There’s nothing Wendy dislikes more than when her husband does this, so she curtly says, “Yup.”
With his bossy and militaristic style, Yoav Levé lives up to all the clichés about both Israelis and fashion directors. He’s wearing a cape, and his even tan, the color of chestnuts, extends to the stubble-shaved toes of his sandal-shod feet.
Wendy worries the director doesn’t get the tone of her directive, doesn’t quite understand what they’re trying to sell. Not completely his fault, as Wendy, herself, is still in the dark on the product, but the big-picture message—work will set you free and get you laid; no, work will set you free by getting you laid—should be clear. And yet, Yoav keeps trying to ruin the shot by inserting ridiculous props like oversized wrenches and unnaturally yellow bananas into the models’ hands and mouths. Wendy’s twice pulled him aside to clarify the mood she has in mind, but the director still seems confused about most things, including who Wendy is and why her input should be heeded. As bulbs flash and cameras click, and Yoav instructs a male model in accented English, Wendy looks again for Lucas, hoping the client can step in with the authority that comes from wearing twenty-thousand-dollar loafers and signing the checks, and explain to the director that Wendy’s in charge. She’s on her third coffee now and it feels like a swarm of bees has invaded her veins and is clogged in her arterial pipeline.
At least the dressings and sets adhere to her vision. The male model in question currently leans on a piece of faux scaffolding that’s like a lost Cy Twombly, scaled up and aimed, Viagrafied, toward the sky. Muscles bulge from the sleeves of his white tee and there’s the right amount of dirt on his helmet and jeans. Knee bent, work boot at rest on a tin lunch pail, he looks a bit like George Washington crossing the Delaware. To Wendy’s satisfaction, he looks more than a bit like Eminem. The day’s next set features Le Bain’s indoor lounge reimagined as an auto plant. She hopes Lucas will be here by then.
The model’s female counterpart saunters up. Why she’d be in lingerie at a construction site is beyond Wendy, but whatever, it works. The models edge toward each other, then rotate clockwise once they’re about an inch apart. None of this demands instruction; it’s something models know to do. They turn away from the horizon so they’re facing the camera and the female bends to place her ass in his lap. If you can call it an ass. More like two yarmulkes sewn onto butt bones. Still, Wendy’s pleased with the overall effect. The model may be blond and statuesque; she may not have Brittany Murphy’s nickel-sized pupils or air of imminent ruin, but she stares past the cameras with an expression that says: in this short life, in this shit world, at least one real man remains.
“Great,” yells Yoav. “Now put on his hard hat.”
The female model snaps her chin to the sky and gravity pulls her voluminous locks behind her ears, a gesture likely honed during screen tests for shampoo commercials. The male fits the hard hat on her head like he’s crowning her queen of this construction site. The too-large item falls over her eyes. The male cracks an accidental smile. The female breaks character and smiles back.
“Love it,” yells Yoav. “You’ve been to the dentist, and what’s that? No cavities? Show us those sparkling teeth!”
The models remain open-mouthed for an awkward length of time. What began as a spontaneous instance of human connection has become forced and stiff. They shouldn’t be smiling. Their teeth are too white, and the mood is meant to be erotically sober, like an art-house film or a perfume ad. This image must speak to the men eating microwaved burritos on America’s futons, sex organs folded in on themselves like toy water snakes. It must speak to the women who sit beside these men and yearn for different husbands. More so, it must speak to Yelena the Trust-Funded Yoga Instructor, reminding her that work is a sexy life force and inalienable American right. The fact that most construction sites are manned by small crews of industrial robots doesn’t matter; it’s a metaphor. Wendy imagines this aspirational moment soundtracked by Jimi Hendrix’s star-spangled pyrotechnics, or Ray Charles’s evocation of the Midwestern plains, or a bass-heavy mashup of both. She imagines men and women getting up from their couches, fists raised, chanting: Work will set us free!
Yoav shouts, “Now kiss his cheek like your daddy just bought you an ice cream.”
The female places her lips on the male’s face. Under the director’s further encouragement, the male holds a long wink.
“Beautiful,” cries Yoav.
Wendy looks one last time for Lucas. When she still can’t find him, she reminds herself that she’s the senior-most executive on set, that she’s been doing this shit for more than twenty years, that Yoav the director was still learning the aleph-bet when Wendy wrote the copy for her first TV spot, a toothpaste ad featuring cartoon sharks complaining about plaque. She reminds herself that her own livelihood is on the line with this campaign, that it’s no one’s responsibility but hers to make sure it turns out right, that the 8 Mile–inspired set was her idea, and that this caped Israeli is screwing it up. She yells “Cut.”
Instantly, the crew unfreezes into action. PAs rush across set, delivering lenses and walkie
