Manifest Madness.

Beloved of agency new business ferrets, CMOs, and writers who fancy a shot at something more evocative than another hemorrhoid banner ad, the so-called “brand manifesto” can be the coat of many colors for creatives and marketers alike. In the right hands, they build understanding, ignite emotions, excite colleagues and consumers, and, on utterly rare occasion, become the stuff of advertising legend. 

In the wrong hands, it’s the other thing. When the turd lands, it does so with a squishy thud.

All of which takes The Reductionist into distinctly uncomfortable territory—publicly critiquing other people’s work. Frankly, and for reasons that range from ignorance about objectives and results to the fact that unkind words have a nasty habit of circling assward, it’s simply not a place the wise want to go.

Not to drift, but sometime back before the turn of the century, Adweek asked a couple of agency luminaries to show us how they could “improve” on the ads for a hotel chain then run by a famously (and soon to be feloniously) autocratic New York socialite. After a desultory morning of idle chat, broken up by a long and doubtlessly martini-enhanced lunch, these two paragons whipped out a couple of concepts by day’s end that were, without doubt, far superior to the original product.

Of course, they paid no attention to media realities (they delivered spreads; the hotel was using small space print), practical requirements (their ads were pure image; the hotel was selling specifics), or the unstable nature of a nitroglycerin client. No wonder they smoked the poor suckers who were stuck with the actual business—they brought the proverbial Abrams tank to the knife fight.

Anyway, as you can see, this unsavory incident left an impression and that explains why I’m hesitant to talk about a recent instance where you really wish the writer had the courage or insanity to tell the client, “Stop me before I manifesto, again.” 

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen and thus we arrive, post all the drain circling, at Starbucks 50th anniversary ads. Which, in my reluctant opinion, serve as the poster child for the point that brand anthems, my preferred term, are either profound or pathetic. Nothing in between.

Framed around the themeline, “possible is just the beginning”—oddly reminiscent of a certain running shoe’s much more on target “impossible is nothing”—the thing is mostly composed of anodyne platitudes including “inspiring,” “come together,” “nurturing” and “open our hearts.”

What’s so wrong with that?  Absolutely nothing. What’s right with it? Ditto. And that’s what irks to the point of distraction.

Think of the tale they had to tell. Not just as a rags-to-retail-riches icon, but as the ethical pioneer in an industry known for cruel exploitation. Not just bringing admirable class to a mass category, but inventing “come for the coffee, stay for the day.” Not just offering the singular perspective that comes with growing from 1 to 32,000 outlets, but, taking my own leap off the high board, the POV that “we’re on every neighborhood corner because that’s a beautiful place to be a part of the world.”

Obviously, that’s all speculative, and doubtless someone on the inside would be well within their rights to mercilessly shred the shredding. To be sure, the visuals offer the barest hint that someone had to have been thinking along those lines. But, still, to frame a magnificent epic in pedestrian terms does no one—not the brand or its devotees—much good.  At least not if we interpret “good” as enriching the experience, the audience, or especially the brand.

To that end, some suggestions if you’re considering embarking on manifesto madness:

First, picture a sign the size of Ted Lasso’s locker room “Believe” poster (his one-word mani-anthi). Populate it with these words: “if you don’t have anything interesting to say, shut up.”

Implicit in the above: the thoughts on the page need reflect the brand’s own experience and point of view. May take some aching mental muscles, but the gold seam is always there.

Third, even more than most copy, this is a tapestry. Lay the first thread imaginatively.

Next, avoid the temptation to get so wrapped up in form, you forget function. Adland is filled with cynical cracks that the secret to manifesto writing is “Start with a short sentence. Then a second. Then use one. Word. For emphasis.”

Fifth, always read your drafts aloud. The words are meant to ring in the mind like they were spoken in the ear. 

Last, never forget the rewards of getting it right. And to put that in context, I’d harken back to the initial point that a great manifesto can become legendary.

If you care enough about this slightly wonky topic to have gotten to this point, odds are good I don’t even have to mention which ones I’m talking about. You already know.