Siptu red carpet fury won’t save feeble Iftas
Viewing figures for this year’s Ifta awards do not make happy reading. An audience of just 164,000 – slightly more than half of what it could command at its peak popularity – shows a public grown weary of our tiny talent pool. This isn’t helped by a drama output from RTÉ that, with a handful of exceptions, is on life support. And surely, this leads to the toe-curling embarrassment caused when the star nominees – such as Ruth Negga this year – inevitably become no-shows at our most glittering award ceremony.
Yet instead of tackling these inconvenient truths, Ifta post-mortems have centred on the right-on issue of the red carpet and the part it plays in demeaning female stars.
Siptu released a statement calling for women’s artistic achievements to be put centre-stage, not their frocks. ‘These women make serious contributions in their field and that should be the focus of news reports on award ceremonies,’ thundered the union’s equality organiser, Karan O’Loughlin.
Actress and screenwriter Caroline Grace Cassidy, who posed on the red carpet in a fabulous figure-hugging gown, added fuel to the fire, saying she was sick and tired of women being judged on their designer dresses, and: ‘The time has come to knock this nonsense on the head.’
But while the politics of the red carpet may be a hot topic in Hollywood, it’s a red herring at the Iftas, which for various reasons – many of them stated above – relies on the glamour of an ersatz fashion show for publicity.
Stars such as Cate Blanchett and Scarlett Johansson can complain about being asked inane and sexist questions about weight loss or underwear, knowing that many fans will share their outrage. They are guilty of hypocrisy because the truth is that A-list actresses wouldn’t be gifted priceless couture or loaned magnificent baubles for Oscar night if fashion houses didn’t except a plug on the red carpet.
In our rather pathetic version of Oscar night, such Faustian bargains are hardly an issue.
The houses of Chanel and Versace are not lining up to dress Amy Huberman or Deirdre O’Kane, much as we adore them.
Nor, despite what Siptu maintains, can our best-known faces have grounds for complaint about not being treated seriously as artists.
If anything, we are far too indulgent of the often-dodgy creative output of our homegrown talent. We hand out far too many accolades for work that we know in our heart is destined for the dustbin of pop history.
If female stars feel demeaned, they could simply refuse to appear on the red carpet.
If they are contractually obliged to pose on it, as is often the case, they could dress down in a dull business suit and pass unnoticed into the auditorium.
The reality is that if all women took a stand against the red carpet, rather than teetering along it in their skyscraper heels, it would die overnight.
But they play along with it for the free gowns at the Oscars or for the universal gift of enhanced visibility among casting agents and the public, knowing that the best- and worst-dressed lists and hateful comparison go with the territory. And also for the frivolous pleasure that many women get when they dress up to the nines for a big occasion.
Serious artists may be loath to admit it, but there are few things as enjoyable in life – or in art – as looking like a princess while playing the victim.