Selling candidates is like selling soap or toothpaste: A little truth goes a long way.

by Cecile C.A. Balgos

AT LEAST Panfilo Lacson tells it like it is — or how it could be. Elect him as president and we could probably expect someone like Singapore's Lee Kuan Yew, Malaysia's Mahathir Mohamad, or Thailand's Thaksin Shinawatra at the helm. All three are known for being, as the TV ad says, "buo ang loob, walang takot (determined, without fear)," traits that supposedly enabled them to steer their countries into becoming economic powerhouses. According to the ad, Lacson has the same traits as well, and its logic argues that these would enable him to do wonders for the Philippine economy, too.

Lee and Mahathir, however, headed autocratic regimes, which means the payoff for their countries' political stability and economic strength included the absence of freedom of speech and of the press, as well as questionable human rights records. And while Thailand remains a democratic country, Thaksin himself has not exactly been the darling of rights advocates, especially after his anti-drug campaign last year resulted in the deaths of at least 1,100 suspected drug dealers, including a nine-year-old boy and a woman who was eight months pregnant. It's also still uncertain if Thaksinomics is really the success it appears to be, or whether it is guaranteeing Thailand a place in household-debt hell, where it would be sweating out its economic woes right beside South Korea.

But that's how it is in the abbreviated world of ads, especially political ones, and particularly with TV spots: Given the few seconds allotted to each ad, what is left out is almost always more interesting than what is said (or shown). In fact, by the looks of the commercials placed by candidates for national posts so far, Lacson's already says a mouthful. Most of the rest give even less information about the candidates and what they are offering to the electorate — begging the question why President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo even bothered to lift the ban on political ads at all. This may well be the New Media age, but judging from the commercials now running on the tube, tired old campaign ploys still reign, and voters are advised to look elsewhere if they want to make informed decisions by May 10.

Certainly part of the reason for that is the fact that ads are supposed to sell the product, whether it be pork and beans or a politician. That obviously means leaving the nasty stuff out and following Ella Fitgerald's advice to accentuate the positive. The bigger reason, however, seems to be that the primary objective of those placing political ads these days is simple name recall. The thinking is, to put across to the public matters such as competence, years in public service, and vision, a candidate would get more bang for his buck with PR and plain romancing the media. Only when such attempts fail would the candidate consider — and even then only possibly (in part because they are expensive) — having commercials with more substantial information for voters to use in making their decisions.

So in the meantime the electorate is mmade to endure ads like that of heiress Jamby Madrigal, who wants to become senator but doesn't say why in her commercial, and much less why she deserves to be one. Instead, there is a rap group singing her name, which is spelled out in individual placards held up by dancing teenagers. She also gets an endorsement from soap princess Judy Ann Santos, although the young actress does little more than display a hairdo similar to Madrigal's and saying something about a need for change.

There is, of course, a message being telegraphed here, and it seems to be this: Madrigal will work on issues regarding the youth. But what those issues are and how she would deal with them are left unsaid. If one remembers that Madrigal did hold the title as presidential adviser on children's issues during the Estrada administration, perhaps the omission could be forgiven (even if no one can recall exactly what she did then). But if all one knows about her is that she is obscenely rich and cannot sleep on sheets that are anything less than 100-percent Egyptian cotton (as she confessed in an interview a few years ago), then the ad does nothing but annoy and invite uncharitable thoughts about the candidate.

Luckily for Madrigal, many people probably know absolutely nothing about her-or most of the other candidates, for that matter-and may well write down her name on their ballots, just because they heard her name, saw it in big letters on TV, and were reassured by dear Juday's presence in the commercial that Madrigal is probably an okay person.

Filipinos, after all, are notorious for their inability to leave any space empty for too long, and would therefore be unable to resist filling up every blank space on the ballot with whatever names come to mind. They may even write down the name of Parouk Hussin, but not because of his accomplishments as the governor of the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao or because of the numerous people he has helped as a medical doctor. Hussin, who is in the administration's senatorial slate, is silent about these in his commercial; the only hints the 15-second TV spot gives about his background in fact is the mention of 'Doc' as his supposed nickname, and a stethoscope around the drawn version of the candidate in the ad's animated portion. Hussin's commercial may get extra points for creativity for its comic-book format, but it is zero in content, wasting a chance of telling the public about a Muslim politico's plans as a senator of the land.