• Putney Swope, 1/18/23 (Wed)

It’s hard to know what to make of Robert Downey Sr.’s insane scattershot satire on the advertising world. He seems to throw everything he can think of at his many targets hoping something will land. A lot of its irreverent jokes on race, religion, sexuality, weight and more would be verboten in today’s sensitive world, and the entire thing reeks of a long-lost era. That doesn’t make it good, but it’s eye-opening for sure – and a lot of laughs.

Here’s the story, if you can call it that. When the chairman of a stuffy ad agency keels over and dies on the boardroom table, the directors (after pocketing the dead man’s wallet and jewelry) accidentally pick the board’s only black man, the crusty Putney Swope, as the new head. Putney immediately fires them all other than one token white and replaces them with an all-black lineup. He says he seeks not to rock the boat, but to sink it, wanting to bring ads down to the level of the consumer. His unconventional approach to the business – his ad for an airline, for example, promises an orgy between the customer and scantily clad stewardesses with very bouncy breasts – ends up winning him more business than he can handle as well as virtual idolization from his many followers and worshipful staff. Eventually, an underling who dresses for some reason like an Arab (“Who are you supposed to be, Lawrence of Nigeria?”) feels like he’s not getting his share of the action and tosses a Molotov cocktail into the container holding the bags of cash from clients, destroying all the money. At which point the movie just stops.

That summary doesn’t begin to describe the rambling nature of the story, which is basically an excuse for a bunch of jokey episodes and one-liners strung randomly together. It gets off to a terrific start when a hip consultant flies in on a helicopter to advise the directors on their beer account. (The entire analysis: “Beer is for men who doubt their masculinity. That’s why it’s so popular at sporting events and poker games. On a superficial level a glass of beer is a cool, soothing beverage. But in reality a glass of beer is pee-pee dickey.” And he exits, thousands of dollars richer.) But it’s all downhill afterwards as the story essentially vanishes.

The film offers Catskills humor (Reporter: “Did you sleep with your wife before you were married?” Putney: “Not a wink”) and plenty of decidedly non-PC scenes, even for its day – a car tips over when a fat black woman sits in it, the would-be Arab prostates himself on a mat Islam-style and screams a nonsensical prayer, Putney puts down blacks (“This window cleaner smells. Put soybeans in it and market it as a soft drink in the ghetto” “Instead of coffee breaks we should have watermelon breaks”), board members put down gays (“I’d rather have my son be a fag than a killer.” “Your son IS a fag!” “YOU took him on the picnic hike, I didn’t!”), there are Asian references (“I’m a happy Jappy”) and random schoolboy humor and a high-voiced German-accented midget as president of the United States. Whew. On top of that, the acting was terrible across the board, giving the film an utterly amateurish feeling, for better or worse. (The actor playing Putney was apparently so bad that Downey himself redubbed all of his lines.) It’s nonstop nonsense. On the plus side, I couldn’t stop laughing at the outrageous awfulness of it all.

One notable touch were the television commercials produced by Putney to reach the consumer more directly. Advertising a cereal: “Did you know that this cereal gives you XX amount of vitamins and minerals?” (black consumer, impressed) “No shit.” Advertising an acne cream, in song:

Man:  It started last weekend at the Yale-Howard game.

  Girl, I saw your beaver flash, I’ll never be the same…

  A pimple is simple, if you treat your pimples right.

Woman:  My man uses Face-Off. He’s really out of sight. . . and so are his pimples.

Advertising an electric fan: “You can’t eat an air conditioner” (while performing a bizarre dance). Advertising a medicine: “I have a malignancy in my prostate, but when I hold you in my arms, it’s benign.” That’s not to mention the ads for cars and airlines referenced above. All ads were presented in garish color in what was otherwise a black-and-white film, which is probably a statement of sorts. I was too stunned – and crying too hard from laughter – to think about it.

The film could have been immensely better with proper production values, a more focused script, real actors – well, everything really. The outlandish go-for-broke style reminded me of The Producers (Mel Brooks even appears in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo), and it could have reached those heights had Downey channeled that energy in a more disciplined manner. I imagine this is what a hallucination feels like. (Wing Sony, a Chinese client responding to a spontaneous ad concept by Putney: “That was the most incredible thing I ever heard. Who’s your shrink?” That sums up my feelings about Downey.) It apparently did well at the box office thanks to its notoriety, including reviews calling it immoral and disgusting (great publicity) and a creative poster, banned in several major newspapers, showing a women as the middle finger on a big fist with the byline “Up Madison Avenue”. It enjoyed cult status thereafter but virtually disappeared until a major restoration project put the pieces back together.

In the end, it’s a train wreck that you can’t take your eyes off of. But it’s still a train wreck. An extremely funny one, though.