Archive for the ‘Advertising’ Category

Pic: Fly on Gorse by Maura McHugh

Adverts on the telly are like flies in the garden – you know they are part of the ecosystem but mostly they irritate the hell out of you despite your attempts to cultivate a Buddhist policy of compassion for everything. Sometimes you just want to crush the blighters out of existence.

Nothing knocks me off the track to spiritual enlightenment more than beauty products adverts on the telly targeted at women. These adverts create a glamorous illusion containing a lie that you too can look that way as long as you buy product X. Despite the fact that they’re asking you to identify with underfed waifs, while tricking them out with the help of the best make-up, stylists and hairdressers known in the PR world.

This image of physical perfection has always been difficult to live up to, but at least in the past the myth was achieved using real products, along with ace lighting, a catchy song and savvy direction. Over the ten years advertisers have been employing a battalion of crack CGI geeks to spruce up every pixel. Eyelashes are impossibly long and clump-free, hair shines with elven luminescence and wrinkles are non-existent. Thighs are long and firm, teeth are even and whiter than our disappearing polar ice caps and skin tone is lightened with appalling regularity.

When employing these effects advertisers are lying. There is nothing a woman can do to look that good. Worse still – and this is the part that crooks my dharma – is that the advertisements admit they are lying. In fine, hard-to-read print along the bottom you’re told ‘eyelashes enhanced in post production’ or ‘natural hair extensions used’. When outrageous claims are made about how much women love the product you discover that it’s actually 30 out of 38 women, drunk at a hen party, who concur that it reduces wrinkles on a night out. They don white coats and babble pseudo-science, hoping the graphics will mesmerise you long enough so you won’t notice the actual statistics quoted underneath.

Not only are the advertisers acknowledging their falsehoods, but they expect you to buy the product anyway. It’s been my policy now never to buy a product that employs these tactics. But I wonder, do advertisers think women are stupid? The answer must be yes, judging the way they pitch products to us.

After all, apparently we’d love to videotape our hair swishing and upload it to a web site. That’s what girls love, don’t you know: preening and competing with one another online. Every time I see that ad I want to hammer a fly into oblivion.

Here’s a video of a fabulous sketch from That Mitchell and Web Look, which in less than a minute deconstructs how advertisers pitch their products to women (and compares it to how they are pitched to men).

Don’t believe the hype ladies. Better still, don’t buy the hype.

Maura McHugh is a writer and blogger who lives in the West of Ireland and is happy to call herself a feminist. She’s a geek and a fan of horror cinema and comic books so she long ago developed a thick skin about not conforming to ‘normal’ womanly interests. She also likes fashion and make-up, but not when it costs her peace of mind. Maura blogs at http://splinister.com/ and is on Twitter: @splinister

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"Do you want to come up for some euphemistic coffee?"

I can see the ad pitch to Nescafe in my mind…

A pink balloon that looks suspiciously like a blown up condom skirts across the floor of a trendy loft flat.

A sexy scruffy looking man in his mid-twenties ambles down the  metal stairs. The morning light streams through an open plan kitchen window. He catches the eye of the bed headed beautiful brunette, who flicks up an eyebrow giving him a wanton “You’re a bad boy” grimace.

Another, more dozy, brunette who looks like she’s been shagged into the middle of next week, bumps up against the kitchen sink, turns and realises there are magic sachets sitting there.

Instant coffee. Instant absolution. Instant dissolve of granules and awkwardness.

Being a good, if slightly dumb, third wheel, she makes three mugs of the chemical concoction. They all drink it. Sheepish man makes beautiful brunette an origami bird (yes, an origami bird – it’s a bird that bends and folds easily).

Third wheel, watching this cardboard coupling display, chuckles as the natural chaste order of life returns. Her eyes say “Thank goodness he didn’t prefer drab old me to his stunning girlfriend. Now I can quietly go back to cutting my arms.”

The Voice Over flogs us the product “Nescafe, 3 in 1. White, coffee with sugar. In one.”


What a long way we have come since the 1980’s Nescafe Gold Blend ad series starring Sharon Maughan and that bloke who went on to mentor Buffy.

Despite the power dressing, the romance was worthy of at least a BBC costume drama. There was even an attempt at purveying sophistication.

There was never the smutty suggestion that, once he got her up for coffee, he would get her up for a randy threesome with that other neighbour that adland keeps in the cupboard for just such occasions.

What amazes me is that everyone watches Mad Men and laughs at the suppression and treatment of women in it. Ha ha, thank goodness we live in a more enlightened society now. But adland is chock full of young men who have grown up on an almost pure diet of porn as their sex-and-relationships education.

A threesome, therefore, is as cool as…um… a cucumber?!

It’s just the way we swing now and then. No big deal. Have a coffee and get over the embarrassment of compromising yourself for someone else’s sexual gratification in the vain hope that he, or possibly she, might like you for it.

The idea of a threesome with two men and one woman wouldn’t appeal in adland. Sure, men can look stupid not knowing how to work a washing machine – there’s a secret badge of pride in that, even if he is a total dud of a human being – but two men naked together in any context other than a Daz ad, is simply unthinkable to that mindset.

It’s not that I mind porn with my coffee, I’d just rather it wasn’t so, winking,  desperate and depressing (yes, I demand happy, hopeful caffeinated porn with my coffee-Red Bull porn). And, like porn, this ad doesn’t leave me wondering, will they won’t they (kind of a given there), so I am less likely to think or talk about it for any length of time, hopefully.

Perhaps I am being obtuse. The romantic ads were for Nescafe Gold Blend. The threesome horror flogs a 3-in-1 sachet for losers who don’t even have fresh milk in the fridge. They are not going for the same market.

Still, it’s a shame. People that good-looking should drink fresh milk and not have such low self-esteem that they feel they have to share their boyfriend during a party. S’all I’m sayin’.

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Now, I don’t want to pretend that I’m NOT constantly bickering with TV commercials, like an irate budgie having words with the mirror in his cage, but if there’s an ad that’s really seizing my contraband at the moment, it’s the one for Xbox Kinect’s Your Shape: Fitness Evolved.

Oh, you know the one. Smug girl makes eyes at herself in the mirror*, asks boyfriend-type “Can you tell I’ve been playing on The X Box? Maybe you should play some X Box?”, pronouncing Xbox like it’s part of an elocution exam where mispronunciation of brand names results in waterboarding. This buffoonery-in-diction is entirely deliberate. The Xbox-owner in the ad is barely comfortable with how to pronounce its name, and yet she’s reaping the benefits of her investment! It’s an invitation for non-gamers to spend a zillion euro on kitting out their sitting rooms, a warm hug for clueless types easily convinced that motion-capture technology is the new 100 metre sprint. I get that. I really do. But as a female gamer, I’m very easily offended by the stereotype that women are but airhead nunkies bent on commandeering their boyfriends’ consoles for narcissistic and fluffy purposes. Pah! A pox on your vain stereotypes, Kinect ad execs! I’ll take ye on! I’ll take ye all on!

Look! Tai Chi! Exercise for girls!

The sad truth is that being a gamer who owns rather than covets boobs has turned me into something rather too easily offended. There is no reasonable reason for this. Why should the banal typecasting of fluffy airheads offend me? I don’t get offended on behalf of elderly gamers when cuddly representatives of their generation appear, leppin’ about the place in ads for Nintendo’s Wii. I don’t get offended on behalf of six-year-old Mario Kart veterans when other smallies star in ads for V-Tech toy laptops. But gosh, the depiction of female gamers as fashion-obsessed mouthbreathers really gets on my nerves. “I’d bate their arses in Goldeneye!” I huff, loudly, to anyone in hearing distance, which is a very telling action indeed. If I was truly comfortable with my gaming, I wouldn’t need applause for my gaming, now would I? There’s a bit of the “See how well I’m doing here! Did you know I’m a GIRL?” to the whole thing. It’s a tragic tale of gormless self-mockery, really.

Not so long ago, I went game shopping for a couple of titles I was after. One was for my PS2, the other for my 360. The shop assistant looked concerned and said, “You do realise these are for two different platforms, don’t you?” whereupon I became sorely offended. I don’t remember the exact response I gave, but it was probably something sneery and along the lines of Naaaaaaaaw, I’m that stupid, where’s my GH-fucking-D so I can heat my likkle brain up? Although I knew full well that the clerk was probably pointing out the same thing to many customers buying multiple titles, out of the goodness of his heart, out of nothing but benevolence directed towards confused Irish Mammies buying Grand Theft Auto for their eight-year-old sons. Oh, how I sniped at the poor man! I feel very bad about it – he was but a Good Samaritan after all – but that doesn’t stop me regurgitating the anecdote when I’m banging on about being a gamer and being a girl. “Condescending asshole!” I harrumph, though I’m secretly talking about myself.

It could be that I’m seeking kudos for being a girl gamer because I’m fully aware that there just aren’t as many of us. Out of my own social circle, the majority of the fellas are gamers, either on PC or console. The majority of the girleens don’t play video games at all, and those that do are more likely to have a Nintendo DS to train their brains on than a PS3. When it comes down to it, I don’t actually like the majority of games out there. I can’t stand First-Person Shooters. I can’t stand playing online. No matter how selective it is, I demand congratulations for my habit, all the same. It’s as if I’m standing up for the Little Gal, even though evidence suggests she exists in no great numbers at all.

It’s good to have a hobby.

*Oh no! I mentioned mirrors twice in three sentences! Please don’t tell the Literature Police.

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Thanks to Jill at Feministe for bringing this post to my attention on the wonders of women eating salad alone and smiling about it.

I like salad but I don’t think you’ll see me ecstatic everytime I eat it, the stock photos are stunning though aren’t they?

I saw the post just before I was introduced to the Innocent Smoothie Superhero advert. (It is not 100% women specific but does not stop it being daft and accusatory of women thinking bad thoughts).

So as you face into the week after ‘The Christmas’ deluge of Activia/Weightwatchers/Gym/Celebrity Slim advertisements see how often women are smiling and when we are told we should be sad or distressed! All reports and observations are welcome below!

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The New York State Department of Health says in a campaign targetted at women on low incomes that it can help them lose weight. Some focus group somewhere came up with this or some patronising public health professional?

h/t Sociological Images and more on the NYT Motherlode blog.

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While at the cinema last week, I nearly choked on my crisps when I saw this new ad for Reebok’s Easytone trainers. Sure, I get that the point of these trainers is to tone up legs, bums and all those other ‘trouble zones’ we’re supposed to give a rat’s arse about, so it’s understandable that the camera is going to focus on those areas.

But why does it have to feature headless women? This ad is nothing but a sea of lithe limbs – be they bare, stockinged or otherwise – doing a variety of fun-yet-sexy movements. Notwithstanding the fact that not one of the models has legs resembling anything like a typical pair of pins belonging to an average woman (no cellulite, no thread veins, no stretch marks, nothing but glowing flesh), I don’t for a minute believe that shaking and vac’ing my way around my apartment while wearing them will turn me into a sylph-like goddess.

Even with all of that aside, it is the headless woman aspect that creeps me out the most. It’s the ultimate in reducing women to their parts, in this instance turning athletes, nightclubbers and office workers into bouncing buttocks, taut calves and slinky ankles. There’s no need to even show these women’s faces (if these are indeed women rather than a woman – they are all light-skinned and all look eerily similar) when you can see their lower halves, and fixate on their arses rather than having to – god forbid – hear what they actually have to say about the product. The horror!

We have gotten off pretty lightly in Ireland however, as these are some American ads (‘make your boobs jealous!’):

We can all appreciate the aesthetic beauty of these impossibly sleek thighs, but we know the reality too. That very little of us look like that, which spoils the sexy illusion somewhat. I’d love if Reebok kept it real, if their ads featured women of all shapes and sizes, women just like us, who wear these shoes and then see their generous behinds and dimpled thighs reduced and smoothed. But perhaps both of these things are too much to ask for.

What do you think about these ads?

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We've come a long way

I was reminiscing the other day about an unusual and in a sense landmark decision I was once involved in when I worked in the marketing department of a multinational pharmaceutical and personal products manufacturer. A couple of the women I was chatting with encouraged me to recount the episode here.

During the early 1990s I was brand manager for Ireland’s leading sanitary towel brand, a product that commanded an overwhelming share of the Irish market and was manufactured in Dublin, thus providing significant employment locally. This brand was the default choice for Irish woman for decades, the package that hundreds of thousands of mothers discreetly handed to their daughters in a rite of passage akin to Dad buying junior his first pint.

Tradition, word of mouth and lack of an alternative had ensured that this brand held a seemingly unassailable position and it was at the time of my becoming involved with it one of Ireland’s top twenty brands across every category. Yet in many ways it was the brand that dare not speak its name. However, trouble was brewing. We were no longer living in two channel land and alien brands of towel and tampon were being advertised on foreign channels making lofty claims of unencumbered roller skating and dance filled days.

Here in Ireland there was a ban on the television advertising of these “personal hygiene” products as to do so was deemed inappropriate. Fearful that a generation of young woman would learn of alternatives and abandon their mother’s and grandmother’s favourite we attempted to break this taboo.

I remember attending RTE copy clearance meetings, awkward, uncomfortable sessions facing a panel of squirming men of a certain age and disposition who regretted turning up for work that particular day. We scrutinised the proposed script line by line, crossing out our tentative boundary-crossing suggestions as we went. No red liquid – blue if you have to show liquid at all, no overt showing of the offending item, sensitive treatment of this shameful reality and a strict ten o’clock watershed. The resulting ad was so innocuous as to be almost invisible but it was approved. After all the committee had to demonstrate pragmatism; we had money to spend and times were tough in TV land.

The day after the first broadcast the letters began to arrive and worse still the phone calls. Every single one was from a shocked and offended woman and all were directed my way. I recall spending almost an hour talking down one hysterical woman who explained that her husband could no longer go to the pub to watch the football in case one of these hateful ads would be broadcast; that they could no longer watch television as a family as they had a teenage boy. She made it quite clear that this was ALL MY FAULT. The letters were rambling and irate. One enterprising bunch had photocopied a crude drawing of a television set and scrawled their message within – I received dozens of them. It seems comical now but it was rather unnerving at the time.

We have come a long way since and advertising for sanitary towels and tampons is commonplace. However, some rules still apply.  I am conscious that some people may feel that this is reasonable; that these intimate products should not form part of the mainstream. Yet would we apply the same rules to toilet paper? Should there be a watershed before which this distasteful product cannot be discussed? Should we employ coy euphemisms, extolling the benefits to users who yearn to skydive and skate with confidence, knowing that their bottoms are pristine?

A year or so after this bizarre chapter in my working life I had moved on – a circumstance unrelated to the opprobrium showered upon me by a faction of “Mná na h-Éireann“.  On one particular occasion I was passing through a small town on my way to Wexford when I got caught short and my period was upon me. I popped into the local grocers, handed a pack of sanitary towels to the taciturn man at the register and watched in amazement as he wrapped the package in layers of thick brown paper, secured with metres of sellotape. The whole shameful exchange was completed in silence and I’m sure I caught him suppressing a shudder. Perhaps certain parts of Ireland weren’t ready for innocuous blue liquid and skateboarding woman after all.

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For make-up collectors, the excitement around a new collection by MAC is akin to that of tweens and the new Twilight movie. It’s a time when beauty bloggers in particular speculate what the imaginative beauty brand will come up with next. Known for its bright, flashy colours, quality products and imaginative approach to marketing (it has collaborated with Barbie and Hello Kitty in the past), MAC’s limited edition lines sell out as quickly as it takes to slick on one of their fundraising Viva Glam lipsticks. But the latest collection, a collaboration with fashion house Rodarte (run by the young sisters Laura and Kate Mulleavy), is getting bloggers’ attention for all the wrong reasons, and the fallout from it has demonstrated the immense – and perhaps unanticipated – power that customers wield online.

The problem with MAC’s new Rodarte collection? The products are inspired by a city in Northern Mexico. But not any Mexican city – they’re inspired by Ciudad Juárez, a place so dangerous for women that the term ‘femicide’ has been coined to describe the death of hundreds of females who lived there. At least 500 (some estimate that number could in fact be in the thousands) young women have gone missing from the town, their decomposing bodies later found in the desert – in some cases, feet away from the corpses of other missing Juárez women. Women have disappeared into the ether on their way to or from work; vacant lots have become crime scenes, the desert a giant graveyard.

The violent deaths of las muertas de Juárez (‘the dead women of Juárez’) have been occurring since at least 1993, and the senseless crimes are continuing year on year. Men have been arrested, some have been charged, but still the violence continues, and questions are on the lips of every mother, father, friend or child who has lost a woman in their life to an invisible murderer.

The majority of these women worked in the maquiladora, known for their intensive, sweatshop conditions, long hours and monitoring of women’s fertility. These are not pleasant places to work. But they are a means to an end for women, for it is mostly women who work in them. A handful of the women who were murdered worked as prostitutes.  Some were natives of the town, others had moved to work in the maquiladora. The youngest women were in their teens.  Many women have never been found; many bodies have never been identified.

Juarez may not be a household name in Europe, but it is not a place that can have escaped MAC’s attention. Groups such as the Nuestras Hijas de Regreso a Casa and the Juarez Project, to name just two, have been formed. Numerous television programmes, films and documentaries have been made about the deaths. Books, poems and articles have been written about the city. Musicians such as Tori Amos and At the Drive In have been inspired by the shocking violence and murders.

When some beauty bloggers realised that the MAC Rodarte collection was inspired by the landscape of Juarez, but that the items were named ‘Sleepwalker’, ‘Ghost town’, ‘Factory’ and ‘Badlands’, they were incensed. These names have clear links to the plight of women working in maquiladora – and the promotional photographs feature a ghostly, dead-eyed model. Women who love make-up are sometimes seen as having a frivolous hobby, of only being interested in make-up because of its camouflaging (rather than transformative or creative) power. As we saw when Beaut.ie won the best blog award at the Irish Blog Awards, beauty blogs are seen by some as fluffy, unimportant websites that aren’t bothered with big issues. What this case has shown is that in fact there are many beauty ‘junkies’ who do care about what they purchase; women who will not wear an eyeshadow that is streaked with bright red rivulets when they know that it is inspired by a city where women have been left to die on bloodied concrete floors.

Thanks to these bloggers, MAC have stated that they are sorry for offending customers and fans, and that this was never their intention. “We are committed to donating $100,000 to a non-profit organization that has a proven, successful track-record helping women in need and that can directly improve the lives of women in Juárez in a meaningful way,” they announced yesterday, adding that the names in the collection will be changed.

Rodarte said their makeup collaboration with MAC “developed from inspirations on a road trip that we took in Texas last year, from El Paso to Marfa”, but that they “are truly saddened about injustice in Juárez and it is a very important issue to us”.

The names can be changed, the apologies made; but the fact remains that women are being murdered every year in Ciudad Juárez, and there is nothing beautiful about that.



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It might just be because I have a Saturday headache (I always get headaches on Saturdays; my brain figures it’s only pleasing me at weekends, so completely folds in on itself), but I really cannot decide whether to take Pammy’s or Canada’s side in the furore over her latest PETA ad.

Fairly self-explanatory as an image, ain’t it? Pamela Anderson asks us to consider that even though her body is tanned, airbrushed, enhanced and adorned, she is still made up of the same parts we like to chew on when taken from a lesser animal. She feels we should look on living creatures as living creatures, not as unripe buffets. The city of Montréal refused a permit for the ad’s launching, stating that the image was sexist

Anderson retorted, “How sad that a woman would be banned from using her own body in a political protest…”, asking Montreal whether burqas would be next, with PETA’s Senior Vice President stating that city officials were “confusing ‘sexy’ with ‘sexist'”.

While I’m no great fan of PETA’s soft-porn advertising – a busty beauty’s behind is hardly the image to change the minds of fur-loving fashionistas – it does seem rather strange that Pamela Anderson comes up against few obstacles when she wants to use her body to wrangle money out of horny fellas, yet is chastised when she uses it to highlight animal rights issues. Having said that, I’m not sure whether this attempt at a play on the derogatory Grade A Meat metaphor succeeds in any way at all. Surely women don’t need “reminding” that we’re all dumb, pretty animals?

It’s also bizarre that Ingrid Newkirk, president of PETA, reprimanded those offended by the image by stating that true feminists should be more concerned about the plight of female livestock than a scantily-clad glamour girl’s preening from a butcher’s block.

It should be noted that while the city of Montréal officially banned the ad, in order to make a statement on how the “values” of the city aren’t reflected by the image, officials then said that a blind eye would be turned if the activists went ahead anyway.

What do you think?

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We had just cooked and enjoyed a romantic dinner at home when my husband engineered his way over to the laptop. He wanted my opinion about a new ad doing the digital rounds. It’s for a famous brand of mineral water, so I prepared to be bored for a minute or two by ruddy-faced hikers or euro-teens drinking out of fancy shaped bottles.

Up pops a dark swirly atmosphere. Dita Von Teese opens a mansion door and beckons me in to join her. Husband is  watching my reaction so I give him a quick eye roll, our shorthand for “No, I’m still not up for a faux lesbian romp.”

Dita swishes and undulates  through the darkly lit but sumptuous hallway, throwing me beguiling glances over her shoulder. There’s a look on her face that says she’s just about up for anything.

We enter a room and she disappears off. I’m given a choice of two rooms and she whispers, “Pick one.”

I briefly wonder how she manages to make those two words so heavy with the promise of sexual fulfilment. When I say “Pick one” it sounds like I’m in the supermarket impatiently tapping my foot as the kids dither other the red or the yellow smoothie. “Pick. One. Now!”.

Dita is an expert, though. She’s 37 and has single-handedly headed the revival of burlesque as an acceptable form of entertainment for both men and women in the unlikely age of Zoo and Nuts Magazine.

I pick a room. Dita takes a picture of me. I check the web cam isn’t on. That would be embarrassing – to find my face on some Perrier pin board of sad gits who spend their time fruitlessly following Dita Von Teese around an imaginary mansion, hoping she’ll take off all her clothes.

Because that’s the thing with burlesque, when done well. It’s all about the tease and not being denuded. The woman is tantalisingly in control of how much she dresses, how much she shows and, crucially, how much she doesn’t show.

Dita gives me the camera and tells me to take pictures of her. We are in the dark now, with just a dim outline of the room about us. Clicking the left button takes the picture and lights the flash. Dita is arched in several sexy positions. Though revealing little more than a bit of stocking top or cleavage, it seems so much more illicit than page 3 could ever manage.

The more I click the camera flash the more often I see the sexy bottle of Perrier water on a silver tray, Von Teeses creamy outer thigh just out of shot.

The other room is a game of dice. She suggests I roll the dice and they come up with several moves, from squeezing her breasts together, while fully dressed, to sucking her finger.

The last throw of the dice directs her to take a little shower with her bottle of Perrier, for which she strips down to a really rather demure slip, knickers and stockings and proceeds to poor one little bottle of Perrier all over her chest.

There’s another feature in which she starts to strip and if the mouse wanders over to her body she stops. Even when I moved the mouse right over to the edge side of the screen it wandered over on its own and stopped her ever going further than bra and knickers – highlighting how much of an illusion my control was.

After a couple of stops she threw me out of the house for “not respecting her rules”.

“What do you think” asked Husband, salivating just slightly, through desire and fear of my expected rant about patriarchy, women as sex objects etc etc.

The thing was I found it totally inoffensive. It was brilliant. Yes it’s using sex to sell. But the difference here was there was absolutely no doubt who was in charge and who was being, albeit gently, played for a fool.

There are instances where a womans pure sexuality can be incredibly powerful. Dita has captured her power and used it to great effect. I see nothing wrong with this. Far from exploiting women’s bodies I think she cleverly uses hers to cast a spell of empowerment over her viewer, who is never allowed to control the situation.

Unlike the simplistic, exploitative and downright manky images of the recent Hunky Dory ads (“Are you looking at my crisps?” asks the model on the rugby field in the bikini top, her ribs painfully visible though she was leaning forwards.), the Perrier ad is subtle,seductive and sexy without stereotyping women as two-dimensional, dull, talentless sex objects.

Dita Von Teese does not have a models bland looks. She is a media personality, known for her expertise in a once abandoned art of seductive dance. She is fabulous and I for one will happily purchase Perrier bottles with her face on them. We know who she is and we know what she stands for. What she does  is sexy, but it isn’t porn. She isn’t allowing herself to be exploited, if anything the opposite is taking place in this ad. There is humour and talent in what she does, and a relationship between the performer and the audience that shows the performer in complete control of proceedings.

At first glance it might appear that Von Teese is inviting “the gaze”.  The gaze is an idea  from 1960’s postmodern philosophy on the relationship between viewer and subject, be they painted, photographed, filmed, etc. This theory was widened out by 1970 to the concept of the male gaze, outlined in Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema (1975) by Professor Laura Mulvey.

In her book Mulvey teases out the idea that the blueprint for Hollywood movies was to put the film viewer in the protagonists shoes, who tented to be a man. The female characters through the 50’s and 60’s were mostly used as a break from the main narrative flow (the love interest) and were mostly there to be looked at. Mulvey delineates 2 types of male gaze from this set up, the voyeuristic (seeing the woman as a Madonna) and the fetishistic (seeing the woman as a whore).

Von Teese manages to be both of these characters and neither in the final analysis of the Perrier ad. The Daily Mail managed to freeze frame an image that reveals her vagina. This says more about the Daily Mail than Von Teese.

When online and playing the ad the image lasts not more than a second. You cannot peer up at her minge like the scornful, yet titillated, Daily Mail readers are invited to do.

Considering the Internet, before social media, was most used for viewing pornography, it is a twist to see digital advertisers meld together so successfully gender, sexuality, interactivity, control and “the male gaze”, while Von Teese is conquered by none of them.

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