How Kenn Viselman made his name, lost his company, and is taking the biggest gamble of his career.
Get one thing straight: Kenn Viselman used to be The Guy, the guy who could make everything stop in the toy business. If it hadn't been for Viselman, American toddlers might never have known the likes of the Teletubbies or Thomas the Tank Engine. A true showman, Viselman has an unmatched reputation for taking unknown or faltering toy properties and turning them into overnight sensations, which is why there was a time when those who matter in the toy business would drop everything for Viselman. When he picked up the phone, the CEOs of FAO Schwarz and Toys "R" Us took the call.
But then Viselman lost control of his company, The itsy bitsy Entertainment Company, and wound up descending into a period of depression, despair, and isolation. Finally, with some trepidation, he started placing those calls again. "There were a lot of people who thought I was just gone," says the 41-year-old Viselman. "I needed to tell people that I was still alive."
First, he issued a press release to announce that he had started a new company, Kenn Viselman presents ..., and that he was developing several new product lines. He did this even though the plans for his second coming were embryonic at best. Then, at the February 2002 American International Toy Fair in New York City -- a crucial showcase for new products -- he invited scores of the top people in the industry to gather in the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel for a formal unveiling.
All of those people came expecting a show. This is, after all, a man who describes himself as the Madonna of the toy business; who routinely speaks of himself in the third person; who added a second n to his name just for the fun of it ("I put that n on, and it's been part of my thing ever since"); and who on the eve of one trade show took scissors to his famously long hair just to attract attention ("I knew on some innate level that people would go, 'Viselman cut his hair! Viselman cut his hair off! Oh, my God!").
On this night at the Waldorf, as Viselman stood before the crowd, he thought he might faint. He had a reputation for flair and flamboyance to uphold; he knew there were people, perhaps some in the room, who believed that he was more buzz than substance; and he knew that the prototypes he'd brought with him represented the biggest gamble of his career. In the past he had been a licensor. He didn't create Teletubbies or Thomas the Tank Engine; he made them ubiquitous by licensing millions of dollars worth of spinoff toys, videos, and books. This time, with his new company, he was doing it all -- the design, the manufacturing, the distribution, the marketing -- and he was doing it with his own money.
In the suite, after his guests listened to Gershwin tunes, sipped champagne, and dined on chÂteaubriand and lobster, Viselman unveiled what is known in the trade as a "plush" -- that is, a stuffed animal. But not just any stuffed animal. For what he called Li'l Pet Hospital, Viselman had created warm, cuddly, and luxuriant stuffed animals with eyes that actually look upward when you hug them. And what's more, he'd injured them, giving them wounds and broken bones. Inspired by the events of September 11 -- and, in many ways, by Viselman's own sadness and soul-searching after he lost his company -- Li'l Pet Hospital gives children the chance to nurture and heal.
The next day, when Viselman marched through the toy fair -- wounded animals in hand -- the buzz was palpable. "People were all over us," says Kim Winkeleer, a consultant for Kenn Viselman presents.... " 'Is that the new plush, the one that Kenny showed last night? Can I see it? Is that what Kenny has been working on?' " As Viselman recalls with a smile: "People were stalking us."
Energized by the reception, Viselman accelerated his plans to launch the line, which debuted in June at FAO Schwarz and then rolled out nationally in Toys "R" Us and KB Toys -- in plenty of time for the all-important Christmas season. And as the orders grew, Viselman began to feel more and more like his old self. "You have to understand that my presence in this industry is huge," he says. "Modesty aside, humility aside, I'm the guy that the industry looks to for direction. I'm the guy that keeps finding innovative ways to introduce projects into the marketplace. I'm the guy."
The grand illusion
Though he seems to understand the needs of children intuitively -- many liken him to the Tom Hanks character in the movie Big, a kid in a grownup's body -- Viselman is the first to admit that he has not always bonded with kids. Not only does he have none of his own, but he also was often that testy adult who parents dread -- the one who levels annoyed stares and urges them to shush their children in restaurants and movie theaters. All of that changed, however, in one moment in the early 1990s.
Back then, Viselman was handling the American marketing and licensing for Thomas the Tank Engine, a British toy that was a character on the PBS show Shining Time Station. One day, he received a telephone call from a Chicago mother of a six-year-old who was acutely autistic and had never spoken but who loved the Shining Time show. The mother contacted Viselman, who hastily assembled a care package of Thomas accessories he had lying around. Several weeks later, he received a thank-you note that recounted the child's extraordinary reaction to the package:
"When his mother pulled out the T-shirt," says Viselman, "the child looked up and said 'Choo-choo.' Those were the first words the kid had ever spoken. And that moment my life changed. I really got it that I could do stuff that could make a difference in children's lives. And there was a huge responsibility that came with that. It was like, 'Oh, my God! Why can't we make great stuff for kids and make a lot of money at the same time? We can do both!"
Then employed by Quality Family Entertainment, a licensing company that later changed its name to the Britt Allcroft Co., Viselman faced several challenges with Thomas. For one, there was confusion because the television program was called Shining Time Station, but the toy was named Thomas the Tank Engine. Among other things, Viselman clarified the packaging and repositioned the toy in train museum shops and specialty stores such as FAO Schwarz. At their peak in the early '90s, Thomas the Tank Engine products brought in an estimated $800 million annually at retail.
In the winter of 1995, suffering the first of his midlife crises, Viselman left Britt Allcroft. He wasn't sure what his next move would be, but he knew he needed a change. At the urging of a friend, he traveled to England to attend a U.K. licensing show. There, he spent a day with Anne Wood of Ragdoll, a successful producer of television for preschoolers in the U.K. Wood was looking for the kind of U.S. exposure that Viselman could provide; Viselman believed he could find a U.S. television outlet for Ragdoll's shows and also maximize the company's licensing potential.
