Is there evidence of evolution among the sort of men who make a living by curating collections of much younger, semi-naked women? Contrast for example, raddled Hugh Hefner, collector of Playboy bunnies, or Rupert Murdoch, that scarcely more appealing trader in teenaged Page Three girls, with the admired underwear impresario, Ed Razek, of Victoria’s Secret, the US manufacturer of nylon pants and teddies. Thanks to talented Mr Razek, the company is more widely recognised for its underwear shows, traditionally staged in the interval between Halloween and Black Friday, in which the teddies are artistically accessorised – with giant wings.  Of course, without seeing late sixtyish Mr Razek walk up to us in his pants, prior to blowing a kiss/striking his signature pose, it’s hard to be sure that his muscle tone, thigh gap and so forth make him a man we can fully admire. But there is definitely careful grooming, an all-year tan and that all important personality that one looks for in a chief creative tasked with “hand-picking” VS models for this marketing exercise. And in contrast to earlier, sleazier-looking practitioners, Razek evidently prides himself on his sensibility: a regularly updated Instagram accounts reveals a creative who, whatever his professional affinities with Raymond’s Revuebar, nurses a passion for natural beauty: sunsets, gardens, the moon over Rome. Followers are moved to leave comments such as: “I’m 14 i really want to be a model, can u answer me pls.”  But the rules are strict now: no sinister, televised inspections of undressed young women (who, it should be emphasised, compete for this privilege) until they’re 18.  So if there’s one thing that appears to nark Mr Razek, it’s any suggestion that the VS spectacles might not be strictly non-sexist exercises, whose models are selected for their appealingness to women and other inspirational qualities. As a man, he makes sure of that. VS doesn’t “do salacious shots that women would not like”. Completely stupid shots, maybe. But not salacious ones. So if there are any women who don’t like VS shows they are, QED, probably not proper women, but ugly/frustrated/jealous/old/humourless/wingless (see below the line for more options) excuses for their sex who should get out more. And that, of course, is what the BBC should have claimed, half a century ago, before Miss World, then considered top family entertainment, briefly fell victim to consciousness-raising. The 1970 filming of Miss World, inside the Royal Albert Hall, was disrupted by women who had developed a now quaint-looking – in comparison with current media appetite for VS undressing – antipathy to women being judged on their looks. “Our argument,” one demonstrator, Professor Sally Alexander, has recalled, “was, why do you have to be beautiful before you get noticed as a woman?”  To discourage further outbreaks of antique feminism, of the kind it once provoked in San Francisco, VS now dwells less on the ongoing requirement for basic physical perfection than on the physical and dietary feats of the models, as they starve and strive to be worthy of a £52 corset.  “It’s the same as if you were a long distance-runner,” said a VS stylist. “They are athletes in this environment.” Although even then, vigorous airbrushing may still be required where athletics have miserably failed to achieve the right, Angelic buttocks.  Razek’s colleague, John Pfeiffer, the VS casting director, has stressed the complex challenges of his quest. “They are all gorgeous,” he said, “but personality and the ability to project themselves on the biggest runway in the world – that really counts for so much. It’s what sets these girls apart from the masses of models that are out there.” The word “girl” is used so habitually of their recruits by Victoria’s Secret line managers that many of their interviewers have also abandoned, perhaps to save time, the post-Mad Men convention that colleagues in their 20s, even models, qualify as women.  Probably, since sex is not the point, men shouldn’t even bother with Victoria’s Secret shows: the bodies constrained inside the comfortable corsetry and handy, dangling suspenders, would leave them absolutely cold. Another hint, that men might prefer to watch Carey Mulligan being objectified in Suffragette than explore the empowering space that is VS’s explosion of nylon and polyester, came from the model, Magdalena Frackoviak, when she was asked what she planned to eat, post-show. “Not with these kind of questions, guys,” she said, after appearing in wings, thigh boots and a burlesque-influenced bra and pants contraption lashed together with black ribbons, “this is stupid. Ask more smart questions, not ‘eating after the show’. You make me look like an idiot.” Hint for backstage reporters: next time, ask what she thought of the VS Perfect Body campaign?  If Victoria’s Secret empowerment agenda has seen only limited progress among male fans, such as the Sports Illustrated staff who described senior angel, Lily Aldridge, after she was formally honoured with the sacred jewelled brassiere, as “our fantasy come to life”, that is hardly Mr Razek’s fault. Mr Razek, the marketing creative, is just doing his job – assisted by the media grateful for any glimpse of pants, all the more so, perhaps, after the end of nudity in Playboy and death of Page 3, the closure of Nuts, Zoo and Loaded, and the Economist’s conclusion that Sex Doesn’t Sell Any More. Perhaps, in the soft-vporn shortage, editors are drawn, like pre-smartphone schoolboys, to the nearest underwear catalogue.  At any rate, anyone who encountered recent VS show coverage could easily have taken away the impression of a landmark fashion event, such as to justify the international attention, the near spiritual discipline of its models. Rather than resembling, at a guess, the inside of Donald Trump’s head.  While photographs of these prestigious thongs are designed to provide irresistible clickbait, timed to influence Christmas shopping, it must surely exceed VS expectations to find its scratchiest efforts routinely classified as luxurious, its pant wearers hailed as role models and its leading choreographers addressed, sans irony, as women-friendly sages. One, avowedly feminist fashion magazine invites close study of signature poses. Another asks John Pfeiffer: “How big a role does personality play in the casting process?” Next, we ask Victoria’s Secret: how important in the casting process is the girls’ ability to speak?  One day, perhaps, this overwhelmingly uncritical appetite for VS will look as bizarre, though less excusable, as the BBC’s historical Miss World offer of whole-family leering. On the other hand, maybe not getting the difference is just one of those embarrassing generational things, like not being moved beyond expression by the words I Am Cait. Having said which, the Victoria’s Secret show would be immeasurably more entertaining if it featured a talkative contingent from its aesthetic and intellectual superior, RuPaul’s Drag Race. Preferably – with both style and practicality in mind – wearing their own clothes.
However much the company tries to dress them up as glamorous fun, its catwalk shows are utterly crass