|
Articles
Beauty
Contests:
New Statesman,
June 14, 2004 by Rachel Cooke
Girls, girls, girls: beauty
contests, once the epitome of glamour, have been
driven out by feminism and the tabloids. But the
fake tans, smiles and swimsuits seem almost
innocent in today's world of Botox, breast
implants and trout pouts.
Funny how, as the years drift by, things that
might once have made me almost comically angry
bring only a fond smile to my face. Last week, I
walked around "Beauty Queens: smiles, swimsuits
and sabotage", a small but perfectly formed
exhibition at the Women's Library in east
London, and as I gazed at the women, lined up
like so many dolls in a toyshop window, all I
could think was: how sweet. My hackles did not
rise; my lip did not curl; I did not stomp or
sigh. Finally, I reached the last glass box in
the show. There, in pride of place, was the
bathing costume worn by a certain Galen Loughran,
who came second in the Miss Morecambe
competition of 1969. The suit--white with gold
buttons, in the style of a drum majorette--was
stained with fake tan. At this point, the fond
smile became an audible titter. Flour bombs or
no flour bombs, some things just never change,
girls.
The origins of the Miss Great Britain
competition, which, in the fullness of time,
went on to become the global phenomenon that is
Miss World, lie in the seaside of the 1940s,
specifically in Morecambe. The opening in 1933
of Oliver Hill's art deco Midland Grand Hotel
and, in 1936, of the town's Super Swimming
Stadium--home of the Aqua Lovelies--gave
Morecambe a kind of brittle glamour. For a time,
it was the place to take one's holiday (hard to
believe this now when, disgracefully, the
beautiful Midland lies empty and peeling). In
1945, the local council and the Sunday Dispatch
launched an event to find the resort's Bathing
Beauty Queen (first prize: seven guineas and a
fruit basket), a competition that ran annually
for several decades. "There would be a race to
get my fake tan on," recalls Loughran. "I
remember it: orange tan, cold floor, people
helping each other."
This is where "Beauty Queens" begins, with local
events. It moves on to the glory days of
national and international competitions, when
the jet-set judges included Alan Whicker and
Sidney Sheldon and even, it was once bizarrely
mooted, a Womble. Finally, it fixes its beady
but mascaraed eye on the cheeringly scruffy
feminist protests of the 1970s--a campaign that,
eventually, led to the disappearance of Miss
World from terrestrial television (though the
event itself, I gather, still exists, out there
in some weird parallel universe). And the
surprise is how fascinating it all is, the
peculiar ephemera that the exhibition's magpie
curator, Alice Beard, has managed to amass. She
has even found an old Miss World board game. In
the abstract, beauty contests are bland: "I'd
like to see the world and look after children."
In the particular, they are oddly beguiling.
Hard not to feel a certain nostalgia, even. So
this is what we did before reality TV.
In the 1960s, the title Miss Great Britain was
genuinely sought after. My feeling is that it
was also, perversely, a kind of liberation for
some women--a way of making their only assets
and their skills (the application of lipstick,
the ability to walk gracefully in high heels)
work for them. The winner was not only courted
and admired; she got to travel, albeit
chaperoned, and to attend important civic
events. It was a nice little earner, too. "Yes,
I can open the Leigh Bowling Centre on 10th of
January," writes Gillian Taylor, a petite blonde
from Cheadle Hulme, who was, as her headed
notepaper proudly proclaims, Miss Great Britain
1963. She was, however, less sure about a trip
to the Continent. Also on display is a judge's
card. A maximum of 20 points was available in
each of four categories: daywear, swimwear,
evening dress and, most importantly, the
interview. In 1981, contestants were asked:
"Science fiction, feature films and TV serials
are giving an insight into the world of the
future. How do you visualize the lifestyle of
our descendants in the 21st century?" I wonder
how Jordan would cope with that one.
But, by the mid-1970s, beauty contests had a
whiff of seediness and desperation about them--a
stench strong enough to penetrate through all
that Elnett and Charlie. This was largely the
result of a sudden pincer attack by disapproving
outsiders. In the left corner was the Women's
Liberation Movement, whose shouty protests
reached a climax with the throwing of flour
bombs at the 1970 Miss World contest, which was
held at the Royal Albert Hall and hosted by Bob
Hope. In the right corner, predictably, were the
tabloids. In 1976, Don Short, show business
editor of the Daily Mail, published a juicy
little book called Miss World: the naked truth.
This volume gave details of the winners who had
"ended up in a mental hospital after
contemplating suicide; caused a sensation at a
Variety club by turning up in a skin-tight dress
with no underwear; was seduced by a playboy who
says: 'I cannot settle for second best'".
Needless to say, the two sides could not
understand one another at all. "Exactly who--and
what--is Women's Lib?" boomed the Daily Sketch
headline beside a picture of Bob Hope disguised
as a bap.
"We were clear among ourselves that we weren't
demonstrating against the women who were
participating in the contest," says Sally
Alexander, one of the protesters. "But we did
feel very strongly that for women to be judged
just by their physical appearance ... did
symbolize the way in which women were seen
either as sex objects or as domestic drudges,
and we wanted to widen horizons for women."
Doggedly, they kept at it. "We are not
beautiful, we are not ugly, we are angry,"
announced their posters. But this work took a
while. It was not until 1988 that ITV stopped
broadcasting Miss World; and the Miss She
competition, launched in 1955 to promote the
glossy magazine of the same name (this
eventually mutated into Miss Ultra Glow and,
finally, Miss Alberto Balsam), ran until 1989.
This seems incredible to me: that while I was at
university, grumbling about Mrs T and trying
hard to avoid paying the poll tax, there were
women out there whose shampoo was their chief
inspiration. Then again, I think I look on
Alberto Balsam rather more kindly than I do on
Botox, silicone and the facial trait that is
widely known as trout pout. Have women come so
far after all? What "Beauty Queens" does,
cleverly, is to suggest that the answer to the
question is almost certainly "no". Look
carefully and, at the very end of the
exhibition, just beside Galen Loughran's spoiled
cossie, you will find a typed list of rules and
regulations for the Miss Morecambe competition.
"No artificial aids, padding or attachments are
permitted," says the notice. "All costumes are
subject to examination." Oh, if you ask me, it
was a more innocent age and, at least at the
level of the body, a far kinder one.
"Beauty Queens: smiles, swimsuits and sabotage"
is at the Women's Library, Old Castle Street,
London E1 (020 7320 2222) until 28 August
COPYRIGHT 2004 New Statesman, Ltd.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group
|
