WELL, THAT NEVER HAPPENED before.
I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a tough sell. At home, I like my privacy unbroken by advertising. I feed my garbage pail a steady diet of catalogs and mailers. I remove the three Sunday newspaper sections I want to read and recycle the rest while it’s still in the polybag. I give out e-mail permission less often than the Unabomber and just say no when the checkout kid at Best Buy wants my ZIP code.
So here’s the odd thing: I fell asleep in front of the TV one night (not in itself a rare occurrence) and woke up to an infomercial that almost got me.
The ad was a long spot for the Little Giant Folding Ladder, which can be a step ladder, an extension ladder, a work scaffold and so on. In it, that bearded guy from “Home Improvement” and some woman I recognized from a home-repair show extolled the virtues of this collapsible ladder. It rolls on built-in wheels! It can hold a 300-pound man! It folds up and stores under the bed!
And even as I fumbled for the remote, I found myself thinking, “Hey, I might be able to use that.”
I’d just written a story about the future of direct response TV and the possibility of searchable commercials in an on-demand broadcasting world. And one of the quotes that stuck in my head was a thought from Robert Medved, president and media director of Cannella Response Television. “Basically, in the DRTV world, we’re appealing to a customer who is bored,” he said. “DRTV exists in a space where people have downtime, and their brains are fried, and they’re flipping channels looking for something to do.”
Bingo. Too groggy to get up and go to bed, I instead spent 15 minutes watching people do tricks with a hinged ladder. And some small part of my lizard brain said, “Hmmm…I could use this to wash those windows on the side of the apartment.” The infomercial worked, almost.
But there’s a world of significance in that “almost.” I didn’t buy the ladder, and the reason may have implications for the future of DRTV.
Like all good infomercials, this one urged me every three minutes or so to go to my phone and call an 800 number. It also warned me to “keep trying if the line’s busy.” I didn’t even risk a busy signal. Like a growing number of consumers, I went to the Web instead of the phone.
That’s where the signal got garbled. I found the official Little Giant Web site, which was very helpful and highly interactive. But then, after a few minutes of flipping around those pages, I did a Google search on the term “ladder fall.”
I don’t know why. Just bored, I guess.
And there it was, on 20 different Web sites: three-year-old footage of a QVC episode in which some poor tangle-footed studio tech fell while demonstrating an extension ladder. For a few seconds, he was a blur of flailing arms and backward momentum, and then he hit the studio floor 10 feet below with a sickening thud.
On the audio, the QVC hostess kept flacking the ladder while she tried to find out if the poor yutz was dead: “OK, well, that has never happened before…First, we’re going to make sure that Chris is OK…That’s a very slippery floor.” Never mind that the ladder was still obviously standing upright, and that it was Chris who’d slipped.
And it was pretty clear Chris wouldn’t be OK for a long time. The man actually bounced when he hit; for a moment, you could see daylight between him and the linoleum. No, there was traction in Chris’ future, if not reconstructive surgery.
I watched the ladder-fall video a few more times (OK, I’m a bad person) and visualized myself lying at the bottom of the gangway next to my house with my head in a pail of warm suds and my legs at an odd angle. Was I crazy? Buying a 22-foot extension ladder? I’ve fallen off high street curbs. Go to bed, Brian.
Never mind that the clip was three years old, or that the ladder was entirely different in brand and design from the Little Giant. On the Web, I controlled the message. I happened to flip perversely from the safety info and testimonials for the Little Giant to footage of some guy falling off an unrelated ladder.
And this is what makes the Web the wild card in the direct response deck. Yes, DRTV can still work some magic by serving up the right product and the right offer to a properly bored subject. But I can’t help thinking that the infomercial’s days are numbered, at least partly because of the rise of the Internet.
Any infomercial that drives viewers to the Web takes a chance those viewers will dredge up unexpected content. Some of this can explicitly undermine the spot’s message.
A broad search on “infomercial fraud” brought up 30 pages of links attacking everything from Tom Vu’s real estate schemes to Kevin Trudeau’s natural health products. There were even sites attacking a muscle relaxer from a Dr. Ho that involved attaching electrodes to the body and running a current through them. Astoundingly, some customers seemed to have encountered problems with the device. (Imagine.)
But even when the product tries to skip the search phase with an easy URL (for Little Giant it was www.ladders.com), just having that query box floating above the Web page invites users to look beyond the marketer’s controlled message to the unfettered Internet. Studies have shown that most people now use search to navigate the Web, Googling “Southwest” rather than typing it into the address bar. So chances are they’re going to be looking at a page of “ladders” results. Who knows what they’ll find and how it will influence them?
In my own case, the Internet simply served to help me picture myself as Chris, waiting for the EMTs. That broke the spell of an effective DRTV message. My transition from consideration to purchase was interrupted as surely as the Little Giant ladder spot had interrupted my REM sleep.
At the very least, DRTV advertisers probably have to start monitoring their reputation in chat rooms, bulletin boards and blogs. And they probably should consider carefully whether they actually want to send viewers to the Web, where their message may have to contend with other content of marginal relevance but outsized impact.
And Chris, wherever you are: Sorry for laughing. I really do hope you’re all right.