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The Bratz revolution
Toytown is tottering. For 20 years Barbie Millicent Roberts, Mattel’s serene Wasp from Willows, Wisconsin, has been queen of the global doll world. Two Barbies are sold each second and, if you placed all the Barbies and family bought since 1959 head to toe, they would circle planet Earth seven times. Whatever her incarnation — princess, paleontologist, presidential candidate, paramedic — Barbie ruled.
But an interloper has stepped in to imperil Barbie’s $3.6bn annual turnover and the welfare of her 48 pets. The upstart’s name is Bratz, and she is three years old. In 2003, Bratz generated $2.5bn in global revenue and last month secured 45.1 per cent of the British fashion-doll market, making it the No. 1 bestseller. Barbie has fallen off her plastic throne.
Dolls are both imago and icon for little women; they tell us what we fear, desire and, also, what we might become. And on the third floor of Hamleys toy store in central London lies this magic looking-glass — the doll zone. I have a sudden pang for the beloved Sindy doll of my childhood and yearn for her friendly smile and her long vinyl limbs. Sindy lived in a plush mansion in my bedroom. She was haute bourgeoisie; she rode, she swam, she dated a man who looked like George Hamilton, and she owned a caravan. She lived the affluent life I grew up to covet and, before I chopped her head off, I adored her. But, in the doll death-match, Barbie saw off Sindy long ago.
Barbie World stretches out before me. It is a pink purgatory, starring row upon row of Barbie’s most beloved self — forever “princess”. It’s a Royal Wedding with just one guest, guarded by a Hamleys employee wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a pink princess hat. Princess Barbie is 32cm high and smiles out of her packaging. If she were human, she would be 1.88 metres and weigh 45kg.
Barbie was inspired by a German sex-kitten doll called Lilli. Lilli was sold to men only at tobacconists in Germany in the 1950s. But this geisha incarnation is long forgotten. Today Barbie is wearing a glittery pink gown and sitting in a peach carriage, drawn by peach horses. She clutches a dead-eyed swan. Ken stands behind her carriage, watching Barbie.
I find just-married Barbie, a Vivien-Leigh-in-Gone-With-The-Wind Barbie, and even a sinister yuppy tableau starring a mumsy Barbie, a grey-haired Ken posing as an actuary, and a baby. Then come the branded tie-ins to help little girls learn to desire other corporations — a small army of Disney Barbies, Coca-Cola Barbie, Ferrari Barbie, even a Vera Wang Barbie. These more modern dolls are dissemblers: Barbie cannot hide her true nature. She is an icon of post-war American affluence and confidence. Barbie has many careers, but, if you look at her face, you know she doesn’t need them. She oozes a sugary, pre-sexual revolution status quo. There is no crimson lipstick and no thigh-high boots. She is a smaller, less talkative Nancy Reagan.
But Barbie World is deserted. Boxes of Barbie-branded bits (spoons, karaoke machines, skipping ropes, tissues, a Christmas tree) are piled up unsold. An Afro-Caribbean Ken has been reduced to Pounds Sterling 4.99.
I cross the plastic aisle, the Valley of the Dolls, and enter Bratz World, six feet and a social revolution away. Bratz isn’t smiling out of her complex packaging, which indicates she is for the bedsides of seven to 12-year-olds. She pouts violently and with unspoken malice. Bratz is 29.5cm high (2.5cm shorter than Barbie) and voluptuous. Were she human, she would stand 1.69 metres tall. She has an oversized head, thigh-length hair and slanting, opiate-drugged eyes. These are dolls that Martin Amis would recognize. Her lips are huge, painted and parted.
You can take Cloe, Dana, Jade, Sasha, Yasmin, Fianna, Neura or Meygan home. These dolls are red, brown or indigo-haired; just one blonde glares out. Bratz are “multi-ethnic”. There is a black Bratz, an Asian Bratz, and a Eurasian Bratz. Standing beside them are their boyfriends: Cade, Dylan, Eitan, Camero and Koby. I see no change in male dolls yet; these dolls are square-jawed and stereotypically handsome, just like the repulsive Ken; they are Harrison Ford before he went to seed. One has a Justin Timberlake Afro, another wears skis, and their expression, faced with a torrent of plastic promise from Meygan and friends, is bewildered. They wear Gap and Benetton-esque clothes. Ken’s golf-club chic is gone.
There is no dream castle in Bratz World, no dull and honourable marriage to Ken. These are a gang of groovy, careless singles. They party in the Bratz sushi lounge, the Internet cafe and the Big Brother hot tub. They own mobile phones, plasma screens and an entire department store’s stock of ruffs and feathers, thigh-high leopard boots, black leather miniskirts and pink silk camisoles. Bratz drink espresso and smoothies. These are dolls for children who watch television, read celebrity magazines, surf the internet and worship Britney Spears.
Parents be warned: Bratz are about to swallow your kids. —Dawn/The Guardian News Service
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