George Plimpton introduces America to Intelligent Television


By now, even the most addled members of the booboisie must recall the phosphorescent shimmer of the cathode ray tube in the late innings of the Carter Administration and the early sorties of the Reagan Revolution. A time, mind you, when the very notion of interacting with a television screen beyond the passive absorption of sitcoms and Bert Convy was still a novelty, a flicker on the very edge of the national consciousness. And who should step into this nascent electronic frontier, this pixelated prairie, but none other than George Ames Plimpton, the very avatar of the bon vivant intellectual, the man who famously pitched for the Yankees (sort of), traded jabs with Archie Moore (briefly), quarterbacked for the Detroit Lions (disastrously), and even tromped through the African bush with George Adamson (for a spell, naturally). Yes, that George Plimpton, the lanky, sweater-vested Brahmin, the co-founder of The Paris Review.

And who better to introduce the hoi polloi to the new pastime of video games than that George Plimpton. After all, the man's entire career was constructed upon the gimmick of a high IQ novice playing the game, and putting you in the center of the action with his wit, keen observations, and panache. And this was a game console with panache. This was Intellivision, from Mattel Electronics. And in the hands and words of Mr. Plimpton, it was Intelligent Television.

Plimpton, ever the earnest and erudite observer, the participatory journalist of the human condition, was there to guide us - the bewildered consumers - through this brave new world of joysticks and cartridges. Plimpton, with his patrician mien, would show us this intelligent television was sophisticated sport for sophisticated people - or those who wanted to be.

Observe him, if you will, through these 30-second glimpses into how the other 10% lived at the dawn of the 80s video game age. Plimpton, ensconced in his Upper East Side study, surrounded by a tableau painstakingly crafted to suggest a certain level of decorum. Not the chaotic, sugar-crashed romper room of the Atari devotees, oh no. This was a space hinting at leather-bound books, $120 colognes, and perhaps a discreetly-placed decanter of whiskey. He rises from his chair, all earth tones and tweed, the writer’s uniform, and strides toward the camera with the confidence of a man who’s faced down Archie Moore, and lived to tell the tale. 

"I’ll try almost anything," Plimpton declares, in unmistakably-WASPish tones suited more to a northeastern yacht club than a video arcade, "so when Mattel Electronics asked me to compare their Intellivision games with Atari, I gave it a try." And our tweed-clad Virgil, holds forth on the visual fidelity, the graphics, of the Intellivision. Words like "crisp" and "detailed" roll off his tongue, as if he were discussing a Rembrandt brush stroke, or the delicate etching on a first edition.

Plimpton stands - with that irreproachable West Hills posture - juxtaposed with some wide-eyed youngster, a representative of ultimate customer here (courtesy of the bank of Mom and Dad), who expresses astonishment at the crudely-lifelike rendition of the pixelized baseball players or football heroes on the screen. Plimpton, ever the affable mentor, nods sagely, a hint of amused condescension playing about his lips. It was as if he were saying, "Yes, my boy, this is not mere childish amusement. This is serious fun. Intelligent fun."

The genius of it all, of course, was the sheer incongruity. Here was a man who hobnobbed with literary giants and rubbed shoulders with sporting legends, now lending his considerable cultural cachet to a microchip-filled plastic box that many still viewed with suspicion or derision. It was a masterstroke of marketing, a subliminal message to the aspirational middle class: if George Plimpton deems this Intellivision worthy of his attention, then surely it must be a cut above the rest. It wasn't just a toy, but a sophisticated pastime for the young, upwardly-mobile, upper class leader of tomorrow. Educational, even!

One must believe the suits at Mattel were pleased by the initial returns on the Plimpton campaign. Many more spots would follow. There’s Plimpton, glasses perched on his nose, typing a letter to a young Intellivision fan, his fingers dancing across the typewriter like he’s crafting a Paris Review editorial. There’s Plimpton, touting Star Strike, a space shooter, with the same gravitas he’d give to a Hemingway profile, proclaiming the “entire destruction of a planet” with a twinkle in his eye. And, by Jove, the old chap was right - the three-dimensional space opera's graphics looked like Ulysses next to Atari's penny-dreadful Asteroids conversion.

Should you buy the Intellivision, and guarantee a future of Ivy League education, Skull and Bones membership, elite travel and leisure pursuits, and a richly-appointed duplex overlooking the East River? Or the Atari VCS, and spend the rest of your life living in A VAN, DOWN BY THE RIVER? George Plimpton made the decision easy.

And so, for a brief but glorious moment in the annals of American advertising, George Plimpton became the unlikely pitchman for the pixelated age. He lent an air of intellectual legitimacy to a world that was still largely perceived as frivolous. He convinced your Mom and Dad that you could be smarter - a future Yale grad and Upper East Side denizen, even - if they just bought you Intelligent Television. And for that, Mr. Plimpton, we salute you.
Location: 541 E 72nd St, New York, NY 10021, USA

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