Around Oscar time you realize that actors have become "brands," rather than mere movie stars. Hence, advertisers are increasingly eager to measure their precise clout in moving their goods.
Along comes a new company that claims it can determine not merely how recognizable a star may be, but also how trustworthy he may be in the eyes of consumers.
Its findings are often counterintuitive. For example, Dennis Haysbert, who played the President on Fox's "24" series, is regarded by consumers as a trustworthy figure and hence should represent an especially prized buy for product endorsements.
Forget Tom Hanks or Brad Pitt: We're talking Haysbert marketing muscle here.
The entity that measures all this, according to the Wall Street Journal, is called Davie-Brown Talent. A unit of the marketing giant Omnicom, it claims to have a huge database rating celebrity likeability.
Why spend millions on a celebrity endorsement if, Davie-Brown reports, the star in question doesn't instill true confidence? An actor who plays a renegade CIA agent, like George Clooney, or a gay cowboy, like Heath Ledger, may not inspire consumer confidence to the degree of a lesser star who plays consistently boring roles like Sam Waterston. There's nothing more reinforcing for a hetero Hummer or a rightwing Rolex.
So talent agents beware: The next time your actors want to play a heavy or a hooker, remind them that, while their Q rating may be enhanced, their Davie-Brown trustworthiness rating may plummet.
After all, it's all about the brand.
Heroic measures
Memo to: Harrison Ford
When I first met you in the early '70s, you were in great demand as a carpenter, but no one wanted you as an actor. It took the dogged determination of a savvy casting agent named Fred Roos to get you a job. The rest, as they say ... well, I don't need to say it.
Given your struggle to get to the top, I'm all the more puzzled, Harrison, why you seem determined to repeat yourself -- or indeed to parody yourself -- in vehicles like "Firewall" or "Hollywood Homicide."
Do you really want to be known as "the last 60-year-old action hero"?
Think of the roads taken by others of your generation: Robert De Niro discovered comedy. Schwarzenegger discovered politics. Beatty discovered fatherhood. Clint Eastwood discovered auteurdom.
At some point in every star's career, there comes a time
not to get the girl and
not to pull off the big rescue. Your fans would like to see you pop up in surprising character roles, like Gene Hackman or Bruce Willis. Or foster an intriguing indie movie, like Redford.
If you feel you have a dependency on action, of course, there's always another "Indiana Jones." But by the time Lucas and Spielberg agree on a new script, you may find yourself back into carpentering.
"Been there, done that," you can cheerfully tell them as they jointly accept their AARP awards.
Kudos for a curmudgeon
At 81, he's still a crusty contrarian. He is at once a brilliant hustler and a fiercely dedicated craftsman. Those who have worked with him have found him to be both loyal and meanspirited.
But there he is, at age 81, standing proudly in the winner's circle. His new movie, "A Prairie Home Companion," won accolades at the Berlin Festival. His new play, "Resurrection Blues," opened in London last week. And on March 5, he will be given an honorary Oscar at the Academy Awards.
Bob Altman has always been a hard-living man, but -- consider this: He has turned out more than 40 feature films over the course of 55 years -- an astonishing level of fecundity. A little over a decade ago, the buzz was that he had received a secret heart transplant -- he never discussed it for fear of endangering his insurability.
Whatever procedure he may have endured, clearly it did not slow him down. Few would call him loveable, but he looks awfully good standing there in the winner's circle.
Contact Peter Bart at
peter.bart@variety.com