Well, dear readers, one aspect of my acting career that I rarely discuss (don’t know why really) was my career in commercials. When I began doing television, it never occurred to me that I might want to try commercials. In fact, I was strongly against it, for reasons that are probably too stupid to remember. But sometime into the first couple of years of my doing TV someone convinced me I could and should be doing commercials and that there was a lot of money to be made. I don’t remember how or who, but someone took me in to meet their agents – Commercials Unlimited. I liked the owner, Sonia Brandon, and her associate John Fisher, and they liked me and thought I was a good type and assured me that fresh faces did very well. I don’t know that I believed that, but I signed up. A few days later I got my first commercial audition – for toilet paper. I really had to think twice before saying I’d go, but go I did. I walked into a waiting room filled with young actors, probably thirty or forty of them. This was all very foreign to me. I signed in and was given some sides. I’d never seen a commercial for Charmin toilet paper before and hadn’t even heard the famous slogan, “Please, don’t squeeze the Charmin” spoken by Mr. Whipple. I was ushered into a room. There was a video camera set up and there were several people in the room. I introduced myself and everyone seemed very friendly. I’d familiarized myself with the copy – the commercial was a flashback about how Mr. Whipple had met Mrs. Whipple, and I was reading for Young Mr. Whipple. They had a picture of Mr. Whipple for me to look at. I spoke the copy, said the famous line, silently fell in love with Mrs. Whipple, and that was that. I got home and my answering service told me I’d had a call from my commercial agent (yes, those were the days when we all had answering services). I called and was told that I booked the job. They told me it was very unusual to book any commercial without a callback, but apparently I was just what they were looking for. So, as amazing as it may seem, I booked the first job I went out on.
I arrived on the set and was introduced to actor Dick Wilson, who played Mr. Whipple and had been doing so for years, and would continue doing so right up to the end of his life. He showed me how he did his thing and I picked it up right away. They put a little moustache on me and we were ready to shoot. The actress I was playing opposite was very nice and the whole thing went quickly. We did do quite a few takes and angles, and they seemed very happy with what we were doing. A month or so later the commercial hit the air – it was really cute and it was really popular. So popular, in fact, that it ran continuously for the next two years. I got a check a week, week in and week out until it went off the air. What a way to start. And so I began booking commercials regularly. I went on two or three calls a day, always had callbacks, and got what I got. I’ve really forgotten a lot of what I did, but a few stand out. One was for some clothing thing whose slogan was “You can feel the fit.” I played a clothing salesman who was, shall we say, enamored of a girl who was trying on a tight-fitting top. As she looks in the mirror (with me staring at her longingly, as only I can) she says, “Gee, you can feel the fit.” I do one of my patented BK takes, and then say, “I can?” The commercial was set to air on the Grammy Awards whatever year it was. I heard through the grapevine that the TV censors were really up in arms about it and were trying to have it pulled. In the end, they cut the line “I can” and freeze-framed on my BK take, which was, of course, even more suggestive. It only aired that once – a shame – it was really funny. I did several car commercials, a McDonald’s commercial for a new item that never took off called onion nuggets (I did another McDonald’s, too), a candy commercial where I had to take a bite and chew a candy bar for about ten takes (I spit it out as soon as they said cut), I did a couple of airline commercials (on one, the actor playing opposite me could not do what they wanted – he was a good actor, but they really wanted something very specific and he just couldn’t do it – we did over 100 takes, and it fell to me to be fresh and spontaneous each time – those producers loved me because I delivered on every single take), and lots of others. In one commercial, for Wells Fargo Bank, I was called by my real name (I’m caught flirting with a girl, and someone reprimands me by saying, “Kimmel”).
I did a commercial for milk and boy was that a doozy. It was a terrific commercial in which I played a young dad. At the end, I had to drink down an eight-ounce glass of milk (the beauty shot). First off, I hate milk. HATE milk. Second off, I had to do eight takes. At the end of the eighth take, I turned to the camera and said, “Holy shit.” That got a big laugh, but that was it – I was like a gas tank being topped off and the milk would simply have had nowhere to go. And speaking of gas – did you ever drink eight glasses of milk in a row?
I began not liking going on calls because as the years went by the calls kept getting bigger and bigger and instead of there being ten people on a callback there’d be fifty. Where once the creatives were in the room on the initial call, now there was only the casting person, who frequently was very young and very stupid. On one audition, the action was I opened the front door, picked up a newspaper and saw there were some cool coupons inside. The casting person wanted me to be zany and huge, and I just said, “No, I don’t do zany and huge – there are fifty actors out there who’ll give you zany and huge, so I’ll just do what it is I do and if they really want zany and huge they can give it to one of those guys.” She looked at me like I was out of my mind, but I did exactly what it is I do – and booked the job because I was the only one who wasn’t zany and huge – just a normal person. That commercial aired only two days – one of the days being Superbowl Sunday. Because it was only two days, I received double scale residuals for each and every airing. The commercial ran non-stop in prime time for two days straight, maybe four times an hour. I made more money on that commercial in two days than I probably made on all my other commercials added together. I worked with some terrific directors – cameraman Michael Chapman (who really wanted to direct), cameraman Jordan Cronenweth (he shot Blade Runner, and he, too, wanted to direct), Stan Dragoti, and other really top-notch folks. Several commercials in which I appeared were award-winners, not that the actors were ever acknowledged. I met my muse Margaret Willock Jones on a commercial call – we just hit it off instantly.
I did a wonderful spot for Filmex, the 1970s yearly film festival – just a great commercial – I can’t remember the director, but it was someone very well known. In the 1980s, after I’d decided I didn’t want to do TV anymore and had pretty much given up the acting ghost, I still did commercials from time to time. Once, I took a two-year hiatus – when I went back out on my first call after two years, I booked the jog. It really is all about fresh faces and mine had been gone for two years. Another funny thing that happened was they really wanted me for a commercial, but I had a conflict with another product, so the call was put out for a “Bruce Kimmel type.” My friend Alan Abelew went up for it and got it, because he knew what that type was.
My last two commercials were both in 1993, the year I began my own division at Varese Sarabande. The first was for some product I don’t even remember. I actually have no memory at all about the shoot, other than we were shooting across the street from the Aero Theater in Santa Monica, and my old friend Toby (Fred) Bluth was animating a character we’d be interacting with. I never saw the spot. My final commercial was a helluva way to go out. I’d decided that doing nineteen albums a year and spending so much time in New York left me no time or energy to go on commercial calls, plus by that time I really was over everything but the money, and since I was earning a good salary at Varese, I didn’t even care about the money. We were doing Michelle Nicastro’s Toonful album. We’d done the rhythm date (we did the band in sections back in those days) and we’d done the string date, and only the horn date was left. I was driving to the Valley when I got a call from my agent (in my car yet – car phones were new then) telling me I had an audition in Hollywood. I told him I didn’t really have time to go, and he told me it was a really good national spot and they’d take me in right away. Since I wasn’t far from the casting place, I said okay. The part was a scientist in a lab who’s come up with a bunny that will beat the Energizer Bunny (the competition). I walked into the casting office and saw at least seventy people in lab coats. It was unbelievable. I signed in, and I was finally taken in about ten minutes later. The director was there and looked so weary and tired. I was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and not a lab coat (I never dressed in costumes). He told me what the bit was – I was supposed to walk in, put my new invention on the table, where it would immediately explode or die or something, and then I do a look and walk away in shame. No dialogue – loved that. I did my thing, did a patented BK take, and walked off camera. The director was howling with laughter. He came up to me and said, “Thank God, someone who’s subtle.” His voice had a cadence to it that was so familiar sounding to me, but I couldn’t place it. I left and went to Varese and by the time I’d gotten there my agent had left a message saying I’d booked the job – that’s right, no callback. He told me that I’d be working opposite Rip Torn, and that the director was Frank Oz. No wonder his voice had sounded so familiar to me – he had that Muppet cadence.
The shoot was to take place the same day as our horn date – I moved the start time of the horn date to late afternoon, and the producer of the commercial assured me I’d be out by four, as my call was six in the morning. Unfortunately, Mr. Oz was a perfectionist and he got behind right away and continued to get further behind as the day went by. I really didn’t want to miss the horn date, but it was clear I wasn’t going to get there on time. In the end, I worked until eight at night and missed the horn date completely. I knew then that that was the end of commercials for me. I did get a very nice call from Mr. Oz’s assistant who told me that he’d loved working with me and thought I did a great job. That’s what I call a gracious person. The commercial ran a really long time and I made a good deal of money from it, and Toonful became a huge seller, too.
Well, why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below and remember, please don’t squeeze the Charmin.
Yesterday was supposed to be a nice, relaxing day. I got up at nine-thirty, and was on the road doing the long jog an hour later. Once I got back, I never stopped working until nine at night. Some day off. I finished my liner notes, addressed a LOT of packages (that took a lot of time), drove to my designer’s to drop off more stuff, laid the groundwork for our next release, had several long telephonic conversations, ate a Subway turkey sandwich, and that was the day and that was the evening. I’m now quite bushed.
Today, I have to do the long jog, return tapes, have a two-hour rehearsal, write a blurb for the new release, and then get my liner notes and the track titles and credits to the designer, and hopefully get the master so I can make sure I’m happy with it. I hope to be through with everything by four or five and then I am not answering the phone or doing anything else other than sit on my couch like so much fish.
Tomorrow, Cinco de Mayo, I’ll be holding the Mayo and having a morning rehearsal, after which I’ve told everyone I will not be available for anything. I’ll pack, by any toiletries I need, and relax. I’ll be writing and posting the notes early and will be in bed by nine or ten at the latest.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, do the long jog, return tapes, have a rehearsal, write, eat, and then relax. Today’s topic of discussion: What are your all-time favorite commercials from the Golden Age of Commercials – say the beginning of TV through the 1980s? Let’s have loads of lovely postings, shall we, and remember, please don’t squeeze the Charmin and also remember that it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.