thought we had had a chance.”

Plans for a final commercial stating that California’s leading elected officials from both parties were opposed to Proposition 65 now had to be scrapped, and Watts’ disappointment was obvious. Asked what he thought his chances of victory were now, the political consultant made a glum face and shook his thumb toward the floor.

There was one consolation prize in the daily news bin. A new Mervin Field poll was out. It showed that voters who had made up their minds supported the proposition 26 to 8. More important was the large number of undecided voters--there was still a majority out there waiting to be captured. Watts took personal satisfaction in the pollster’s finding that a third of those opposed to the measure had cited “it’s filled with exemptions” as their reason.

“And that’s their own words,” Watts said.

Dr. Gladden Elliott, the medical association president, was taped the second day of testimonial shooting. Though he had the standard doctor issue shock of white hair and beefy but congenial face, Elliott was not outfitted in a white coat for the taping.

“Credibility,” Watts explained.

sh Doctor’s Script

The doctor’s script argued that “the toxics initiative may cause more danger than safety. First, the state’s biggest polluters aren’t affected. They’re exempt. Second, Proposition 65 requires so many warning labels, dangerous toxics won’t be distinguished from harmless ones. Please join me and the California Medical Assn. Vote No on Proposition 65.

“It’s a matter of public health.”

Elliott had wanted to attach the words “like aspirin” to the end of the sentence about labels. Watts resisted.

“Credibility,” he explained. Even if it was true, no one would believe it.

Elliott slipped up the first time he rehearsed the tag line.

“It’s a matter of life and--” He caught himself and showed a trace of smile. No, doctor, “life and death” was some other campaign, some other slogan.

He tried again. “It’s a matter of public health. “

Watts coached him only once, on the “please join me” line.

“I sort of thought of that line as a bedside manner line,” the consultant said, delivering it softly, “ Please . . . join me.”

The doctor understood and gave Watts just what he wanted.

Watts was happy with the collection of testimonials. He had taken both scripts to a sound studio and had an announcer tape lines bridging the statements of Himmelsbach and Elliott. They could now be used as a single radio commercial.

As the announcer fussed with his sound equipment, Watts admired his handiwork:

“These are fatal attacks on (the proponents’) two issues. These are the two things those other (expletives deleted) have been talking about, and we are going to blow them out of the water.

“This is very credible. This whole thing reeks of credibility.”

Watts also had the announcer narrate a script for one final spot he would produce in the editing studio later. Something about believability. The tag line was “Vote No on Proposition 65, it’s important.”

It’s important.

It’s a matter of public health.

It’s a bad law. Really.

They had come a ways from “it’s full of exemptions,” although that first slogan still was spread across billboards up and down the state.

On the afternoon of Oct. 21, six months after Watts first accepted the task of opposing Proposition 65 and precisely two weeks before California voters would determine his success or failure, the political consultant disappeared into the Cal Images editing studio for one last time to build what would become Watts’ favorite commercial of the campaign.

The spot was called “Starmania.” Before work on it could begin, however, a call came through from Gary Lawrence, the campaign pollster. The Proposition 65 opponents had decided to begin testing voters nightly, and this was Lawrence’s first report. For once the news was good.

The polling samples were small. After a few nights, however, they would yield an accurate cumulative total, and by polling nightly he could monitor voter movement.

‘Making Some Progress’

“We’re making some progress,” Lawrence said.

Three things pleased him. Of decided voters, more opposed Proposition 65 than favored it by a slim 22-18 margin. The poll indicated that the last three spots that Watts was wrapping up could attract a large portion of the 60% still undecided. When asked to vote strictly on the ballot title--a terse summary that made the measure sound irresistible to anyone favoring clean water--respondents supported Proposition 65 by a margin of 56 to 29. But even this was a drastic improvement over all previous polls.

“I love it, Gary, I love it,” Watts said.

“This shows it still might be there for us, if we have enough time and money,” Lawrence said. Excitement had removed the slack from both of their voices.

“We’re going to send them back to the drawing board,” Watts said. “We could be winning this thing. We can’t mess around.”

Six out of 10 voters still were undecided about Proposition 65, he said, “and right now the undecided vote is breaking for us 2 to 1. And we don’t have to go up more than 20 points. It was 84 to 9, and we got it now at 56 to 29, with everybody making up their minds in the last eight days. That’s serious movement.”

Life was suddenly sweeter, and Watts fairly dove into the task of creating the last commercial. Construction of this last spot figured to be a rollicking good time for Watts, and an optimistic poll was only a part of the reason. This one had been building inside Watts since the last weekend in September, when three busloads of Hollywood celebrities toured California to rally support for Proposition 65.

The caravan had gained free television exposure on the nightly news. It also had great strategic merit, demonstrating to liberals that they did not belong on the “no” side despite any confusion created by the exemptions argument.

Even Watts conceded that coverage of the event probably helped retrieve the “Gucci swing people” for the proponents of Proposition 65. Nonetheless, both he and his partner, Sal Russo, believe that the electorate has grown weary of civics instruction from celebrities, and the consultants thought the caravan, with a good nudge, might be made to work for them.

Notes on Celebrities

Watts paid close attention to who was on the celebrity buses and what they said and did. Articles were clipped, names circled. He made note of reports that Peter Fonda had “mooned” the San Onofre nuclear plant--this act at least would appease utility executives who were irate about the anti-nuclear implications of his “Neighbors” spot. And for weeks he kept repeating a blue remark that Whoopi Goldberg had made during at a caravan stop.

Now, with his last commercial, Watts intended to have his fun with the Hollywood set. Some of those who rode the bus were about to get a second round of public exposure, and this time Watts happily would pick up the tab.

The script read:

Confused about how to vote on Proposition 65? Maybe this will help.

Proposition 65 is supported by Hollywood movie stars. Mostly. And opposed by George Deukmejian, the California Medical Assn . , legislators for both parties, scientists, prosecutors, noted biochemists and the state’s leading newspapers.

Now, you could follow the advice of your favorite Hollywood stars--or the experts who know what they’re talking about. Vote No on Proposition 65. It’s important.

For this commercial Watts had selected a piece of music called “Barren Journey.” This was a campaign lucky piece, the same music that had backed spots in Russo and Watts’ victorious Peripheral Canal campaign.

The visuals all would be created on the editing studio keyboard. “Starmania” basically consisted of two lists--those who supported Proposition 65 scrolling up the right side of the screen, those who opposed it on the left.

First Watts and the technician created the list of supporters. All but one were entertainers who qualified simply by riding on the caravan.

Celebrities Listed

Whoopi Goldberg’s name was typed in first. Then came Jane Fonda. For the third name he selected the son of musician Frank Zappa. The young man’s name was Dweezil Zappa. The reason he chose the name was the name itself; Watts thought it would make for a striking comparison on the screen when butted next to some of the Proposition 65 opponents. Next Watts added Moon Unit Zappa, Dweezil’s sister, and Michael J. Fox.

There was room for perhaps one more name. Watts considered Dan Leegant, the recanting actor from his “Neighbors” spot, but rejected the notion. “Old Dan would probably love it,” Watts said.

No, the political consultant knew who he wanted: The celebrity announcer who introduced the little boy with no arms or legs in the Yes-on-65 spot. John Forsythe.

The full list came up on a monitor screen--Whoopi Goldberg, Jane Fonda, Dweezil Zappa, Moon Unit Zappa, Michael J. Fox and John Forsythe.

“Uh, is it difficult for you to change the order of a couple of those names?” Watts asked the technician. “Let’s throw John Forsythe’s name in between Dweezil Zappa and Moon Unit Zappa. Uh, just for credibility sake.”

He delivered the order deadpan.

The list came up again.

Watts giggled at first and began to hoot with laughter.

“Dweezil Zappa. Kind of shoots the s--- out of their credibility, doesn’t it?”

Hoo. Hoo. Hoo.

“How would you like to be John Forsythe’s agent? Crammed between Dweezil and Moon Unit Zappa.”

Har. Har. Har.

Watts lingered lovingly over the Hollywood list, and then moved on to the politicians, scientists and newspapers to be identified as opponents of Proposition 65. There may only have been space for six celebrities on the yes side of the ledger, but on the no side Watts and the technician managed to squeeze on the governor, the California Farm Bureau, California Chamber of Commerce, Western Growers Assn. and California Medical Assn., five state lawmakers, three Ph.D.s, three district attorneys, one biochemist and seven newspapers.

“No one thought we could build a list like this,” Watts said. “No one ever gave us any chance.”

Unspoken Question

The last sequence was two lists of three names apiece and the unspoken question was, “Who do you believe?” On the left were Gov. George Deukmejian, the California Medical Assn. and Dr. Bruce Ames, the head of the UC Berkeley biochemistry department. On the right were Whoopi Goldberg, Jane Fonda and Moon Unit Zappa.

“Can they sue you?” director Randy Bond asked.

“F--- no,” Watts said. “Their names are public domain. . . . They asked for it.”

As the technical loose ends of the spot were tied down, Watts grew reflective. “I always like this part of a campaign,” he said. “It is fun when everything comes together at the end. It’s like you had all these trickles, and now they are all flowing together.”

He had created 18 commercials, seeking images that he hoped would persuade a majority of Californians to vote as one against a proposition that extended an alluring promise of clean drinking water. He had brought to millions of television viewers an incongruous collection of persuasive pictures and pitchmen--farm families, nuclear plants, military bases, wacky professors, sleazy attorneys and con men in flannel shirts.

He never did get to do his talking cow. That idea was proposed once, and then wandered away and was not seen or heard from again. His concept of rival dry cleaners ratting on each other to the toxic cops also was lost in the campaign shuffle, the victim first of tight money and then of a shifting focus. Still, most of the ideas that had first floated into his imagination in the early summer had become actual commercials. He had developed a plan and, by and large, he had kept to it. Now Watts was finished making television commercials for this campaign.

The quality of his work would meet its true test in two weeks, Election Day, but for now the creator of all these commercials was content to sit back on the editing studio couch and watch one last time as the technician played the campaign’s parting shot.

As soon as the Hollywood names came up, Watts began to laugh all over again. It was almost as if he had not seen the spot before. He laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a good laugh, yes. But it was not the last laugh.

In previous installments, the Sacramento political consulting firm of Russo Watts + Rollins Inc. was hired to run the campaign against Proposition 65, the toxics initiative. They chose, after much research, a campaign theme of being on the side of more safety, not less. In August and September they created two rounds of commercials, the first built exclusively around an attack of exemptions allowed under the measure, and the second suggesting that the initiative was fraudulent in its intent, would benefit profiteering lawyers and was ridiculous in its scope.