London - When
it comes to feminism, I’ve never been the bra-burning kind. Equality is all very well, but it’s no excuse not to brush your hair.
Emancipation and exfoliation are not mutually exclusive: it is perfectly possible to make it in a man’s world without looking like one.
Occasionally, though, something comes along that stirs my inner Germaine Greer.
Something like Victoria’s Secret’s so-called fashion show. For anyone blissfully unaware of Victoria or her secret, I’ll explain. It’s a rather tacky American lingerie brand.
It specialises in tiny, flammable-looking, extremely uncomfortable underwear. Pants are known as “panties”; there is a lot of red satin and thongs. The brand’s website looks like a soft porn magazine populated by a comprehensive selection of pouting lovelies in various hair-twirling, come-hither poses.
I imagine it gets a lot of traffic from teenage boys. Like most cheap and tacky things these days, it’s annoyingly successful.
This is a company that turned over an astonishing £4.2-billion (R73.5bn) last year and controls 35 percent of the lingerie market in America.
But by far the most irritating aspect is its so-called Christmas “fashion” shows.
The first was in 1995 at the Plaza Hotel in New York. Catching the internet wave, they moved online in 1999 and have since been broadcast through a variety of channels, attracting huge audiences and the biggest names in showbusiness.
The formula is simple: take a bunch of top models, the pop star of the moment and a lot of naked, glistening female flesh bouncing up and down the catwalk in its smalls.
Think Playboy meets MTV with more than a nod to Miss World. Though in comparison, Miss World looks almost sweet in its innocence.
This week for the first time the tawdry caravan rolled into London’s Earls Court. Forty-seven of the so-called Angels arrived, hand-picked for their glossy locks and welcoming smiles, long, lean limbs, golden skin – and their ability to look flawless in a pair of bikini bottoms the size of a sticking plaster.
The scale of the whole shebang was staggering. Some of the 3 000-strong audience – which included a smattering of B-list celebrities, such as model Daisy Lowe, the X Factor judge, Mel B, and singer, Ellie Goulding – had paid up to £10 000 to attend the show, which cost at least £10-million to produce.
No wonder that the stars of the Victoria’s Secret show are among the richest models in the world. Strutting down the catwalk were Dutch supermodel Doutzen Kroes and the Brazilian Adriana Lima, joint second place in the Forbes list of richest models.
Kroes, who earned £8m last year, is known for her “curves” – in other words, she doesn’t completely vanish from view when she turns sideways.
As for the rest, if I’m honest it’s hard to tell them apart among all that big hair and white teeth. There are a few Brits – Lily Donaldson and Jourdan Dunn – but otherwise they all fit the mould of young, thin, exotic and pretty.
Such is the popularity of these shows that even the highest paid and most in-demand girls are obliged to audition each year.
The unofficial criteria for taking part is a 34-24-34 hour-glass (or should that be egg timer?) figure and a height no shorter than 1.75m. Age is flexible up to the grand old age of 33.
“They all have to audition and it’s incredibly nerve-racking for them,” Victoria’s Secret creative director, Sophia Neophitou-Apostolou, told Vogue last year.
This one keeps fit by doing ballet; this other one goes surfing three times a day; that one over there does boxing and Pilates.
Another eats only raw food, that one subsists on juice, this one is strictly paleo (as in the paleolithic, or caveman, diet, which seems to involve surviving on a handful of berries and lean meat, currently all the rage in supermodel circles).
If you believe the press release, it’s all about a healthy lifestyle and a joyous celebration of the female form. But the reality is very different.
Forget green juices and steamed vegetables: most models hardly eat at all in the run-up to the show, despite staged pictures of some of the girls taking tea in their hotel the day before, posing with sandwiches and scones. Who were they trying to kid?
Lima – who donned a million-pound bra for the show – admitted she stopped drinking water in the 12 hours before the show for fear of the dreaded bloat – heaven forbid someone should have a rounded belly.
Should any imperfections remain, there is a team of 25 make-up artists and 25 hairstylists on hand, not to mention spray tan (tanning expert Jimmy Coco says he uses up to three coats on each model, totalling more than 3.5 litres for each show) and limb-contouring make-up to lengthen and define those million-dollar bodies.
The catwalk itself is fragranced with Victoria’s Secret’s own scent, Heavenly, presumably to mask the overwhelming aroma of self-tan.
But what’s really extraordinary about the phenomenon is the way no one seems to mind – the way the clear objectification (there’s a good old-fashioned feminist word you don’t see often enough these days) of women seems to pass unnoticed by the public and media.
It’s as though the punishing diet regimens, trashy costumes (this year’s show featured two diamond-encrusted bras), echoes of strippers and sleazy nightclubs, nudity and downright lecherousness were the most natural thing in the world.
Perfectly normal for the young women to be flown in by private jet so they can prance around in their bras and pants. Mainstream, even.
After all, it doesn’t get more prime-time than pop stars Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran, who provided the soundtrack to the show.
Sheeran, who looked like the proverbial pig in doodah, could barely keep his eyes in their sockets.
The normally demure(ish) Swift came over all stripper-tastic in black lingerie in a desperate bid to outstrut the Angels, a look that really doesn’t suit her down-home style.
Most pernicious of all, though, is the way that these girls are held up as role models for all women, young and old.
The way we’re encouraged to “get their look”, not only by buying the underwear, but also by following their health and fitness tips and using their products (they even have their own branded Angel water).
This is a world where how you look doesn’t just matter; it’s the only thing that matters.
No other quality is required.
Forget kindness or intelligence: can you or can you not get into this see-through lace bodice? And if not, why not?
A degree in astrophysics? Don’t be ridiculous, woman. What you need is a rhinestone thong.
But that’s not the worst of it. Even if you can stomach the narcissism and sexism, it’s just so depressingly regressive.
It makes a mockery of everything that modern women stand for – and invites us to be complicit in our downfall.
The references to the Angels as Olympians is not accidental.
Victoria’s Secret wants to peddle the notion that this jumped-up sex show is, in fact, an act of female empowerment. That the angels with their sparkly wings represent the liberation of the female spirit. That by wearing a nasty red satin plunge bra a woman can somehow harness the power of her sexuality.
There is nothing new about this idea – in fact, British feminist Natasha Walters explored it very successfully a few years ago in her book, Living Dolls.
She argued that women had been coerced into believing pole dancing, extreme bikini waxing and whatever else the porn industry promotes is not an affront to their dignity, but a route to fulfilment.
It’s the old argument all over again: it’s not demeaning, it’s a celebration of the female form.
And besides, we enjoy it really: Victoria’s Secret’s whole branding is based on the notion that women wear this brand of lingerie because they want to, and not because they are expected to.
Of course, if you’re old and grumpy like me you can just carry on buying your knickers from the full brief section in Marks & Spencer and ignore the lot of them.
But for a younger generation, there is a real danger they will be taken in by this nonsense.
Especially since, not content with humiliating fully-grown women, Victoria’s Secret parent company, L Brands, has its beady eye on our daughters.
It recently launched a sub-brand called Pink, aimed fairly and squarely at the teen market.
Do you really want your 13-year-old buying a pair of so-called datepanties?
Or a pair of red shorts that say “Naughty” in gold lettering?
Or a bright pink pair with “No Peeking” or “Total Package” emblazoned on the behind?
Forget about burning our own bras. If you ask me, it’s time we started burning theirs.
– Daily Mail