The runaway success of Frozen, the Oscar-winning Disney cartoon, is hard to deny. On dressing-up day, the school playground teems with wannabe Elsas and Annas, primping and preening as they parrot their favourite songs from the movie soundtrack. Meanwhile, The Observer reports that spin-off merchandise is flying off the shelves, leaving parents desperately trawling shops and websites for overpriced dresses and dolls.
I saw the film with my children several months ago and found much to admire. Early on, there’s a cheesy solo by Anna about finding ‘the one’, provoking much eye-rolling from cynics like me who think they know what’s about to unfold. Then comes the clever subversion: the prince turns out to be a villain and the women are saved, not by a knight in shining armour, but by self-empowerment and their sisterly love.
But let’s not get too excited here. This is Disney, after all, and the film wouldn’t be the highest-grossing animation of all time without the presence of at least some familiar fairytale elements. So, inevitably, the two lead characters are bug-eyed beauties with impossibly cinched waists and hourglass figures, and there’s a handsome suitor waiting in the wings in the shape of the muscle-bound Kristoff. The message is clear: a woman can triumph in the face of adversity but she still has to look attractive to men.
Others have written much more knowledgeably than I could about the unrealistic physical proportions of Elsa and Anna and the message that sends out to the film’s young female audience. But what also struck me about Frozen was the sheer impracticality of the sisters’ clothing. Seriously – you’d pirouette across a frozen landscape in princess pumps and a full-length cape? Sashay up the steps of your ice palace in killer heels and a diaphanous off-the-shoulder number with a skirt split to the thigh? Personally, I’d have donned my Merrell snow boots and several snug layers, topped by one of those shiny padded jackets that make any woman over a size eight look like the Michelin Man’s obese brother.
But is Elsa and Anna’s preference for the stylish over the practical so very different from the attitude of real-life women? Let’s not even talk about our party outfits: what we wear to work is far more telling. Over two decades ago, I attended my first job interview in a fitted jacket, a tiny pencil skirt and pantomime heels. I could barely walk from the tube station and had to sit through the interview with my legs awkwardly crossed so as not to reveal my nether regions. It was a toss-up between embarrassment and relief when the dress code turned out to be jeans.
This heels-and-tight-skirt combo – which, frankly, looks a bit dated these days – is still favoured by many high-powered women: think Theresa May or Rachida Dati. But how easy is it to stride briskly along a corridor with a pair of four-inch spikes attached to your feet? Or to chair a meeting when the mere act of sitting causes your skirt to ride up around your armpits? Give it a moment’s thought and it’s hard to imagine a less professional get-up.
Let’s be clear: high heels and tight skirts are designed to exaggerate the shape and length of our legs, and thus to enhance our sexual attractiveness. There’s nothing wrong with that – indeed, women should have the right to wear what they want, when they want. It just seems an odd choice in the workplace, to the extent that you have to question whether there’s some external pressure at play here. We’re increasingly expected to shimmy up corporate ladders and smash through glass ceilings, yet many of us still feel we have to truss ourselves up like a fairytale princess ascending an ice-sculpted staircase. Are we doing it for ourselves, or in order to conform to a male fantasy that should have no place in the professional sphere? To quote from another Disney classic, ‘go figure’.