Chapter 40.5: Add Campaign (Patreon)

Chapter 40.5: Add Campaign

Kadokawa Daiei Studios, Tokyo. August 2008.

Look at your ads now back to mine. Look at your ads now back to mine. 

Sadly, neither is Old Spice. But with a little creative application, even Uniqlo can smell like Old spice. 

I’m in Japan. 

No catchy whistled jingle for me, though. Instead, the fat crack of a slate slapped me back into consciousness. 

The land of the rising sun was also one of the global leaders in bizarre commercials. From aliens disguised as Afghan hounds frightening people into eating consommé flavoured potato crisps - which was already weird in itself. To two strangers having a meet-cute, abruptly transforming into sushi after dumping themselves in paint, rather than just going on a date. 

These were real. These were bona fide actual adverts I came across. 

As far as hotel room programming went, between national news and dedicated pornography channels, the ads were about the only thing that made any sense.

No blurred lines in this country, only blurred genitalia. Yes, I watched. I was alone and already in a bathrobe.

Japanese advertising initiatives range from amazing to abominable. Hopefully, Uniqlo and my fresh campaign will lean more towards the former than the big-footed option that was the latter. 

Although, with the amount of running I was having to do, there was a decent chance I wouldn’t be fitting into the pair of loafers I’d come strolling into the studio with today. 

Calling the wide, green, rubbery platform I was being carouselled on, like a leathery case of luggage at baggage claim, was something I hesitated to do. In truth, the set I was on was something straight out of Takeshi’s Castle. Too bad that it had finished production literally decades ago, because otherwise I would have relished the chance to embarrass myself.

Well, it wasn’t the only game show out there that legitimately sought to cripple their contestants. Maybe later when my health insurance premiums weren’t quite so high.

“Rhys-sama,” was all that registered when the local director started yapping at me. I was very thankful that Rhys started with an ‘R’ and not a ‘K’, in which case I would have to assume he was swearing at me. Like any and every young man learning a new language, I’d assimilated greetings and curse words before anything else.

“The director is saying he is content with the rehearsals. We ask that you please change into the costumes so that we may proceed with filming.” Thankfully, I had a sleek suit, in a sleeker pair of specs, under the sleekest bowl-cut on the hemisphere, to translate for me. 

“You got it, Shinpachi.” My familiar Uniqlo liaison was here as my handler, my translator, as well as the overseer for the entire project.

Given Cadbury’s recent retirement, Anita was more than grateful for his supervision. Apparently, dealing with me required all hands on deck. Specifically, the poop deck. Because according to her I’d never not be a butthead. 

Speaking of butting heads. “No lipstick.” I had to once again remind the overzealous makeup artist to back off. Yes, I hear you, lady. Maybe it is Maybelline, but it’s also bad for my image. Still, could be worse. No one was suffering in the cosmetics room like the bootleg Voldemort - who was getting a bald cap and face paint.

He and all the other extras, styled in their various disparate wardrobes, had their feet shuffling across the dressed set before I did. 

No, I wasn’t being a diva. 

As good looking as I already was, my time in the makeup chair was fairly brief. What wasn’t, though, was the incredibly convoluted multi-layered millefeuille of an outfit they had strapped me into. Talk about cuts and threads - there were slits for imperceptible pull-away wires, hooked meticulously into each separate batch of attires I was wearing, with origami-esque precision.

Obviously, given my appearance in the ad as; well as the standing relationship that the franchise has with Uniqlo; a mention of Harry Potter was unavoidable. But the company wasn’t stupid. They had more clothes to sell than cosplay outfits, so the full scope of today’s shoot was much broader. 

Our initial background set design was a Hogwarts style classroom. Much, much cheaper than the actual thing - but it got the point across with pockmarked wooden desks, an old blackboard, and dingy but warm lighting. 

The first thing I ever learned, on the very first movie I’d ever done, was to never stare directly into the lens of a camera. 

This being a celebrity endorsement, however, meant I’d get punished if I had my eyes anywhere else. 

I stared right down my line of sight into the Sony HDR series, focused and zoomed, likewise, at my face. Shaking my head lightly one last time to make sure my hair was sufficiently ruffled, I adopted my model expression. Which basically meant I smiled as wide as I possibly could. My eyebrows arched up, my eyelid squinted, then after that, I relaxed my lips. In effect, I was no longer grinning, but gently pouting. 

The makeup artist may have made poor choices when it came to cosmetics, but she was clever to ice my face before it was shoved into the camera at this extreme angle - so that my pores weren’t gaping wider than my mouth. 

A mechanical whine began, and I felt the once steady floor beneath my soles shift. A fan next to the camera lazily blew in my face, and I started pumping my arms with a little extra oomph for that action star run. 

Especially since we were starting this off in slow-mo.

[“Life is a race. If you want to win, you can’t stop.”

Vanity shot completed, I began spewing my generic lines. Slowly and carefully, the cinematographer stepped back in a dolly zoom out while I continued to run my track and field event in place. 

My breath remained steady as my cardio allowed me to keep up with the treadmill’s pace despite the several kilos of clothes weighing me down. The top-most layer being a full three-piece suit, complete with Gryffindor coloured tie.

“But what’s the point if you don’t look good doing it?”

“Whether it’s at work…”

The camera panned fully back to get a full view of the elaborately framed green screen soundstage. Chasing behind me on the aft section of the treadmill was a collection of about ten people, each in different styles of smart-casual to formal wear. All part of the upcoming collection at Uniqlo stores worldwide. Fauxldermort was also in a snazzy pair of slacks and an argyle vest - plus wand. Even his ugly snarling mug was employable in his new ensemble.

On either border of the treadmill, constructed both in the space between me and the camera ahead of me, as well as between me and the extras behind, were a set of pyrotechnic pipes. The explosives expert at his console, a safe distance away, hit the first switch. 

Suddenly, a wall of flame erupted both in front and at my rear. The fire obscured me from the camera long enough for the production assistants out of frame to yank the first layer of my clothes off. 

Even though the camera couldn’t see me anymore, I kept my gaze steadily straight. Cool guys don’t look at explosion - unless, of course, it was right in front of their face.

I was returned to the lens even as the flare behind me was sustained a little longer to give enough time for the next set of extras to swap out. The stage hands also rushed to push the Victorian classroom away quickly on rails as the next themed fabrications were wheeled out in its place.

“Or at play.”

The blazer, tie, office shirt, and vest were ripped away to reveal a brightly patterned, baggy party shirt; though my bottom half stayed the same. 

What wasn’t the same, though, was the people chasing me - or the location we now found ourselves in.

A fake palm tree with a disco ball hanging off it instead of coconuts, strobe lights pulsing in multicolor, and a DJ booth operated by a guy in a gold onesie. Lovingly dubbed Oscar-san by the crew. This was the backdrop to another pack of people dressed in flashy party fashion, with a pair of prop camera wielding paparazzi thrown in, tickling at my tail.

I missed neither breath nor beat as the shot caught the distinct set of clothes in slow-mo again.

The second round of cannons blasted off on the sides with the same timing as before. This time a geyser of white to allude to my stunt earlier this year. 

The ad agency who’d concocted this marathon for me, were determined to leverage my actions for virality. I think many people might have wanted to put the kibosh on their moment of infamy, but I had a fondness for opportunistic carrion feeders even when they were picking at my bones.

The strings pulled at me again, this time my trousers came off too. On cue, the fans kicked up in gear and swept away the settling white powder. 

“Whether you want to relax….”

The club thots and creepshot artists were replaced by a giggling group of gravure idols jiggling in jammies; continuing to chase after me in various states of (un)dress. Compounded by the fact that I, myself, was now in some very comfy looking loungewear. The last thing I was, was under duress.

Maybe it might have been my imagination, but I felt like the director and cameraman lingered on this shot noticeably longer than any other. No doubt the slow-mo would bolster our sales numbers. 

Sex sells, and perverts pay. What can I say? I don’t make the world go round. Virility does. 

The third and final boom sounded and a veritable fountain of feathers took flight from the CO2 powered cannons. God knows how many ducks had to be plucked to get that amount of down. 

Any birds that had previously flocked together had been shooed away by a band of boyfriends angrily nipping at my heels in activewear. Similarly, I’d also been squeezed into the skin tight athletic gear of my penultimate layer.

“Or keep fit.”

The director signalled us, and we all instantly stopped running. 

The treadmill still kept going. First pushing the guys back onto solid ground, while I took longer to transport. Leaning back on my heels, I spread my arms and allowed the conveyor belt to deliver me like cheap sushi into their waiting, burly arms, where I collapsed from an overdose of cardio. 

Simultaneously, the camera reversed its trajectory and rapidly dolly-zoomed, and pushed forward as we fell back. 

Final shot successfully framed. I huffed out my last lines from within the grasp of hands ripping at my clothes.

“Don’t let life wear you out. Wear life on your sleeve. LifeWear now at…”

The dozens of extras dressed in the catalogue's entirety all jumped back into blocking - with a few of the closer ones, from each specific subset of chasers, putting their hands on my threads. They tore the last break-away outfit while shouting. “Uniqlo!” which left me in a blatantly branded pair of boxer briefs and nothing else besides. 

I saw the director open his mouth; the upturn of his lips clearly meant we got the shot, and he was about to call cut on the whole production. 

How could I let this promotion end without adding my own USP in the mix? I crossed my hands over my crotch and demurred shyly at the camera.

“I’d be naked without them!” 

What better endorsement was there than me saying there’s nothing else I’d even consider wearing?]

–

“I hope your day went better than mine. Did Bas behave?” Hello? Standing right here, Anita. “I’d like to be impressed by at least one of my clients today. I spent two hours on the phone with Emma, trying to convince her to take a project on in the short time we still have left until we’re back on set for Potter. But she’s dead set on whiling away with her family on some French beach, and sending off university apps.” Good for her. About time one of us started behaving like a celebrity. 

At least Shinpachi was on my side. “It was most productive. The company was especially appreciative of accomplishing our task under budget. And yes, please do not worry, Mr Rhys conducted himself most professionally. He even politely declined an ahem invitation from one of the models.” Wait, that’s what she was asking? Damn it! I thought she just wanted an autograph. 

“Oh really? Wow Bas, I guess you’re maturing.” Hands on hips, she looked at me up and down with a surprised but pleased smile on her face. “Clearly, I need to step my game up. I thought I knew you better.” She did. 

“Don’t flatter me. I promise you, if my Japanese were any better than rudimentary, I would have jumped at the chance.” And her. She was one of the jiggly ones.

“I dropped nearly a thousand bucks on sushi today. Don’t make me throw it up at you!”

“Mentioning raw fish isn’t helping, Anita.” If you catch my ocean-y drift.

“Fucking yuck, Bas!”

“I do not understand. Are you feeling unwell?” No, sweet innocent Shinpachi, just lamenting lost opportunities. “Shall I call and ask the franchise department to reschedule our meeting with the anime studio teams?”

“Perish the thought. I’m just teasing.” I wasn’t gonna miss that meeting for anything. 

Harry Potter wasn’t the only IP that Uniqlo made designs for. Seeing the success of what they had achieved with me, they’d more aggressively started targeting local properties to replicate it.

Uniqlo had expanded beyond pre-existing collaborations from Pokemon and the like. Several prominent studios had been approached, and I’d vehemently stuck my swollen foot in the door when this tantalising tid-bit of news reached my ears. 

Anime at this point in time was still a niche but growing community. Give it a few years though and it would be as mainstream as Starbucks and their rivers of sugary milk masquerading as coffee. 

The starting gun for this cultural phenomenon was about to pop - and I wanted Netflix to pull the trigger.