By Irina Glushchenko
MOSCOW — When independent commercial firms reappeared on the Russian scene a few years back, they naturally enough brought advertising with them. Citizens weren't totally unused to this phenomenon; for years, state television had run a quarter-hour evening segment of commercials. Mind you, no-one paid much attention — if the goods advertised had sat on the shop shelves for more than half an hour amid the panic buying of the perestroika period, people assumed that the quality was woeful indeed.
That was in the days of "rouble overhang", when honest people still had money. Now, after 15 months of "reform", only a minority of Russians are in the market for much beyond bread and potatoes. Consequently, there's little point advertising goods aimed at the mass buyer — which is at least part of the reason why advertising in Russia today is as distinctive and bizarre as the country's "savage capitalism".
Sick of brooding on how far your wages have fallen below the "physiological survival minimum", you flick on the TV set. Instantly, you're bombarded with offers to sell you flying lessons — or maybe a Volvo? Or fashion clothing? Or imported perfumes?
After reminding you that you're not among the nouveaux riches, the advertisers explain where you should look to find a way out of your plight. The logos of commercial firms float up through the computer-generated depths, accompanied by the booming, drawn-out tones once used to announce Gagarin's venture into space: "Firm X: that's — reliability! That's — stability! That's — service!"
The latter type of TV commercial appeared first. The firms involved were anxious to let the public know they existed. It didn't matter what line of business they were in — they wanted to create the image of progressive Russian entrepreneurs, striding confidently into the future. The television screens were full of two-headed eagles and tricolour flags. The main response from viewers was intense irritation.
Then gradually the ads began to change. Clips began to plug particular goods, almost always imported. Amid the vulgar propagandist clichés, ads began to appear that were interesting in themselves. Here and there, firms no longer insisted on being taken so seriously; they set out to be amusing. Paradoxically, this reflected the state of the economy — the best way to attract clients, advertisers were discovering, was to cheer people up.
An ad of this type will often contain elements of parody, and if it makes an unusually strong impact, may be parodied itself. "Accurate to the millimetre!", a man exclaims as he places a brick on the one below. Before long, in an advertisement for the Imperial Bank, the emperor lowers himself onto his throne "accurately to the second!". self-parody has set in; the emperor is still on time, but now with an indecently ripped toga.
Compared with Western TV commercials, most of those that appear on Russian television are amateurish, and the wit is decidedly broad. Nevertheless, there are ads that succeed totally in winning their target audiences. Granted, most of these viewers are under 10 years old, and their tastes have been honed on the imported star-raiders and robots that have taken the place of the often delightfully crafted Soviet cartoons. Still, the youthful devotees of modern advertising will recite for you, word for word, the text of their favourite commercials.
A TV commercial is a sensitive and pitiless mechanism. It seizes on new influences, and unerringly captures the essence of change. A short time ago it was possible to get by with imitating anything foreign, but the Russian soul now craves something different.
"1993 is the year of privatisation", a solid-looking comrade in suit and tie informs us. "Each of you has received a privatisation cheque, or voucher." The speaker is middle-aged, mild-mannered, and refrains from gesticulating. His firm voice, backed by the music from the old Soviet news program Vremya, is bound to arouse pleasant associations. Just such voices used to reassure us that the next year would mark a turning point, would see the conclusion, would be decisive, that so many million tons of grain were now in the granaries of the fatherland, while the collective farms were beginning the spring sowing. The people who made this ad knew they were playing a strong card.
Although the transition to the market has only just begun, the symbolism of the market already arouses gloomy associations. If the propaganda for capitalism is to be effective, it must painstakingly recreate the atmosphere of the "era of stagnation". It must try to convince us that everything is just as it was before.
This "Don't worry — be happy" propaganda is laid on especially thick every time there is a public holiday. You mustn't, of course, violate tradition. But May Day, with its traditions of workers' struggle and solidarity, can easily enough be renamed the "Day of Spring" or the "Spring Festival".
That's how they treat the mentally ill. No unpleasant recollections. Away with all irritants! Let's all smile at one another.
Soon, no doubt, Russian TV will start showing stagnation-era films more often. They'll be as captivating a spectacle as films from the West not so long ago.
Western models are not catching on in Russia, or more precisely, they are not being perceived in the way the ideologues expected. After the initial feverish passion for the West, local traditions are making up ground. People want stability, and traditional images provide at least an illusion of this.
However, neither our country nor its mass culture will ever return to on renews itself, absorbing elements from innovations that have failed to take root or that have supposedly been rejected. This is perhaps the only gain we stand to make from our present "time of troubles".