hen Islamic fundamentalists get to ranting about America's moral and spiritual bankruptcy, I'm pretty sure the recently televised Victoria's Secret fashion show is the kind of thing they're talking about.
When the World Trade Center went down, my very first
uncensored, politically oh-so incorrect thought was that in a couple months
I could be running around in a veil. So I was glad to see America reaffirm
its ardent commitment to maximum exposure of female flesh.
When I told Joel, my significant other, that I wanted to watch the
Victoria's Secret show, he blinked a couple times, probably wondering
exactly what species of extraterrestrial had just snatched the woman he
woke up with that morning.
"I feel a commentary rising within me," I said, by way of explanation.
The show gets right off to a gratifyingly pornographic start. "Lock your
wives and girlfriends in the attic" the emcee says before taking us on a
"tour" of underwear supermodel Heidi's body.
This tour involves rubbing his
jowl against her leg. One is reminded of the old joke that a Christmas gift
of sexy underwear is really a gift for the guy. This program was clearly
meant for men--who can justify watching on the grounds that they're
scouting for gifts.
Joel wanders off during the "Meet the Models" portion of the show--which
takes up a good 20 minutes--with instructions to notify him when the girls
hit the runway.
"Okay, are there any brain surgeons?" he asks, peeking his head back into
the living room about a quarter past the hour.
Well, no, not really. They do all seem like nice girls, however, some of
them painstakingly so. All of them want to be angels. They refer, of
course, to the part of the show where they will don big, fluffy wings to
match their bras and panties. (Wouldn't this be a more
theologically correct target for a Southern Baptist boycott than Disney
World?)
Though not their exact words, these are the messages I'm picking up from
capsule interviews with the models:
"I work hard."
"I'm not above prancing around in my underwear in public. In fact, I'm
really excited about doing this show."
"This is harder work than you might think."
"I'm really a nice girl."
Commercials blend so seamlessly into the show, it's nearly impossible to
tell where one leaves off and the other starts. I guess this is inevitable
when the show's subject and the show sponsor are one and the same. Scenes
of backstage excitement, featuring girls clad in Victoria's Secret
underwear, give way to a scene of a solitary girl, seated in a chair,
wearing Victoria's Secret and tossing her hair around. This is, after all,
the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show brought to you by Victoria's Secret.
It's all one long ad. There are also a few trailers for the upcoming
documentary on a super model and previews of a Barbara Walters special
starring George Clooney and Julia Roberts, both of whom might as well be
supermodels.
When the girls finally hit the runway in their angel ensembles, the most
concealing thing they're wearing is the fur-topped boots. Fantasy is
always better than reality, and here's no exception. This underwear is so
much sexier than nudity would be.
Strip these girls of the few wisps of
clothing they're wearing, they'd loose all their sex goddess privileges.
They'd look vulnerable. We'd be embarrassed--for them and for ourselves.
They're wearing something Boston Globe writer Tina Cassidy has calmly
dubbed "corset panties". I notice one of the models tugging down on the
side of this product, presumably trying to make it cover a larger stretch
of flesh than it was designed for. No doubt she was rebuked backstage. No
one else makes that mistake throughout the rest of the show.
There's no voice over talking about the fashions. If this were seriously a
show at which affluent women look for items for their wardrobes, there
would need to be some designers named, some fabrics identified. But the
show is refreshingly honest in dropping that pretense. Cassidy also notes
that not all the clothes you see here are off the rack at your nearest
Victoria's Secret outlet. Some of the most intriguing pieces were invented
specifically for the show. You may search for them in vain.
"Have you seen anyone crack a smile?" Joel asks.
"A few," I reluctantly reply.
Pouting fashion models
with too much attitude are one of his bugaboos. I hear a few bars of
"America, the Beautiful" rendered in techno. Feathers fly during the angel
sequence.
Okay, I can't really seem to get myself into a high feminist dudgeon about
all this. The girls are well paid. Nobody's making them do this. To say
their underclothes are tasteful might be a stretch, but at least they're
pretty. And I don't have any problems with human body.
There are a lot of things women do for a living that are more degrading.
Staying with men we don't love, for instance. Getting pinched on the butt
for tips. Slaving away in offices for nearly invisible wages and even fewer
thanks.
And yet, I have this nagging feeling that there's a lesson buried here
somewhere. Maybe it's this: It's easy to identify the extremism of foreign
cultures. Their men are all bearded, their women veiled, their anger over
our supposed cultural invasion irrational, their envy of our wealth scary.
It's a lot harder to notice our own brand of extremism.
Given a choice, of course, I will pick America's exploitation of the female
body over Islamic insistence that it's something so shameful, it must be
covered at all times. And I'll make that deal seven days out of seven.
So it turns out I was needlessly worried that everything would really change
after September 11. America has resoundingly answered the Islamic world's
critique of our crass materialism with a really thumping display of crass
materialism.
Shan Swimwear
