Category: Culture

  • Why the world is obsessed with white women

    Why the world is obsessed with white women

    Until a couple of weeks ago, the clothing company American Eagle was mainly known as a kind of low-rent Levi’s. Founded in 1977, headquartered in Pennsylvania, the firm – specializing in denim, casual wear and kids’ clothes – has quietly expanded into Europe, and beyond, without ever generating much excitement. Let alone a worldwide culture war.

    All that changed in July, when the company launched a new ad campaign featuring the petite, sassy, curvaceously ubiquitous actress Sydney Sweeney – very much This Year’s Blonde – draping her desirable shape in the company’s clothes. Several ads have been made; they all feature variations on the line “Sydney Sweeney has great jeans.” A clear pun on genes.

    The result, whether intended or not, has been online uproar. Entire data centers have been devoted to churning out TikTok reels and YouTube mewls where women – and it is nearly all women – complain about the ad blitz, denouncing its connotations of white supremacy, of eugenics, of Nazi racist hierarchy – and of enforcing 19th-century imperialist ideals of European beauty. All the more since Sweeney has been identified as a registered Republican in Florida. Some of the women complaining are white liberals, many are Asian or black (often in tears of fury or distress).

    Sydney Sweeney, of course, is notably young, blonde, blue eyed – and white.

    And there, I fancy, is the rub. What we are witnessing is not peculiarly or entirely a modern kulturkampf against renewed colonialist discourse. What we are witnessing is, as well, the age-old and rather awkward fact that pale/white women are perceived by almost all humanity as more desirable, and have been for all of recorded history. And this evokes – understandably – resentment, envy, anger, even rage, and now tearful TikToks, in others.

    Don’t believe me? Think I’m trolling? Let me run you, like a blonde girl dancing through harvest corn in a retro cereal ad, by the plentiful evidence.

    As long ago as 3000 BC Egyptian art shows high class women (or deities) as being desirably paler than males. This can be found on tiny faience figurines and enormous funereal paintings, and it persists for 30 centuries. Egyptian love poems also praise the pale skin of mortal sweethearts – the earliest written evidence for the preference. Again, this poetic trope lasted for millennia.

    Moving on to Greece and Rome, we find the same pattern. Upperclass Greek women were so keen to enhance their whiteness they used toxic white lead as face paint (a phenomenon that recurs throughout history – think of England’s white virgin Queen, Gloriana).

    The concept – white women best – was amplified in Imperial Rome. The poet Ovid explicitly mentions it in his work Medicamina Faciei Femineae. Like the Greeks (and so many others) high-status Roman women used dangerous cosmetics – cerussa – to preserve the wanted pallor. Cleopatra bathed in asses’ milk to accentuate the milkiness of her skin.

    Nor is this exclusively a European and Middle Eastern phenomenon. In Ancient Han and Tang China, the preference for white-skinned women was deeply ingrained. The legendary beauty Wang Zhaojun was famed for her “pale skin.” Chinese women even drank “pearl powder” to achieve a pearly whiteness.

    Further east, in Heian Japan, the yearning for whiteness was easily as marked, with porcelain pale skin seen as the acme of loveliness (think of white-painted geishas, even today). An enduring Japanese proverb says “white skin covers the seven flaws” implying that white skin is such an erotic prize, it can compensate for other physical or social disadvantages.

    One of the most notable examples of this sociocultural phenomenon can be found – perhaps ironically – in Islam. Many know that dead jihadi warriors are promised “72 virgins in paradise,” but fewer realize that the Quran and various hadiths promise, overtly, that these wonderful virgins will be white: fragrant “houris” with skin so translucent you can “see the marrow in the bones.”

    This urgent preference for white-skinned women runs throughout Islamic history. Early Islamic warriors were fired up for battle against Byzantium with the promise of “the white girls” they would find as booty within Byzantine cities. Over following centuries Muslim emirates, kingdoms and empires made plain their wants via the slave trade, where white women – especially blondes – fetched far higher prices in the slave markets of Constantinople.

    Some historians have argued that the southwards Viking slave trade through Russia existed primarily to sate this imperious Muslim hunger for white-skinned blue-eyed blondes, fetched from the British Isles, northern Europe and Slavic countries. Circassian girls from the Caucasus mountains – famed for their soulful whiteness – were exported throughout the Islamic world, and this trade continued into the early 20th century.

    The case is made, but not explained. Why has much of the world desired paler, whiter women? The obvious answer is that, through most of history, darker skin has denoted outdoor toil, farm work, poverty. The ability to avoid this and stay indoors, or under a parasol, soon became associated with high status and elite women, and thus a sun-less pallor became a near-universal preference.

    There are also some highly contentious evolutionary explanations. Women of all ancestries tend to be paler than men, paleness therefore equals femininity, ergo “the more paleness the better.” There is also some evidence that female skin darkens as women age, so whiteness or paleness perhaps equates to youth, fertility, nubility. And desirability.

    None of this denies that European colonizers – in the 19th century – imposed grotesque, racist European ideals of beauty across the world. Nor does this deny the real harm that rigid beauty standards can inflict. When young women of color grow up seeing only pale-skinned models celebrated in media, when skin-lightening creams cause genuine physical damage across Africa and Asia – these things are immoral or unjust. But the truth is, “white woman equals beautiful woman” is a concept so deeply rooted in human culture, right back to the Sumerians, it is probably ineradicable.

    Will any of this matter to Sydney Sweeney and American Eagle? Maybe they will be intrigued that their ad campaign is perpetuating a stereotype that dates back to an early Egyptian poet near Luxor, who praised his lover’s “brilliantly white, shining skin.” They will probably be more excited by the fact that, as I write, American Eagle’s stock price has risen 10 percent.

  • Trump eulogizes Woke on Truth Social

    ​​President Trump announced a major vibe shift on Truth Social today, declaring that he, like any other sane red-white-and-blue blooded American, finds Sydney Sweeney sexy, especially because she toes the party line. “Sydney Sweeney, a registered Republican, has the “HOTTEST” ad out there,” he posted. “It’s for American Eagle, and the jeans are “flying off the shelves.” Go get ‘em, Sydney!” Why Trump put “flying off the shelves” is a question only for advanced semioticians, but the White House’s stance is clear on this cultural hot point: Sydney Sweeney good, left-wing “Nazi” denunciations of Sydney Sweeney bad. 

    But Trump wasn’t done. He turned his Sydney Sweeney boosterism into a full-blown cultural critique. His ever-active mind veered to the “other side of the ledger,” bringing up a disastrous multicultural, gender-fluid ad that Jaguar put out last year. “Jaguar did a stupid, and seriously WOKE advertisement, THAT IS A TOTAL DISASTER! The CEO just resigned in disgrace, and the company is in absolute turmoil. Who wants to buy a Jaguar after looking at that disgraceful ad.” Donald, you forgot a question mark? Also, Cockburn would argue that Jaguar already had tremendous problems as a brand before the ad, with severe quality problems and a rapidly-declining market share, and that the ad was just the capstone to a car company in death spiral. But whatever, let the President cook. 

    ​He wasn’t done yet, spending precious characters rehashing the Bud Light/Dylan Mulvaney fiasco, in which Bud “went Woke and essentially destroyed, in a short campaign, the Company.” The most popular beer in America then became Modelo Especial, which couldn’t possibly please the Donald, and Bud has recovered somewhat from that marketing error. But Trump had an even more sacred cow to gore: America’s sweetheart, Taylor Swift:

    “Ever since I alerted the world as to what she was by saying on TRUTH that I can’t stand her (HATE!). She was booed out of the Super Bowl and became, NO LONGER HOT,” Trump said. While it’s true that T-Swift may have over-flooded the zone with her recent tour, and it’s also true that she’s no fan of the President’s, there are countless millions of people who would disagree with her declining hotness. Sydney Sweeney has a good screen presence and amazing jeans, but Swift’s Q-rating and body of work still rank her higher on the cultural totem pole. 

    However, that’s not what The Donald is announcing with this post. He’s wrong that Taylor Swift is in decline, but he’s right in proclaiming that the woke era is over. It’s once again safe for boys to put whackoff posters of hot models on their walls and it’s time for bald black lesbian actresses with nose piercings and Nosferatu nails to stop playing Jesus Christ at the Hollywood Bowl. The theater kids lose, normal America wins. 

    “The tide has seriously turned,” the President tweeted. “Being WOKE is for losers, being Republican is what you want to be.” We’d like to thank the President for his attention to this matter. America is back, baby! At last, a true hot girl summer has arrived.

  • The new Naked Gun is actually funny

    As the lights went down for The Naked Gun – the “legacy sequel” to the spoof cop franchise – I found myself praying: “Please God, let it be deliciously and relentlessly stupid or I will be heartbroken.” I was not hopeful. I never am when it comes to a “legacy sequel.” What they usually mean by “legacy sequel” is: a “reboot.” But within the first few minutes I heard a strange noise and felt a peculiar sensation and realized I was laughing. It happened quite a few times more, in fact. I was as surprised as anybody. Even though the third act drags a bit and Liam Neeson is no Leslie Nielsen (despite their pleasingly similar names), any film that has “Set Dressing” listed in the end credits followed by “Ranch, Vinaigrette, Blue Cheese…” gets my vote.

    Produced by Seth McFarlane (creator of Family Guy), it’s the fourth film in the franchise and comes 31 years after the previous instalment. (Is no IP ever safe?) Neeson stars as Frank Drebin Jr., son of the character Nielsen portrayed. He has followed his father into LA’s police squad and this apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. (Drebin Sr. was once described as “having a heart of gold and a brain of wood.”) He interviews a suspect: “You got 20 years for man’s laughter? Must have been quite a joke.” “You mean manslaughter?” (You do have to channel your inner 13-year-old.)

    Reviewing this film is like reviewing a whoopee cushion. It’s not here to make us think. There are no themes to analyze. It just wants to make us happy. And if a joke doesn’t land or is familiar – “May I speak freely?” “I prefer English” – that doesn’t matter, as another one will be along in 15 seconds or thereabouts. Do we care about the plot? We do not. But I know I have a duty so… It opens with an armed bank robbery where the target is a gadget stored in a safe deposit box. The gadget’s intended use is not yet known but it does have “P.L.O.T  D.EV.I.C.E” written on it, and there was my first laugh, right there. Drebin turns up disguised as a schoolgirl, and biffs everyone while attired in a tiny kilt. He returns to headquarters where there is a portrait of his dad on one of the walls. “I want to be like you,” he says to it, “but also completely original.”

    The baddie is an Elon Musk-style villain (Danny Huston) who sits astride a tech company and wishes to take over the world. Pamela Anderson plays Drebin’s love interest and, while not known for her comedy chops, this is all so good-natured it brings out her funny side. (Priscilla Presley, who appeared in the first three films, features momentarily). There are some decent visual gags. I particularly liked the crane that turns up to remove a car from a lake. It’s like a giant fairground grabber; it picks the car up, then promptly drops it. You know it’s coming but it’s impossible to not laugh.

    While Neeson narrates gravely and offers a deadpan performance, the gags keep on coming. That captures the spirit of the original as Drebin can never be in on the joke. He has to be oblivious to the chaos his idiocy causes. But Neeson is not a natural comedian in the way Nielsen was. It’s the beguiling innocence that’s missing, I think.

    The third act drags, alas, as it’s over-reliant on slapstick. But at a snappy 85 minutes the film won’t claim too much of your time. And don’t skip the credits. There are all sorts of nuggets hiding in there.

  • Gillian Anderson: Ice Queen

    Imagine, for a moment, that a respected middle-aged British male character actor – Jason Isaacs, let’s say – had been cast in the lead role of a sex therapist in a popular, Gen Z-focused Netflix series, called something like Love Lessons. Then imagine that Isaacs had become seemingly so obsessed with blurring the lines between himself and his character that he had not only edited a book about men’s sexual fantasies, anonymously including one of his own in there, too, but had begun a secondary career appearing on podcasts in which he encouraged men to freely discuss their peccadilloes and penchants, however taboo they might seem.

    It would, of course, never happen – not even for a man as likable as Isaacs. Yet something very similar has taken place with his Salt Path and Sex Education co-star Gillian Anderson, a woman who seems to have turned into her Sex Education character Jean Milburn, only with added froideur and grandeur. (Her Instagram profile, where she boasts 3.5 million followers, describes her as “Actor. Author. Activist. Dog Mum.”) When Anderson recently appeared on Davina McCall’s podcast Begin Again, the blurb gushed that “this episode is about giving yourself permission to explore your wildest fantasies, the power of desire and the importance of asking what you truly WANT – not only in the bedroom but in LIFE!”

    The territory of mom-fluencer of a certain age is hardly unknown, and Anderson cannot be blamed for embracing extra-curricular activities. Her most recent book, 2024’s Want, was a bestseller on both sides of the Atlantic, and she has segued smoothly into a career that has encompassed television, film and theatre, as well, now, as that of author. (We will draw a tactful veil over the trio of fantasy novels, The Earthend Saga, that she co-authored, or at least put her lucrative name to, between 2014 and 2016.) She is one of the best-known actresses in Britain, thanks to her star-making role in The X Files and her subsequent high profile, and remains a sought-after A-list guest at any party or soirée. So why, then, is Gillian Anderson so difficult to warm to?

    Most actors try and give an impression of warmth and likability in press interviews and in public appearances on things like The Graham Norton Show. Even if, privately, they detest everyone around them and consider themselves part of a rarified species, they have been given extensive media training to make themselves seem down-to-earth and accessible. Anderson, however, has gone entirely the other way. If ever she is compelled to appear on a chat show, she wears an air of regal hauteur that suggests that she regards the whole affair as deeply beneath her, and carries this sense of superiority into interviews. Journalists use the words “frosty” or “steely” in profiles about her; a polite way of describing someone who clearly has little interest in ingratiating herself with those who she finds beneath her.

    Why is Gillian Anderson so difficult to warm to?

     If Anderson’s work was consistently extraordinary, she might be forgiven much of this aloofness. Many of the greatest actors in history could not be described as “nice”, from Marlene Dietrich to Tommy Lee Jones. Anderson would also probably argue that it is a misogynistic canard that she should have to be seen as warm and fuzzy because she is a woman. She might, of course, be right, but the difficulty is that she is a variable screen talent, to say the least.

    Anderson was indeed magnificent in Terence Davies’s little-seen Edith Wharton adaptation The House of Mirth, and gave very fine performances indeed in both the BBC’s adaptation of Bleak House and the serial killer drama The Fall, which both made use of her icy beauty and cool intelligence. But she was devastatingly bad as Margaret Thatcher in the fourth series of The Crown, pitching her performance just this side of pantomime in an apparent attempt to convince viewers that she, herself, was nothing like this dreadful woman that she was playing, and that she didn’t share an iota of her politics or thoroughly reprehensible views.

    By the time that Anderson popped up in Sex Education, an enjoyable if silly show that overstayed its welcome, it was clear that she had come to regard herself as a Great British Institution; ironic, really, for a woman born in Chicago and who rose to prominence playing American characters. So it is amusing that her most recent performance may yet turn out to be one of her most controversial.

    Anderson and Isaacs played Raynor and Moth Winn, the beleaguered protagonists of The Salt Path, in the successful film adaptation of the book, which has since run into trouble after the revelations that Winn had been more than a little economical with the actualité. Ironically, Anderson had already inadvertently conveyed her own misgivings about Winn, saying in an interview that: “I was surprised at how guarded she was…it was interesting to encounter a certain steeliness.” Or, indeed, a fear that being lifted to another level of recognition altogether would lead to her subsequent exposure by the British newspaper the Observer.

    Anderson has not commented publicly on the scandal, and it is unlikely that she will be prepared to do so until it is settled one way or the other. Yet were she to break her silence, and admit that she felt annoyed, even betrayed, by the undeniably embarrassing situation, it would be a rare chink in the armor of this ice queen, sex therapist and, it would appear, all-round Renaissance woman. Just a tinge of vulnerability, you cannot help thinking, would make the Magnificent Anderson that bit more human, and therefore likable. Whether it will ever happen, however, is a mystery worthy of Agent Scully’s investigative powers.