Billy Wilder: ‘Nobody Can Portray What the Audience Can Imagine’

Billy Wilder

'If there's anything I hate more than not being taken seriously, it's being taken too seriously.'
Billy Wilder

I recently watched a couple of extended interviews with the legendary film-maker Billy Wilder. (‘Billy, How Did You Do It?’ (1992), Volker Schlondorff; ‘The Writer Speaks: Billy Wilder’ (1995), The Writers Guild Foundation)

'I have ten commandments. The first nine are, thou shalt not bore. The tenth is, thou shalt have right of final cut.'

Born into a Jewish family in a small town in Poland in 1906, Wilder was raised in Vienna and found work as a journalist and screenwriter in Berlin. After the Nazis’ rise to power, he moved briefly to Paris, before relocating to Hollywood in 1934. His mother, grandmother and stepfather were all victims of the Holocaust. 

‘Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles isn't a realist.’

Having learned English from scratch, Wilder co-wrote ‘Ninotchka’ (1939), the film where Garbo laughed, and ‘Ball of Fire’(1941), one of the great screwball comedies. He then took to directing, so that he could better control his vision.

‘People ask me if directors should also be able to write. I say to them: ‘What is important is that he is able to read.’’

Wilder went on to co-write and direct ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944), the prototype film noir; ‘The Lost Weekend’ (1945), the first movie to take alcoholism seriously; and ‘Sunset Boulevard’(1950), the definitive Hollywood expose. He filmed ‘Stalag 17’ (1953), the archetypal prisoner-of-war movie, and ‘Witness for the Prosecution’ (1957), the classic courtroom drama. He shone a spotlight on the cynicism of the press in ‘Ace in the Hole’ (1951). And he made us laugh like drains with ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959) and ‘The Apartment’ (1960). Over six decades he created more than fifty films and won seven Academy Awards.

'An audience is never wrong. An individual member of it may be an imbecile, but a thousand imbeciles together in the dark - that is critical genius.’

In the interviews the elderly film-maker, still with an Austrian accent, looks back on his extraordinary career with authority, insight and a twinkle in his eye. Let us consider some of the lessons he imparts.

'Shoot a few scenes out of focus. I want to win the foreign film award.’

Wilder on the set of Double Indemnity (1944)

 1. Don’t Bore People

Wilder was at heart a popular entertainer. He wasn’t interested in arthouse credibility.

'Some pictures play wonderfully to a room of eight people. I don't go for that. I go for the masses. I go for the end effect.’

For Wilder the greatest crime was to be tedious.

'The Wilder message is don't bore - don't bore people.’

2. Start with the Architecture

Wilder’s films crossed many genres. They were characterised by tightly woven, intricate plots and dramatic reversals; by sharp dialogue and simple, elegant direction.  

‘Writing a movie is a mixture of architecture and poetry.’

Every twist and turn in the plot is carefully choreographed. Every scene is engineered like a Swiss timepiece.

‘The film has to be very precisely constructed, but the construction must not show.’

In ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944) a perfectly planned crime is undone by a car that fails to start. Expecting a rendezvous with his lover, the murderer is surprised by a visit from his boss. Counter to convention, a door opens onto a corridor, just so as to give Barbara Stanwyck somewhere to hide.
 
‘We have to find the mechanics and then write the scenes hiding the mechanics.’

Wilder was prepared to sacrifice great material if it didn’t serve the overall narrative. ‘Sunset Boulevard’(1950) was originally shot with an opening scene in the city morgue. In previews the audience burst out laughing when an identity tag was attached to a dead William Holden’s toe. Though Wilder loved the sequence, he cut it because it was setting the wrong mood.

3. Create Great Moments that Shake the House

Wilder was always thinking about audience attention.

‘Once you have the audience captured – once they are playing that game with the people on the screen – this is like you’ve got them by the throat, you can’t let it go. You squeeze a little more and more and more. Don’t let them escape. Don’t wake them up. Don’t let them realise this is only a movie that they’re seeing.’

And so he peppered his films with climactic moments. 

‘The strength of a film comes from those great moments that shake the house.’

As illustration of these mini-climaxes, he cites the rotten meat scene in Eisenstein’s ‘Battleship Potemkin’ (1925); the hitchhiker sequence in Capra’s ‘It Happened One Night’ (1934); the four-fingers reveal in Hitchcock’s ’The 39 Steps’ (1935).

'An actor entering through the door, you've got nothing. But if he enters through the window, you've got a situation.'

Wilder on the set of The Apartment (1960) with Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon

4. Laughter Snowballs

Wilder was particularly attuned to the rhythm required for comedy.

‘In order to get laughs, you first have to create an atmosphere…One sporadic laugh and then nothing for 5 minutes is worse than no laughter at all. [Laughter] snowballs.’

For the final scene between Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959), Wilder gave Lemmon a pair of maracas and got him to shake them after each gag. He did this to create space for audience laughter before Curtis delivered his next straight line.

The movie ends with Lemmon revealing his secret to his wealthy suitor.

Jerry: But you don't understand, Osgood! [pulls off his wig]… I'm a man!
Osgood: [shrugs] Well, nobody's perfect!

5. The Public Has to Add It Up

Wilder's first significant success in Hollywood came when he collaborated with Ernst Lubitsch on ‘Ninotchka’ (1939). The great German director taught him to let the audience work some things out for themselves.

‘Lubitsch was not afraid that people won’t understand him. Unlike people that say 2 + 2 makes 4, 1 + 3 also makes 4, 1+1+1+1 also makes 4. But Lubitsch says 2+2…That’s it. The public has to add it up.’

And so Wilder relates his stories with subtlety and a light touch. He advises, for instance, never to show a character having an idea.

'It’s too difficult to act and it’s very difficult to believe.’

Similarly, the murder in ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944) is not shown on screen. Rather, it is conveyed by a slight move of Barbara Stanwyck’s head as she drives the car in which it takes place.

'Emotions that are of startling strength, or vehement reactions, are best shot and acted by an actor with the back to the camera. Nobody can portray what the audience can imagine.’

Wilder on set

6. The Best Director Is the One You Don’t See

Wilder was first and foremost a writer, and his filmic style always served the script. 

'How do you make sure they understand what you want to tell them? How do you direct their eyes to that thing? How do you make them remember? The subtler you are, the more elegantly you do it, the better a director you are.’

His complex narratives required simple direction.

‘There are only two kinds of film for the public. The simple story padded out, furnished in rococo. The simple plot allows visual embellishment. Then the complex story filmed simply, in order to make it comprehensible. But if it’s complicated and you also make arabesques, then the audience won’t understand.’

Wilder was no fan of technical tricks and imaginative camera angles.

‘I shot fast with as few camera positions as possible. Good positions, interesting positions. But nothing…tricky. If they notice the camera you’re lost…The best director is the one you don't see… Shoot the son-of-a-bitch and let’s go home’

7. It’s Much Easier to Say ‘Do Less’ than ‘Do Something’

Wilder had a particular talent for getting great performances from his actors. Fourteen of the stars he directed were Oscar-nominated, including Barbara Stanwyck, Audrey Hepburn and Charles Laughton; Jack Lemmon, Shirley MacLaine and Walter Matthau. 

‘A director must be a policeman, a midwife, a psychoanalyst, a sycophant and a bastard.’

He often cast against type, enlisting tough guy James Cagney for a comedy role, and Disney hero William Holden to play a villain. He worked with Marilyn Monroe on two of her best pictures.

'An endless puzzle without any solution.’
 
In ‘Sunset Boulevard’ (1950) Wilder cast Gloria Swanson as a silent era film idol desperate for a return to the spotlight. Swanson, a silent star herself, had virtually given up cinema, and some warned him that her traditional acting style was too expressive. But that’s what Wilder wanted from the role.
 
‘It’s much easier to say ‘do less’ than ‘do something.’’

8. Keep Some Ideas in the Bottom Drawer 

Watching David Lean’s romance ‘Brief Encounter’ (1945), in which a couple conduct a tryst in a friend’s flat, Wilder was prompted to ponder:

‘What about the man who has to crawl back into his warm bed?’

He wrote a 5-page outline and popped it in a drawer filled with assorted first acts, characters and scenes.

Some years later Wilder was so enjoying working with Jack Lemmon on ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959) that he determined he had to collaborate with him again. But on what? He went to his bottom drawer and pulled out the 5-page outline that would eventually become ‘The Apartment’ (1960).

Wilder with IAL Diamond

9. Approach Creative Collaboration Like Bank Tellers

Wilder’s writing career was marked by two significant partnerships: with Charles Brackett from 1936 to 1950; and with IAL Diamond from 1957 to 1981. 

Here Wilder describes his working routine with Diamond.

‘When you think of two guys writing a screenplay, what comes to mind? You visualise two crazies screaming at each other, or dancing on the furniture when they have come up with what they think is a doozy. Iz and I, we’re more like bank tellers. We open the shop at 9-30. There was a quick exchange of ‘morning’, ‘morning.’ I would sit behind my desk and he would slouch in the black Eames chair, his feet on the ottoman. He would be chewing gum or sucking on a toothpick - anything not to smoke too much. Sometimes the muses would come and whip our brow and we would whip up 10 or 12 pages a day, his on the typewriter and me with the yellow pad. There was no arm twisting, no pulling rank, no shouting, no screams of ecstasy because one came up with an idea that was maybe not too bad. The highest accolade you could get out of Iz was: ‘Why not?’’

10. Don’t Delude Yourself

Wilder was happy to acknowledge that even a talented film-maker gets it wrong sometimes. The key is to make an honest mistake, and to follow it with a hit.

‘Having been at it for a long time, I don’t delude myself. Usually when a picture doesn’t work, you go round and you say it was ahead of its time, the release was too close to Christmas, the release of the picture was too close after Christmas because people had spent their money on presents. The picture was a failure because there was so much sun and people wanted to go to the beach. And then it was a failure because it rained and nobody’s on the streets. All kind of excuses…’
 
Wilder gained his final Academy Award nomination for the screenplay of 'The Fortune Cookie' (1966), the first film pairing Jack Lemmon with Walter Matthau. But as the ‘60s turned into the ‘70s, he felt increasingly uncomfortable with the fashion for technical wizardry and special effects; with the spiralling cost of film production and the consequential conservatism. Most of his movies were made on budgets of between $800 and 900k.

'Most of the pictures they make nowadays are loaded down with special effects. I couldn't do that. I quit smoking because I couldn't reload my Zippo… They don't want to see a picture unless Peter Fonda is running over a dozen people, or unless Clint Eastwood has got a machine gun bigger than 140 penises. It gets bigger all the time, you know. It started out as a pistol, and now it's a machine gun. Something which is warm and funny and gentle and urbane and civilized hasn't got a chance today. There is a lack of patience which is sweeping the nation - or the world, for that matter.’

Wilder’s later films failed to impress critics or the public. In 1976 he remarked:

'They say Wilder is out of touch with his times. Frankly, I regard it as a compliment. Who the hell wants to be in touch with these times?’

He died aged 95 in 2002, leaving a legacy of some of the most entertaining films in Hollywood history. His gravestone reads:

‘I’m a writer. But then nobody’s perfect.’

'Isn't it romantic?
Music in the night, a dream that can be heard.
Isn't it romantic?
Moving shadows write the oldest magic word.
I hear the breezes playing in the trees above,
While all the world is saying you were meant for love.
Isn't it romantic?
Merely to be young on such a night as this?
Isn't it romantic?
Every note that's sung is like a lover's kiss.
Sweet symbols in the moonlight.
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?
Isn't it romance?
Sweet symbols in the moonlight.
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?
Isn't it romantic?
Isn't it romance?’

Mel Torme, 'Isn’t it Romantic?' (R Rodgers, L Hart)

No. 477

‘Sunset Boulevard’: Beware the Corrosive Effects of Cynicism, Delusion and Deceit

'You're Norma Desmond. You used to be in silent pictures. You used to be big.'
'I am big. It's the pictures that got small.’

‘Sunset Boulevard,’ Billy Wilder’s classic 1950 movie, holds a mirror up to Hollywood – its cruelty, greed and narcissism. It raises questions about the human cost of the creative industries’ relentless drive for progress and profit.

The film stars William Holden as Joe Gillis, a struggling screenwriter who has been worn down by one too many disappointments.

'Audiences don't know somebody sits down and writes a picture. They think the actors make it up as they go along.’

Gillis is cynical and bitter, short of money and considering packing it all in.

'I'd always heard you had some talent.'
'That was last year. This year I'm trying to earn a living.’

While endeavouring to evade his creditors, Gillis stumbles into the mansion of Norma Desmond, a former silent-film star, now long forgotten. The house is all faded grandeur: heavy ornate furnishings, a bed ‘like a gilded rowboat’, an unused tennis court and pool, an organ that whistles in the wind. Everywhere there are portraits of the star in her dazzling youth.

'The whole place seemed to have been stricken with a kind of creeping paralysis... out of beat with the rest of the world... crumbling apart in slow motion.’

Desmond is a sad, delusional figure. She refuses to accept that the arrival of cinematic sound represented an advance; and that her career is long since over.

'There once was a time in this business when I had the eyes of the whole world! But that wasn't good enough for them, oh no! They had to have the ears of the whole world too. So they opened their big mouths and out came talk. Talk! Talk!’

Desmond’s stiff, taciturn butler Max maintains that she is still a legend beloved by the public. And he forges her fan mail to sustain the deceit.

'You don't yell at a sleepwalker. He may fall and break his neck.’

Learning that Gillis is a writer, Desmond hires him to edit a script she has drafted for her planned return to the screen. Though Gillis thinks the work is execrable, he is happy to take the money. 

'What it needs is maybe a little more dialogue.'
'What for? I can say anything I want with my eyes.’

Gillis moves into the mansion, and, accepting clothes and gifts from the besotted actress, he gradually becomes her paid companion. At night they watch old movies together on her private screen – all of them starring the youthful Norma Desmond.

We realise the melancholy runs deep. Desmond has tried to commit suicide on a number of occasions, and so the locks in the house have been removed. Max is in fact Desmond’s former director and first husband, and he remains pathetically devoted to her. 

Ultimately Gillis’ cynicism, Desmond’s denial and Max’s deceit hold the three central characters in a vortex of self-destruction - one from which they cannot escape.

'No one ever leaves a star.'

Director Wilder introduces further resonances through his casting. He gives the role of Desmond to Gloria Swanson who was herself a major silent star in the ‘20s. Max is played by Erich von Stroheim - a famously fastidious director in the silent era, who shot Swanson a number of times. Indeed in 1929 von Stroheim was fired by Swanson from one of her productions, an incident that ended his directing career. And the ‘waxworks’ that visit Desmond’s house to play bridge in the evenings are genuine silent film actors, including the illustrious comedian Buster Keaton.

'We didn't need dialogue. We had faces.'

‘Sunset Boulevard’ is a story of lives blighted by ambition, success and failure; of the relentless drive of progress; of an industry that devours talent, spits it out and moves on. The film has some lessons for anyone working in a creative business. 

'There's nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25.' 

Beware the corrosive effects of cynicism - the misanthropy that deprives Gillis of his intuition and flair. With every new setback the bitterness increases, and the chances of making it next time diminish.

Beware denial of change; yearning for past success and former glory. Where Desmond rages against sound, today’s former heroes resent the advances of performance marketing, data analytics, behavioural science and in-housing.

‘Poor devil - still waving proudly to a parade which had long since passed her by.’

And finally, beware the petty deceptions: the everyday falsehoods that sustain the illusion that everything is fine, when it patently isn’t. Don’t, like Max, confirm the biases and prejudices that are holding back advancement. Don’t bury your head in the sand.  

‘Sunset Boulevard’ ends where it began – with tragedy. Desmond descends her grand staircase. She pauses, and then steps towards the cameras, addressing the attendant press and the audience beyond.

'You see, this is my life. It always will be. Nothing else! Just us, and the cameras, and those wonderful people out there in the dark... All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.’

'Are we really happy here
With this lonely game we play?
Looking for words to say.
Searching, but not finding understanding anywhere.
We're lost in a masquerade.’

The Carpenters, ‘This Masquerade’ (L Russell)

No. 402

The Bias Cut: Halston and the Perils of Brand Extension

Photography © Dogwoof

‘I believe in our country, and I like America, and I want Americans to look good. And I’m an American designer and I want the opportunity to do it.’
Legendary US designer Halston, on signing a 5 year licensing deal with JC Penney

I recently saw a fascinating documentary about the American fashion legend, Halston (‘Halston' a film by Frédéric Tcheng). It’s the story of a designer who was instinctively in tune with his times, who rewrote the rule book, but who ultimately fell victim of his own success. It’s a story that teaches us a good deal about the perils of brand extension.

Roy Halston Frowick was born in Des Moines, Iowa in 1932. Having developed an early interest in sewing, he moved to Chicago, found work as a window dresser and enrolled in a night course at the Art Institute of Chicago. In 1953 he opened his own milliners business, which was quickly successful. Soon he was creating hats for the likes of Kim Novak, Gloria Swanson, Deborah Kerr and Hedda Hopper.

In 1957 Halston moved to New York where he was appointed head milliner for high-end department store Bergdorf Goodman. He gained wider celebrity by putting Jackie Kennedy in a pillbox hat for JFK’s 1961 inauguration. In 1968 he opened his first womenswear boutique on Madison Avenue.

‘I’m the all-time optimist and I like it right now.’

Halston in New York in 1980. Credit: SAUER Jean-Claude/Paris Match Archive/Paris Match via Getty Images

Halston’s style was right for the emancipated ‘70s. He was a minimalist and he began by stripping away what he saw as the unnecessary elements of female fashion: 

'All of the extra details that didn't work - bows that didn't tie, buttons that didn't button, zippers that didn't zip, wrap dresses that didn't wrap. I've always hated things that don't work.'

This resulted in clothes that were unstructured and unrestricted, relaxed and carefree - clothes more suited to times of liberation and social change.

Iman walks the runway in a Halston jersey dress in spring 1976, Pulse Magazine

‘He took away the cage, and he made things as though you didn’t really need the structure as much as you needed the woman.’
Pat Cleveland, Model, ‘Halston’

Halston favoured the bias cut: cutting cloth on the diagonal (at 45 degrees) rather than following the straight line of the weave. The technique caused the fabric to fall naturally over the body, creating sensuous curves and soft drapes. His clothes had a fluid functionality, elegance and ease. They were simple yet sophisticated, glamorous yet comfortable.

‘Fabric to Halston was like clay to a sculptor.’
Chris Royer, Model

Halston designed for the international jet-set, for professional women and the discotheque. He eroded the divide between womenswear and menswear, between night and day. He worked with soft silks, sequins and satin, with chiffon and ultra-suede. He produced hot pants and halter-tops; suits and shirtdresses; cutaways, kaftans and capes - all finished off with a flamboyant big belt.

‘You were free inside your clothes.’
Karen Bjornson, Model

Halston was a natural publicist. Subscribing to the view that ‘You’re only as good as who you dress,’ his boutique drew celebrity clients like Anjelica Huston, Lauren Bacall, Elizabeth Taylor and Liza Minnelli.

‘His clothes danced with you.’ 
Liza Minnelli 

Halston, bottom left, and models in his designs. Photographed by Duane Michals,Vogue, December 1, 1972

Halston brought a sense of theatre to everything he did. He turned up at events accompanied by an array of his favourite models, the Halstonettes. He styled the 1972 Coty Awards as a talent show, climaxing with ex-Warhol actor Pat Ast emerging dramatically from a cake. In 1977 he threw a 30th birthday party for Bianca Jagger at Studio 54. Sitting atop a white horse, she was led around the dance floor by a naked giant covered in gold glitter.

The Urge to Expand

Halston was driven by an ambition to move forward, to grow, to reach more people.

'I don’t quite know where I got my ambition but I have it. I go into things with an optimistic point of view and I look at it straight and try to make it the biggest and best success I can. But the thing that holds my interest always is MORE - what’s next, what’s going to be the next exciting thing?'

In 1973, in order to fund expansion, Halston sold his company to Norton Simon Inc, a conglomerate whose properties included Max Factor and Canada Dry. The deal afforded him huge financial backing and he remained principal designer with complete creative control.

Norton Simon felt they were buying instant access to fashion credibility.

‘We wanted a top perfume and he was the hottest thing around. I just wanted to buy the whole thing. Just to have him on board for his general knowledge of panache.’
David Mahony, President, Norton Simon Inc

The auspices seemed good, and Halston dealt confidently with anyone querying the wisdom of the sale. 

‘It’s rather like growing a tree. Everyone thinks that you’re an overnight success. I’ve worked very hard for 20 years, and you know it’s just a further extension of it. It’s another branch. And they all help each other in a curious way.’

The Honeymoon

In the early years the new corporate partnership went incredibly well.

At the legendary Battle of Versailles Fashion Show of 1973 Halston’s presentation, fronted by Liza Minelli and making extensive use of black models, put America at the forefront of the global fashion industry.

‘All that energy and that joy and that wonder and that curiosity. Well, that is America!’
Liza Minnelli

In 1975 Max Factor released Halston's first branded fragrance for women. With its distinctive teardrop bottle design by Elsa Peretti it was an immediate success.

Halston expanded his line to include menswear and cosmetics, homeware and handbags, shoes and sunglasses, luggage and lingerie. He designed the uniforms for the 1976 US Olympic team, for Braniff Airways and Avis, for the Martha Graham Dance Company and the US Girl Scouts. He created the gold outfits for Sly Stone’s 1974 wedding at Madison Square Garden.

Indeed everything Halston touched turned to gold. In 1978 he moved his headquarters to the 21st floor of Olympic Tower on Fifth Avenue. The offices were adorned in white orchids and every wall was covered floor-to-ceiling in mirrored glass. 

"Halstonettes" Pat Cleveland, Chris Royer, Alva Chinn and Karen Bjornson in 1980 - Photo, Dustin Pittman

The Cultural Tension

However, there were inevitably tensions between the corporate owners and the high-end fashion house. Prior to the launch of Halston’s fragrance, Max Factor executives complained about a bottle that couldn’t be filled from the top and branding that was limited to a ribbon round the pack.

In 1982 Halston signed a 5 year licensing deal with JC Penney, the archetypal mainstream department store. Halston was typically bullish about the move.

‘It’s really the third stage of my career. The first being in the millinery business, and then in fancy clothes and dressing all the stars… and now a larger public - dressing America really.’

The media talked about Halston moving ‘from class to mass.’ The President of Bergdorf Goodman deemed this a brand stretch too far and immediately delisted all Halston products from their stores.

Penney merchandisers began to complain that Halston’s working methods didn’t mesh well with their own.

‘He’s got to understand that we’ve got to commit like at least 8 months in advance. We need to get the approvals and the go-aheads and the concepts. But he’s so involved with everything that…the label took him months.’
JC Penney Merchandiser

The Troubled Genius

Halston was committed to retaining complete creative control as his business expanded. He refused to delegate.

‘I must be a part of it. I’ve never ever just leant my name for a commercial business venture.’

On the face of it, this was a good thing as it sustained quality through growth. But it also put incredible pressure on the man himself. He was overworked and stressed, tired and prone to panic attacks. Increasingly he turned to drugs to sustain him. He became a bully in the workplace, an aloof presence behind his signature black sunglasses. Deadlines slipped. 

‘It’s like quicksand. If everyone around you is going down, you’re going to go down too.’
Pat Cleveland, Model

The Decline and Fall

In 1983 Norton Simon was sold to Esmark, an even bigger conglomerate that included Playtex. Senior executives were immediately concerned by the wasteful practices and creative extravagances at Halston.

‘I’m at the top and I don’t care what’s happening in the engine-room. I know the engine-room isn’t running. And it wasn’t. Turn this into a brand. Turn this into something we can handle and stop having it be this airy fairy kind of ‘work when I want to, I’m not inspired, I’m an artist’ kind of thing.’
Walter Bregman, Playtex President

Halston’s MD took to placing ‘to-do’ notes on his desk every day. The relationship deteriorated. Halston came into work later and later. When at length he talked about leaving Esmark and starting out on his own again, he was quickly put back in his box.

‘You don’t own your own name, pal. Read the small print. We own your name.’
Walter Bregman, Playtex President

By this time Halston’s star was on the wane. Soon he was eclipsed by Calvin Klein and a new generation in fashion. In 1984 Halston was locked out of Olympic Tower, and a junior designer was given his role as creative director. Esmark sold off his samples and wiped all the tapes of his shows.

Halston retired to San Francisco and became a recluse. In 1990 he died of AIDS-related lung cancer, one month short of his 58th birthday. It was a sad and untimely end for a hugely talented and influential man. 

We always think a strong brand can comfortably extend into other areas of life. And often it can. And it goes on extending. And on and on. Until the elastic snaps.

'I'm in with the "in” crowd.
I go where the "in" crowd goes.
I'm in with the "in” crowd.
And I know what the "in" crowd knows.

I'm in with the "in” crowd.
I know every latest dance.
When you're in with "in" crowd
It's easy to find romance.’

Bryan Ferry, ’The ‘’In’’ Crowd (B Page)

No. 249