Branding and anti-branding, Davos edition
Frank Tantillo has a good overview of the inescapable country-branding exercises that happen in Davos every year; this year Azerbaijan was rivaling India in the ubiquity stakes, while countries like Peru and Japan made do with events.
Countries in Davos behave much like corporations: they brand themselves, they throw parties, they maneuver to ensure that their high-level representatives appear on the most important panels. And while the highest-profile heads of state, like Angela Merkel, are at the very top of the Davos pecking order, the general mass of presidents and prime ministers (there were more than 50 heads of state in attendance) are clearly less important, here, than Davos stars like Larry Summers, Henry Kissinger, or even Nouriel Roubini. The question to ask yourself is: given the choice, who would the average global CEO or hedge-fund manager rather meet. And put like that, it’s easy to see how Danny Kahneman outranks the president of Guatemala.
As a result, countries and corporations alike (including Thomson Reuters) put a significant amount of time and money into trying to capture the attention of the assembled plutocrats. Those efforts range from big public ad campaigns (Azerbaijan) to small intimate dinners (Google), with lots of off-the-record schmoozing in between. If you’re a high-level journalist in Davos (Fareed Zakaria, say), you’ll be swamped with invitations to have an informal discussion with various presidents and prime ministers: while it’s commonplace to note how Davos is great at allowing CEOs to set up dozens of meetings with each other, it’s less well understood how Davos serves the same kind of speed-dating function for interactions between governments and the international press.
There’s always the risk, however, that a carefully-orchestrated branding strategy will backfire. For instance, the prize for the most obnoxious party in Davos — which was won by the Wine Forum in 2011 — was easily snaffled this year by Sean Parker and Ian Osborne, who spent some mind-boggling amount of money putting together a party which (I swear I’m not making this up) was billed as a “future of philanthropy nightcap”. (In Davos, for reasons I’ve never understood, any party which starts after dinner has to call itself a “nightcap”.)
Parker and Osborne, who decided to throw their party under the auspices of a semi-fictional special-purpose company called The Montagnard Group, flew in both John Legend and Mark Ronson for the event: the scuttlebutt was that Jay-Z turned them down. There wasn’t just an expensive sommelier with a very high-end wine list; they brought in someone else to do the same thing with whisky. They also transformed a local Davos nightclub, putting up walls, installing taxidermy, and getting half of Davos asking why on earth these guys thought it was a good idea to schlep a stuffed water buffalo up an Alp, especially one with green lasers shining out of its eyes. Generally the whole thing reeked of excess, which maybe explains why Lloyd Blankfein stayed for hours, and how the party was the hottest ticket in town, with normally-sensible CEOs all but begging for an invite.
The Montagnard party was particularly weird because it wasn’t promoting a company or country: it felt like a piece of obscenely expensive performance art, sending up the way in which conspicuous consumption gets rebounded as “philanthropy” in order to give it a veneer of sophistication. Or maybe the whole thing was just an elaborate joke, decipherable only to Parker, Osborne, and their co-host, Marc Benioff of Salesforce. Either way, it was exclusive, expensive, and excessive: it allowed the real Sean Parker to handily trump anything the Justin Timberlake character in The Social Network could have dreamed of.
Which brings me to Russia. The Russian Federation, like most countries at Davos, was engaged in both overt and covert branding. And while the overt branding was a huge success, the quieter schmoozing backfired massively.
The big Russian Federation party, interestingly enough, took place at exactly the same time as the Sean Parker party, and it was a triumph. Where Parker had a carefully-tended guest list, the Russian doors were wide open; where Parker had fine wines, the Russians had trays of vodka shots; where Parker’s party was dominated by men in suits, the Russians found a much happier crowd, determined to party, dressed down rather than up. The entertainment was Leningrad, a 14-piece gypsy-punk band (think Gogol Bordello, but better), and the venue was a huge white tent erected across from the train station, which helped to avoid the overheating problem endemic to popular Davos parties.
The event was as unapologetically Russian as the Olympic opening ceremonies were unapologetically British: rather than putting a tasteful national twist on a standard Swiss party, those of us who couldn’t speak Russian or decipher cyrillic were happily baffled by most of what was going on. (The bafflement chez Parker was rather different.) The vodka and Champagne were flowing freely, the crowd was pogoing madly, and the whole thing succeeded spectacularly in being that rarest of Davos events: a place where you could genuinely enjoy yourself and let your hair down, rather than eyeing name badges and mingling politely.
There was corporate sponsorship — Vadim Belyaev, the chairman of Otkritie Financial Corporation, joined the band gamely at the end of the evening — but the night really belonged to the revelers. This was the party where you found the TV-station technicians who had been freezing on top of the Conference Center all day; the drivers and waiters and musicians and other support staff whose job is to be as invisible as possible most of the time; generally, the 99% of Davos, rather than the 1% that you normally hear about. This year in particular, when the number of parties shrank and door policies tightened up across the board, it was fantastic to see a party where literally everybody in Davos was welcome.
The morning after its party, however, Russia ran straight into a PR nightmare stemming from a much more exclusive event. Prime minister Dmitry Medvedev was in town, and gave an off-the-record press briefing to some 20 international journalists. The ground rules were clearly designed so as to prevent any of Medvedev’s comments being made public, but when Medvedev said something which could easily be interpreted as a direct threat against Hermitage Capital’s Bill Browder, a number of the journalists in the meeting went immediately to Browder to tell him what the Russian prime minister was saying about him. And then Browder, who understandably cares more about his own personal safety than he does about the nuances of Chatham House attribution, immediately went on the record to Reuters, telling the world what he had heard.
In the space of less than 24 hours, then, Davos saw Russia at its best and at its worst: open and closed, free and fearsome, fun and deadly. On net, maybe the country would have been better off just buying a bunch of ads on the side of buses. But probably no one in Russia — least of all Dmitry Medvedev — much cares.
Russians know how to have a good time, and they also live in an incredibly violent state-dominated society. Neither of these things is exactly a secret, and no one’s looking to change anybody else’s mind on either front. Anybody doing business in Russia today is doing so with their eyes wide open. Let the rest of the world go to Davos to present itself in the best possible light. Russia will just continue being Russia — in good ways and in bad.