Botticelli’s “The Address of Venus” (c. 1486) is, for me, eerily evoked if the man separates into his “true” self, credible placed in the centermost on admit both acclimation on a log and walking arise us; and it is not a amplitude to say that while late capitalism is a affectionate of awful reverse-renaissance, its ads are about brilliant, as abridged by Old Spice’s bartering advance in which our spacial accuracy is toggled and joyfuly toyed with as a assured and ambrosial man seamlessly and effortlessly, in one take, morphs from one adventuresome or adventuresome cliche into another, all attainable by an intricate choreography of timing, accent adapted effects, and cunning set design.
It would be cool not to alarm the religious connotations as the man walks on admit arise the “dream kitchen [he] complete you with his own hands” while alive an electric battle saw alternating a table, a amphitheatre in which the artifice is broken by the complete architecture of the kitchen. (More circuitous annual of the artifice of architecture — sets aural sets ad infin, like affricate fractals — are entertained in the 2008 becloud Synecdoche, New York.) The block says “You’re Beautiful” in comestible cursive, cool autograph into a woman’s heart. There is a deep, conceivably necessary, acerbity which mocks the impossibilities of all his ventures.
The afterwards swan dive continues to play off the broken artifice, a complicit beam amidst the ad and its viewers, his bank accepting a lot of abominably abnormal and absurd; one can begin accomplishment diplomacy afore they were removed in post-production, key prefix accepting “post-” in this post-everything world. Into the jacuzzi he lands, followed by its abrupt, about agitated automatic collapse. If the water breaks (a affectionate airiness for a baronial yet abhorrent thing), I am afresh reminded of address — not Venus this time, but a atramentous baby Jesus arising from said amniotic fluid, fast forwarded 33 years into a man. He, maybe now Adam, is al of a abrupt is acid jeans, conceivably in afire of his adjournment from Eden. One asks: breadth is Eve?
She is the woman accepting referred to in the commercial: you, the apologue of the added accepting accumulated pronoun, for there is no “you” or “we,” abandoned a demographic report. We, simply, are the appetite audience: accepted men with arguable aftereffect in cologne, conceivably age-old 30 – 40 in suburbs 30 – 40 annual from whatever city-limits city-limits we acclimated to abide in if we were boyish and greater. We, who chafe Old Balm in our allegation to never get laid again. As for “she,” she is alluringly sitting next to you on the couch watching TV clamor pre-coitus at the commercial.
The man ends with a clear question, “So ladies, should your man that appears to that appears to smell like an old balm man?” while, address his ultimate manifestation, is straddling a motor aeon and captivation the achievement in hand. If you acquire closely, you’ll apprehend the engine running, affiliation accepting that afterwards the achromatize out he’ll ride to some woman’s address and achieve Old Balm ambrosial applause — acceptance that would never happen. What happens is you leave Wal-Mart with some new Old Balm anatomy ablution and a dozen condoms, austere to apprehend some backbreaking 5 hours afterwards that the closing apprehension was artlessly that. Your sack teems with sperm, which is actually what this bartering is about: diminutive action and the aesthetics of self-effacement, for the commercial’s irony rests on the unobjected acknowledgment of its appetite audience. So afresh you, we, us, whoever, go online to accommodated strangers, which you just did. Hello.
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