This weekend, as Egyptians rejoice in the streets for having ousted Mubarak, and the Nationalist Party tries to come out with a stand on divorce which will not lose them any votes, the rest of the island has been more concerned with a much more important matter.
By the time you read this, the winner of the Song for Europe will have been announced. We hate it.
We love it.
We love to hate it – and yet we are there each year, glued to the box, fascinated and mesmerized by the flashy clothes and big hair, false eyelashes and considerable cleavage (and that’s just the men).
I jest, of course, because actually most of the men looked like they were going to the pub for a drink. I was getting seriously worried that we were not going to have any sparkle and glitter, but then phew, Rosman appeared, saving the day with his sequins. And, right on cue, J. Anvil came out with his top hat and started tap dancing.
If many of the men dressed down, the women had the opposite problem. What is it about a song festival which makes so many of the female singers suddenly go over the top and lose all sense of style? In most cases we were so busy commenting about what they looked like that we hardly paid attention to the song. Everyone seemed to have gone all Kim Kardashian with their thick layers of make-up too, even though they are naturally pretty and don’t need it.
Television cameras can be cruel and unforgiving which is why simplicity is best, and yet some singers were so determined to put on a “show” that it looked like their outfits wore them rather than the other way round. It’s difficult to get it right and this explains why so many celebrities employ stylists – I don’t expect Maltese singers to have stylists but surely all of them must have at least one very good friend who will tell them the honest truth.
The dress which outdid all other dresses, however, had to be that worn by last year’s winner Thea. It had everything – made from a shimmering green material, it had a billowing bustle at the back, a short skirt at the front and ruffles. Just for good measure a huge flower was plopped on her shoulder. She looked, unfortunately, like a peacock.
However, if you ask me, the happiest people at the festival over these past few days must have been the cameramen who were zooming in quite openly on the ample display of bosoms. One of them was so blatant about it he didn’t even bother disguising it by then panning up to the girl’s face – it was just a chest shot, literally.
Not surprisingly, at least three of the “cleavages” made it through to the finals. At this point I can only shrug because it is clear that I am fighting a losing battle. It is obvious that this is really how young women want to be perceived and they have decided that the ‘sex bomb’ image is the only way they can be guaranteed any attention and succeed in their singing career. Of course, I’m using the word ‘succeed’ very loosely here – because we all know how many of our singers have really made it.
What puzzles me is that they still think that baring their flesh is still their best option when there are countless examples from the international music scene of female singers who have gone down that route and….what? Only the very talented ones have really survived the test of time, while the ones with mediocre talent fall by the wayside no matter how many times they gyrate and wiggle in half naked poses in front of the camera.
The cult of perfection
In a way I empathise with these aspiring singers when it comes to choosing an outfit – because it’s true that the media always expect more from women than men where appearance is concerned. A man can get away with wearing jeans and a T-shirt at a song festival – a woman would be drowned in scorn for not having made more of an effort.
In fact, I would say that Maltese society has been hit by a double whammy of vapid superficiality.
We have been influenced by Berlusconi’s velline culture where women are perceived as trophies and mere scantily clad decorations when seen on TV.
With the onset of American reality shows on cable, our society has also found itself in perfect mimicry with the culture of Dr. 90210, where surgeons are obsessed with trying to perfect the female form and enhance it surgically at every opportunity. The cult of the Barbie doll with its unrealistic proportions and gravity-defying breasts has taken a hold of the minds of too many women who seem to think that this will ensure their happiness and self-esteem.
They equate the attention which men subsequently give them as a reason for feeling good about themselves when the reality is that there will always be younger, better-looking women at every turn. There is no stopping the passage of time, and short of subjecting yourself to endless surgery which can result in horrific scars (and very odd looking effects in the case of too many facelifts), your only other option is to accept yourself with as much dignity as possible.
It is not easy, in a world which worships youth and beauty, to come to terms with yourself no matter what you look like. But neither is it is easy, I would imagine, to constantly try to measure up to some kind of ideal female image which only exists in photo shopped magazine covers and as a result of the handiwork of a skilled plastic surgeon. The sad thing is that women are too harsh on themselves – if the only thing that mattered were looks then surely the most beautiful movie stars in the world should be ecstatically happy in their personal lives and would have a man who adores constantly them by their side. However, the opposite in the case – many of them divorce after a few years and often ricochet from one relationship to another without ever settling down.
A woman (and a man for that matter) needs to remain interesting and interested in other things other than the shallow existence of just maintaining their looks.
After all, a mirror will be small comfort in your old age.
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