Ad It Up

I enjoyed this article about Condé Nast’s new digital publishing guru/savant, Scott Dadich. (Well, I was filled with resentment and curmudgeonism at first, especially when I read that he’s only 34 years old, but I got over that quickly and decided to read the piece on its own merits, rather than in terms of my failure.) Mr. Dadich’s colleagues praise him as a magazine visionary, focusing on his work in building a digital version of Wired. That success led to his new role as executive director of digital magazine development at Condé Nast, where he’ll try to repeat that magic and simultaneously re-engineer the publishing workflow. Over the course of the article, I also appreciated his willingness to rethink what a magazine is once it’s freed from its physical constraints, and to convince executives to take him seriously.

“The only reason magazine design looks the way it does is because it’s the literal, physical limitations of two pieces of paper,” he said.

“With this,” he said, gesturing to an iPad sitting on a couch, “we wiped the slate clean. We have one pane. We have these many pixels. We have this proportion. How are we going to use it and how are we going to tell a story?”

It’s an interesting question he raises, and I’m glad that Condé Nast is going to let him pursue it, but I don’t think it’s the one that’s going to “save publishing.” It’s all well and good to develop a whole new idea of what a magazine is, and add all sorts of content that isn’t available in print to build a different consumer experience, but that doesn’t answer the flipside-question: who’s going to pay for it?

And if you search through that article, you’ll find that there isn’t a single instance of the word “advertiser.”

What the magazine industry allegedly learned from the plummeting ad sales that accompanied the recession, is that they’ve been giving their magazines away too cheaply. For years, they used cheap subscription rates to draw in readers of certain demographics that they could then sell to advertisers. When advertisers pulled back in late 2008 and throughout 2009, publishers were stuck mailing magazines to subscribers at a pittance. When Newsweek went up for sale, the dossier indicated that it had $40 million in subscription liabilities (as in, that’s what it owes subscribers for future copies). It sold for a buck, plus assumption of liabilities and a sincere desire not to fire half the staff.

You know what? The model of advertisers subsidizing cheap subscriptions isn’t changing. Major consumer publishers haven’t buckled down and started raising subscription rates to anywhere near cover price, despite their professed need to build up that revenue source. How do I know this? A few months ago, I subscribed to Esquire (a Hearst mag, not Condé) for two years at the cost of $10. That price doesn’t even cover the postage for more than an issue or two, much less pay for the writers, editors, sales staff, back-office personnel, real estate and other overhead. Sure, that’s anecdotal, but you can find that subscription on Amazon; today it’s at $8 for two years. In fact, here’s an image from an e-mail that I received from Amazon this very morning:

subscription-rates.jpg

(Note the rates at the top of each column.)

Now, there are magazines out there that don’t discount heavily for subscribers. I have subscriptions to both Monocle (75 GBP/year for 10 issues) and Fantastic Man ($40/year for two issues); the latter puts virtually no magazine content on its website, while the former decided to make a newspaper edition of itself this summer. The only thing further from an iPad version would be if they chiseled an issue in stone. Neither mag is mass market (Monocle does seem to be popping up on a lot of newsstands), but neither one seems to be posting multimillion-dollar losses every year.

I don’t know if Mr. Dadich avoided talking about advertising, or if the writer, John Koblin, or his editor chose to focus on the design/re-think to the exclusion of the advertising model, or if no one thought it was worth discussing.

Mr. Koblin does point out that, following the wild success of the first iPad issue of Wired, the second issue’s sales-figures haven’t been made public. The first ish sold 102,884 copies at $4.99 each. Apple takes a 30% cut from all app sales, so Condé Nast was left with $359,373.81 in circulation revenues, plus whatever ad money it brought in.

That math’s not in the article. There’s a reference to “new revenue streams, much of it from the digital experience,” but that’s the about it for the business side of the business.

I don’t think most journalists like to write about how their own sausage gets made, nor how ad dollars can subtly dictate editorial content. The New York Observer, which published the profile of Mr. Dadich (as well as an interesting story on the recent decision of Khoi Vinh to quit his role as design director of nytimes.com), was allegedly losing $2 million a year before it was bought by a young real estate magnate. And that was in 2006, prior to the advertising apocalypse of 2008-??.

The whole “sexy new model, never mind the money” vibe of the article actually puts me in mind of another Condé Nast property: Vogue. I meant to write about The September Issue when Amy & I watched it a few months ago. It’s a documentary about the making of the 2007 fall-fashion issue of Vogue, which clocked in at 840 pages. The movie does a wonderful job of showing the tensions and rivalries that exist at Vogue, and beautifully sets up Grace Coddington as a sort of “better sister” to the iconic Anna Wintour as they work on the biggest issue in history.

Here’s my big problem with the movie: You can’t put out an 840-page magazine unless your advertising staff posts mammoth, record-breaking sales. We get a brief scene of a pep talk by publisher (which basically means “head of sales,” for readers not involved in publishing) Tom Florio in the beginning, but zero mention of all the pages of ads that have to be sold to justify that giant page-count. That’s a story too, and its omission speaks volumes (to me, a paranoid).

So don’t get me wrong: I think it’s great that Condé Nast is trying to rethink magazines for the tablet computing era. I hope Mr. Dadich manages to develop non-traditional ideas for more magazines as they go digital, while keeping them from simply cannibalizing the content of their websites. Also, it’s awesome that design guys are getting their due.

But at some point the sales guys are going to have to figure out a way to get advertisers and their agencies on board, or all that groundbreaking technology and design in the world will go for naught. After all, as messed up as it sounds, the biggest business success in the past 10 years has been Google, a company that makes nearly all its money by . . . selling little text ads on search results.

Reading material

New York Observer: “The Savior of Condé Nast: Scott Dadich Is The New It Boy of the Mag World”

New York Observer: “It’s Not You, It’s Me: Design Director Khoi Vinh Leaves The Times at Paywall Altar”

Slate: “So, You Bought the New York Observer: Unsolicited advice for new owner Jared Kushner”

The Awl: “Nick Denton: On the Web, Female Trumps Male, Youth Trumps Age”

Movie Review Tuesday: Maneater Edition

I only saw two flicks this week, dear readers. I suppose their unifying theme is man’s inherent loneliness in the world. Also, both of them sorta feature the dead rising from their graves.

Zombieland: From what I gather, there’s been a mini-wave of zom-coms after the success of Shaun of the Dead (one of my favorite movies). This one’s a road trip variant; the characters bond, learn to trust each other, and kill lots of zombies. The gore’s not too severe, though it’s not exactly family friendly. Sadly, this one uses the “fast zombie” model that makes for more action-adventure suspense but sorta defeats the purpose of zombie flicks. (hint: it’s the implacability)

Some sorta virus has infected just about everyone and turned ’em into cannibals. Jesse Eisenberg, whom I last saw sucking all the life out of Adventureland, is a bit better here, trying to channel all the Michael Cera he can. Woody Harrelson does a much better job “playing” batshit-crazy. Emma Stone doesn’t have quite the charm she had in Superbad, but Abigail Breslin’s just amazing to watch. It’s a wonder how self-possessed that kid is in whatever role she plays. ?There’s a celebrity cameo that’s absolutely hysterical, and a neat reveal for Woody Harrelson’s character.

It’s an enjoyable (albeit forgettable) flick, but it also has a big storytelling flaw: Jesse Eisenberg’s character narrates the movie. It’s not that he does a bad job; his voiceover has a jaunty style, relating the various rules that his character has developed to survive the zombie plague. These are accompanied by funny video overlays, one of which becomes an emotional cue at a pivotal moment. Now, I don’t have a problem with voiceover per se, but in this case, his narration is directed at an audience. The problem is, he’s one of the last people on earth! There’s no “viewer” or recipient for his charming narration. Who is he charmingly talking to? It’s like the “worm’s-eye” perspective in that movie Tremors, which missed on the fact that worms don’t have eyes.

Outside of that un-thought-out piece of hackery, it was just fine. I mean, it’s a light flick, with nowhere near the heart of Shaun of the Dead‘s wonderful zombie coming-of-age masterpiece, but what are you gonna do? It’s Hollywood.

A Single Man: This was Tom Ford‘s first feature flick. I have a post about Ford that I need to work on, when I get the time. Ford was the creative director who revitalized the Gucci brand, then jumped to YSL before starting his own brand. He’s a notorious control freak, so I wondered whether film-making, just about the most collaborative artistic endeavor, would be shit. (There was a good interview with him in Fantastic Man a few years ago, but they don’t put any of their contents online, so you’ll have to find it yourself.)

But it wasn’t bad! Sure, there were a couple of heavy-handed techniques, particularly the repeated use of color saturation to show emotional resonance in scenes that were prior shot in muted tones. His slow-mo scenes at times felt like an attempt at stretching the movie out to feature length. And there’s a scene that’s a cross between a CK Obsession ad and a Guess ad. Oh, and, there’s also a shot right at the end where my wife & I both said, “I didn’t know John Woo guest-directed this one!” (one reason why I love her so; another is that she’s willing to spend Saturday night watching a Tom Ford movie.)

But you can let all that go, because Colin Firth was just fantastic. He plays a gay British literature professor living in LA in 1960, a few months after his lover of 16 years has died in a car accident. He was a joy to watch, a man trying to keep himself in check, living in an era where his sex had to be kept secret, and wondering how he could go on living without the love of his life. Ford must’ve had a field day recreating the period fashions, and we’re meant to luxuriate in the clothes and the decor. And in Nicholas Hoult, who’s like Zac Efron with depth.

As I think back on it, the story is slight: a gay man’s partner dies and he plans to kill himself. But the subtly spectacular visual environment, combined with Firth’s bravura performance, brought the world to life. And Julianne Moore’s British accent was much better than the Boston one she sports on 30 Rock.

What It Is: 8/2/10

What I’m reading: Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Close Up, Bob Colacello’s bio of Andy Warhol. I also updated the On My Nightstand page, if you’re interested in seeing other books I hope to get to. Here’s a little bit from Mr. Colacello’s book:

Sometimes I wonder if Andy wanted it to work. I wonder if any of it — the video projects, Interview, even the movies, anything other than the art and the selling of the art — was meant to be serious. Paul was serious about the movies, Glenn and I cared about the magazine, Vincent was committed to coming up with a TV show that worked — but was Andy? He certainly never minded the typos and other mistakes in Interview. “Why do you have to spend so much time proofreading?” he’d always ask. He liked things to be “bad,” he liked things to be “boring” — concepts that may or may not have worked in the realm of art, but were not of much use in the movies, magazines, or television. Sometimes I found this attitude refreshing; other times it was just discouraging. If Andy didn’t really care whether anything came of our efforts, then how should we Maybe all these side businesses were just a way to keep himself busy, to surround himself with creative young people, to put friends on the payroll, to run up expenses and tax deductions against the art profits, to promote the sale of art and make Andy more famous, to spend the days and kill the nights, to ward off his fear and anxiety and emotional distress, to not be alone.

Or maybe Andy genuinely believed that if we took ourselves too seriously, fretted and sweated and tried to be professional instead of just doing it fast and easy and cheap, the end result would be stale and dull instead of turning out different and modern, magic and new.

What I’m listening to: Sir Lucious Left Foot, Rattlesnakes, You Could Start a Fight in an Empty House, Night Work, Walking Wounded, We Are Born, and Spirit of Radio.

What I’m watching: Zombieland and A Single Man. Reviews tomorrow!

What I’m drinking: Stella Artois, and 209 & Q-Tonic, although I didn’t drink much last week.

What Rufus & Otis are up to: Hiking! To Ramapo Lake! And Monksville Reservoir! (and then sleeping a lot.) And getting into their first-ever fight on Sunday! I fed them and went downstairs to read, figuring they’d follow me down after they finished. Instead, I heard loud barking. Near as I can tell, Rufus, as is his wont, finished his bowl quickly and headed over to Otis’ to get whatever bits his brother left behind. Maybe he pushed for the bowl a little too early, because it seems Otis wasn’t having any of it. By the time I ran upstairs, Ru was standing in the middle of the living room, with a little nibble taken out of his cheek, tail pretty firmly stuck between his legs. I looked them both over for any other wounds, but didn’t find anything. Ru hurried down the hall and stayed with his mom for a while. I’m glad Otis stuck up for himself, because I’m always telling Ru to leave him in peace when they’re eating. Sigh.

Where I’m going: Scotch Bowl next Saturday! Charity bowling night for our greyhound adoption group, Greyhound Friends of NJ!

What I’m happy about: Taking last Thursday and Friday off, and not once looking at my work e-mail, checking my voice-mail, or otherwise staying on top of work.

What I’m sad about: I’m going back to the office today.

What I’m worried about: The dogs will eventually figure out that jumping into the back of the car sometimes leads to long-ass, overheating hikes, and they’ll stop being so willing to head off on any old adventure involving the Subaru. On the other hand, my wife is pretty sure Otis is flat-out retarded (this post convinced her), so the chances of them figuring this out are pretty slim, I guess.

What I’m pondering: Undertaking another ruthless purge of my bookcases. Is it an overreaction to my impending 40th birthday, this compulsion to look at a stack of books and tell myself, “You will never have time in the remainder of your days to read (or re-read) this book”? How do other people deal with their mid-life-thing? I sure don’t want to end up like Stewart Lee.

Dirty Water Dog 2

Another stay-at-home vacation day, another hike! Maybe it’s another sign of whatever mid-life-ish thing I’m approaching, but when I thought about stuff I could do today, like go to the city, or see an art flick, or wander around a used bookstore, or even survey the retail landscapes of northern NJ, I decided to pack the dogs in the car and try out a trail I’ve never walked. On the way, we made a stop at Rusty’s Place, our local pet store, to pick up some doggie-cleanup bags. I do not lead a very exciting life. (NOTE: if the Yankees had an afternoon home game yesterday or today, I’d have gone to the Bronx for that.)

Yesterday was Ramapo Lake; today was the Long Pond Ironworks state park (this area has a ton of Revolutionary War history). I had the idea, based on my trail map, that we — Rufus, Otis, and I — could hike on Monks Trail from the north boat launch in the Monksville Reservoir area down to the south one. According to the map, it looked to be around two-thirds of a mile each way (there and back), with some significant (but not hazardous) climbs. Most of the trail was pretty narrow, so it was a challenge to navigate all the rocks and tree-branches and keep the dogs from tangling in their leashes. It’s very rare that I’ll let one of their leashes go when we’re out like this. They’re pretty focused on the walk, but I’m afraid one of them (Otis) will see a chipmunk or something and take off after it.

They did a great job in fact, keeping a strong pace even when we made the one major uphill push. They panted. I was winded. But the weather was much milder than yesterday, and we were in shade for most of the trail, so they didn’t get too overheated.

The problem came at the end of the line, when we reached the south boat launch. I should say, “when we got near the south boat launch.” See, the map made it look like the trail opened up by that parking lot, but it actually never does so; it arcs away through the woods, with no actual exit/entry point at the boat launch.

This meant we’d have to break off the trail to reach the parking lot and the reservoir, so they could cool off. I didn’t want to turn around and go through another .66 mile of this stuff without giving them a break. Luckily, we found a semi-blazed trail that seemed to lead right to our destination. And then it stopped. Ten feet from the parking lot. Right above a short ravine filled with thorn bushes.

I made an executive decision, and that led to the three of tumbling down a short ravine and into a wall of thorn bushes, but we made it through that with a minimum of scratches and no yelping, remarkably. From there, the boys made a beeline to the concrete ramp of the boat launch, and trotted right into the water. I took my shoes and socks off and walked in with them, so they could get deep enough to cool down.

Well, Otis didn’t go too deep or bow down the way Rufus did, so I splashed water all over him to chill him out a little. I also spent some time pulling thorns and burrs from their fur. And feeling guilty. Once we finished up, I tried to figure out how we were getting back to our starting point. I couldn’t find any entry point to Monks trail, so I took the only visible trail, which I thought might lead down to our car or intersect Monks Trail. It wasn’t on my map, but it was very well-cleared.

Sadly, it didn’t work out. The trail led back out to the road we drove in on, more than a mile from the north boat launch. I wasn’t looking forward to walking with the dogs for along a pretty well trafficked road that had 6″ wide shoulders. Luckily, Rusty’s was only a quarter-mile up the road, so I brought the boys back to the store, and asked Chuck, the owner, if he could look after ’em for 10 minutes while I walked on down the road to get my car.

Chuck and I got the dogs into the Room Of Dog-Beds and put a folding crate against the door as a gate.

“Have they peed?” he asked.

“Yeah, all through the hike,” I told him. “Frankly, they’re exhausted and will probably just lie down once I’m gone. If you have a bowl, they could use some water, I bet.”

I thanked him and headed out. He told me they didn’t make a peep while I was gone. I know Petco or Petsmart or whichever chain store may be cheaper than Rusty’s, or have longer hours, but they’re no substitute for a local vendor who knows your name, and that’s why I go to Rusty’s.

I’m bummed out that we had to risk life and limb to get to the reservoir today, and incredibly thankful that Otis didn’t freak out when he hit the thorn bushes. He tends to yelp when he brushes against them while we’re on walks. On the upside, the boys were so pooped, they lay down moments after I started the car, and spent the 10-minute drive Conked Out.

There’s another route on the map that might work out better, but I don’t think it’d be dog friendly, so I’ll have to hit it on my own sometime. I promise to take pictures. Meanwhile, you can click on either of the pix or here to see the rest of this photoset.

Dirty Water Dog

I’m taking Thursday and Friday off and having a mini-stay-at-home-vacation. This morning, I took the dogs for a hike up to Ramapo Lake. I thought the weather was mild, but then I’m not covered in fur. Well, not as much fur as they’re covered in. So when we got to the lake, Rufus decided it was time for a dip . . .

. . . in some brackish water. Click through that pic for some more shots from the set.

In all, we covered around 2 miles of trails and rocks, with enough hills that I started getting winded. They’ve barely moved since I got ’em back in the house 4 hours ago. I’ve run a couple of local errands, but really, I’m just gonna chill the hell out.

Movie Review Tuesday: Steroids, Ivies and Comics

Time for another installment of movie reviews! All documentaries this week!

Bigger, Faster, Stronger: This is a documentary about the use of performance-enhancing drugs by athletes in America (well, North America, since Ben Johnson’s 1988 Olympics disqualification gets some play). The documentarian, Chris Bell, is a young man whose brothers — one older and one younger — are both on the juice, trying to build careers in pro wrestling and professional weightlifting. The narrator brings a folksy, light touch to the film, discussing the myriad hypocrisies in our legal policies toward PEDs, their demonization. I do think he bites off more than he can chew when he tries to make the point that the beautiful people in advertisements are a big factor in people’s decisions to use steroids and the like. That segment is also the one where he models for both the “before” and “after” sections of a fake nutritional supplement ad in one day, to show how misleading those ads can be. The saddest but best part of the film may be the segment where he interviews the father of “steroid suicide” Taylor Hooton, poster corpse for President Bush’s bizarre anti-steroid announcement at the 2004 State of the Union address. Despite his child’s other risk factors, including use of an anti-depressant known to cause suicidal ideation in teens, the father declares that he “knows” steroids killed his son, and doesn’t care what science or research has to say. The filmmaker treads the difficult line of showing the man’s willing ignorance without overtly humiliating him (or getting his ass beat). Overall, it’s a pretty entertaining documentary about a culture obsessed with getting over.

Harvard Beats Yale 29-29: And then there was a documentary about a 1968 game between a couple of Ivy League schools. I knew nothing about this game when I picked up the DVD, except that Tommy Lee Jones was on the Harvard team that year. The movie rounds up a ton of players from both sides, and a weird trend emerges as they’re introduced: while the Yale players fit the stereotype of WASP-ish legacies and other wealthy scions, many of the Harvard players come from hardscrabble, public school backgrounds. (Which made me think Harvard had lower admission standards for its team, but also made that team a bit more sympathetic than the blue-bloods of the Yale squad.) The filmmakers make virtually no direct intrusion into the film, instead alternating between interviews and footage from the game itself. There’s an attempt at framing the game in terms of tumult of its 1968 milieu, but the story of the game itself, Harvard’s incredible comeback, and the personalities of a few of the players — Harvard’s backup QB Frank Champi, Yale’s QB Brian Dowling (inspiration for Doonesbury’s B.D. character), and Yale’s lineback Mike Bouscaren — sweep the film along. Bouscaren, in particular, illustrates a certain type of self-delusion that must be seen to be believed. Most of the men, 40 years later, are capable of stepping back and saying, “It was just a football game, not life and death,” but you can tell how much resonance that November afternoon had in all their lives.

In Search of Steve Ditko: This is British chat-show host Jonathan Ross’ hour-long documentary about superhero cartoonist Steve Ditko, the man who (co-)created Spider-Man and Doctor Strange for Marvel Comics, then inexplicably quit the company. Ross, a lifetime comics fan, treats Ditko’s legacy with reverence and interviews many subjects about both Ditko’s work and his life, focusing on Spider-Man, but also taking a trip into Ditko’s bizarre Mr. A stories and his Ayn Rand/objectivist fixation. The twin culminations of the documentary are Ross’ interview with Stan Lee and his attempt to meet Ditko at the latter’s Times Square studio. I was touched by how reverent Ross was, and how so many of the interview subjects geeked out over the same passage we all did: Spider-Man’s struggle to get out from under a giant machine in issue #33. The biggest drawback of the show was the inane decision to render all text in Comic Sans. If you’re a comics fan, you really oughtta watch this documentary sometime.

What It Is: 7/26/10

What I’m reading: Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Close Up, Bob Colacello’s bio of Andy Warhol.

What I’m listening to: Stankonia, Mind How You Go, Night & Day, and a whole ton of random stuff while I’ve been incorporating another giant iTunes library into my own.

What I’m watching: Bigger, Faster, Stronger, Harvard Beats Yale 29-29, and the In Search of Steve Ditko, the Jonathan Ross special about a comics recluse/genius (reviews coming tomorrow). Also, the Captain Phil tribute episode of Deadliest Catch, which contained an anecdote about Phil’s father Grant that would qualify for an installment of “You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass” if I could find a summary of it online.

What I’m drinking: 209 & Q-Tonic

What Rufus & Otis are up to: We drove out to the annual Vernon Dog Wash on Saturday, so the boys could get baths and have their nails clipped. The vet accidentally cut one of Rufus’ claws a little too close, leading to a little bloodshed. Of course, Ru being Ru, he didn’t actually react or show any sign of pain. He just left little drops of blood on the floor, prompting the vet to use a “liquid nail” sealer to take care of it. Also, someone in town apparently detonated a bomb a few nights ago. Ru doesn’t react well to thunder, guns (we have hunters out in the woods) or firecrackers, so the explosion sent him into “Bye, everybody! Don’t forget to tip your waiters!” mode, trotting down the hall. I thought he’d gone his usual spot in the guest bedroom, and went to check up on him 10 minutes later. There was no sign of him in there. So I looked in my home office, but he wasn’t there, either. He wasn’t on either of the dog-beds on our bedroom floor, so I got nervous. Then I noticed the reflection of the hall-light off of his eyes. He was so scared he broke with tradition and jumped into our bed (Amy’s side) and curled up against the pillow. Otis had no comment.

Where I’m going: Nowhere! Although I am planning to take a vacation day today, so I oughtta do something with it.

What I’m happy about: Getting to spend an hour of Saturday evening on the deck overlooking the woods, and enjoying a cigar, a G&T and that Ditko documentary on my iPad. Also, my buddy Tom Spurgeon won an Eisner Award for his work at The Comics Reporter! Go, Tom! I hope there’s video of your acceptance speech!

What I’m sad about: I didn’t get up to the Met on my day off Thursday. But at least I got to spend some time at the Frick.

What I’m worried about: That I was often guilty of being a topic hijacker. I’ve tried really hard this year to listen much more to the other person in a conversation, but sometimes I’m afraid the pendulum has swung so far in that direction that I don’t really give an impression of what I’m thinking or feeling. Combine that with my occasionally inappropriate or blank facial expressions, and it’s a marvel I haven’t been arrested on suspicion of something sociopathic.

What I’m pondering: Well, Amy was wondering, “How different would Synecdoche, New York have been if the lead was played by Paul Giamatti instead of Philip Seymour Hoffman?” so you can ponder that along with us.