If you've been following my retrospective on horrifying advertising animals since its inception back in June, then you might have figured out by now that I've been applying a very flexible definition of what constitutes as "horrifying". The initial focus, for the first three entries, was on advertising critters that provided nightmare fuel in a predominantly aesthetic sense, although as the series continued I started branching out to mascots that were unsettling through much broader means, either because there was there was something odd or highly questionable about the character's implicit narrative (as with Spuds McKenzie), they were tied up in a particularly infamous and odious crossover marketing ploy (as with the Taco Bell Chihuahua) or they were simply a sinister albeit truly magnificent bastard (as with Clive the Schweppes Leopard). If you're wondering how I'm going to affix the "horrifying" tag to a campaign as warm, fuzzy and seemingly innocuous as Coca-Cola's long-running seasonal Polar Bear series, then actually I've got two possible approaches. The first of these is purely aesthetic and by far the less interesting of the two, so we may as well get it out of the way right now. The first few ads in the series were created using 1990s computer animation, which as we all know has generally aged rather gracelessly (although the original Toy Story still looks great provided you don't linger too long on the humans' faces). So the early bears may look a bit odd and clunky to modern eyes. There are clunkier efforts out there, however (they still hold up better than the humans from the original Toy Story, for example). Oh, and one of the early ads features a live action Santa who just randomly appears out of nowhere to dispense Coca-Cola to a polar bear who's fallen on his fuzzy white butt. Okay, that is kind of surreal. I'm not entirely sure what's meant to be going on in that particular spot.
The second approach is a lot more compelling, for it's here that the warmth, fuzziness and general innocuousness of this much beloved campaign may actually be starting to turn against it. The Coca-Cola Polar Bear is an interesting example of an ad campaign that's been on Earth for long enough to have witnessed a dramatic shift in perceptions of the real-life creature from which it draws inspiration. We look at the polar bear and we don't quite see the same creature we saw a quarter-century ago, when Coca-Cola first hit upon the tremendous marketing potential of using the magnificent white ursines to promote its wares during the chilly winter months. In theory, Coca-Cola should have their work cut out in convincing me that a cold soft drink is the one thing I'm really craving when it's so nippy outside, and yet they really caught onto something by inserting a cola bottle into the paws of an animated polar bear, making it seem like the quintessential accessory for a thirsty bear on the trot, and an entirely natural part of the winter milieu.
The Coca-Cola Polar Bear is actually a much older creation than many people realise, having made its debut close to a century ago in a French print ad in 1922. For many, however, the polar bear's status as an iconic soda shill didn't really take flight until 1993, when Ken Stewart of Creative Artists Agency came up with the initial "Northern Lights" spot as part of the wider "Always Coca-Cola" campaign. The innovative ad featured CG animated polar bears (animation courtesy of Rhythm & Hues) trekking across the ice in order to attend the Arctic equivalent of a picture show - nature's light show, the aurora borealis. As the bears stared up in awe at the magnificent display, it was revealed that each had come prepped with a bottle of cola, just to make the experience that much more felicitous. According to this article, Stewart was actually inspired by a desire to immortalise his beloved Labrador Retriever, Morgan, whom he thought looked like a polar bear and used as the model for the CG bears. (I have to say that based on the picture featured in the article I don't see the resemblance, but maybe you had to experience Morgan first-hand).
Honestly, aside from the mildly grotesque close-up shot of the main polar's face at the very end, I find it difficult to fault the original 1993 Northern Lights spot. The CG animation, while undeniably primitive-looking by today's standards, hasn't aged too hideously, and there's something endearingly minimalist about the ad's approach to its quirky concept. It doesn't drag out the central gag any longer than it needs to, it eschews dialogue in favour of an array of charming sonic touches (the whirring winds, the ursine grunts, the squeaking of paws against the snow), giving the whole thing a wonderful sense of atmosphere, and its depiction of the natural world is the perfect melting pot of Disneyfication and self-conscious daftness, something that subsequent ads were able to expand upon beautifully. Take the ad in which a young polar bear loses its ball to the Arctic waters and a seal magnanimously retrieves the wayward toy (despite the fact that polar bears and seals are mortal enemies and those bears have undoubtedly chowed down on a selection of that seal's mates). For a few gut-wrenching moments, it looks as if the ad is about to get unBEARably saccharin. Then the adult polar pushes a bottle of cola in the seal's direction as a token of thanks and we're back in the territory of comfortable absurdity. If you're going to incorporate something as far-out as the halt in a conflict as relentless and primordial as that between polar bear and seal, then you might as well signify the truce with the preposterous imagery of the critters exchanging a cola bottle.
The Coca-Cola polars have become a recurring feature of the holiday season (although more recent installments have been animated by Australian studio Animal Logic, the same team behind the Happy Feet and Lego Batman movies, who also gave the bears their own short film in 2012), but in recent years the campaign has taken on a somewhat darker subtext, despite their content remaining as genial as ever. Viewers these days are more accurately aware that the ads represent nothing more than an idyllic fantasy. Oh sure, we've always appreciated that they're fantasies in the sense that polar bears don't drink cola and they don't go skating and receive handouts from Santa. Obviously, no sane person took these ads to be an accurate depiction of polar bear biology (and Werner Herzog will gladly be on hand to give you a clip around the ear should you seriously propose that a polar bear would be interested in rewarding a seal with a cola instead of devouring said seal). Rather, we're consciously aware that the ads are a fantasy in a much deeper, more symbolic sense, in that the polar bear is no longer a species we associate with carefree fun and bubbly frolics in a distant, immaculately white Arctic paradise. Over the past decade or so, the polar bear has undergone a dramatic image transformation, from an awe-inspiring symbol of a majestic, untamed wilderness to a creature driven to the very brink of survival; moreover, it has become the very first species that springs to mind when we contemplate everything that's getting increasingly screwed up about our fragile planet. The Coca Cola campaign depicts a polar utopia that's no longer there, and the cuddly escapism offered by the ads is itself becoming threatened.
Mya Frazier underlines this dilemma in this article written for the New Yorker, where she notes that Coca-Cola are hardly unique in adopting an endangered species as their brand mascot, citing Tony the Kellogg's tiger as another example. Tony, however, has proven generally more successful in convincing the public to dissociate his own cereal-hawking lifestyle from the harsh reality facing the vanishing felines, possibly because he's an immensely more anthropomorphic creation (nevertheless, Frazier does cite one example in which the company's association with the iconic tiger was used against it by protestors). In the UK, Fox's Biscuits use a mafioso panda, Vinnie, as their product spokesperson, although the official narrative insists that he's not a pure-bred panda and has traces of dog in him too (however the hell that works). Clearly, when the narrative for your fun-loving mascot's flesh-and-blood equivalent is less than sunny, it helps to create a little distance between the two. The Coca-Cola Polars are at a disadvantage in that regard, for while investing the bears with human characteristics has always been an integral ingredient in the campaign's success, they also draw immeasurably from the fundamental charms of the inquisitive white bears as a species. There's the additional problem that they take place against the background of that immaculate white Arctic, a projection of our infantile fantasies for a spotless winter wonderland that seems increasingly less relevant as the polar bear's actual habitat continues to dwindle. In her article, Frazier acknowledges that Coca-Cola have made monetary donations toward polar bear preservation efforts, but poses the obvious question as to whether the sum of money given ($2 million) is anywhere near enough, particularly in light of how much Coca-Cola have gained from their association with the bear.
As it is, the Cola polars have become less of a reassuring reminder that holidays are coming, and more like a Ghost of Christmas Past that annually appears in order to confront us, much like Ebeneezer Scrooge, with a haunting reminder of our waning world, and of our own lost innocence as a species. Let's hope we never reach a point where the image of the magnificent white bear roaming its natural habitat becomes as fantastically ludicrous as that of a polar bear handing a seal a Coke.
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