Hendricks sells women short by flogging cat food
A cat-food seller. A what?
Look, we all do daft things to earn extra cash. Last week, I told you about my new part-time job in a bookshop, which lasted all of four hours, before I was relieved of my duties — reader, he fired me — because I didn’t know what the ordering term ‘cascade’ meant.
Working in a bookshop, I discovered, was like winning a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory — you think you will be in sweet, sweet heaven, but the reality is that too much chocolate just makes you a bit sick.
As does cat-food.
Unless you are an actual cat, there is no way to make cat-food appealing, even with the addition of Hendricks, who goes one further and tries to make it sexy.
Yet, before you ever contemplate the saucer of moist hideousness she is trying to glamorise, the venture backfires.
The subtext — that a woman’s only job is to be attractive and available — makes you wonder if advertisers are still wilfully operating from inside some kind of Mad Men coma.
“Sometimes, you have to work a little to get what you want,” purrs Hendricks, the vocal equivalent of a woman walking in high heels — a bit strained, a bit unnatural. “A little grooming goes a long way. Create an air of mystery. Cultivate a smouldering look.” Cue sexualised lipstick and mascara application, and much wiggling, as Hendricks channels Joan, the role that put her on the map.
Joan perfectly portrayed what women were up against in the pre-feminist 1950s — so why is Hendricks re-enacting it in 2014, to sell cat food?
Obviously, there is a cat involved, slinking around, being feline, but the wordplay is all about slinking around, being a woman.
Cats are not sexy. Nor are cats metaphors for women. Cats are cats. They torture small mammals, sick-up furballs on your rug, and poo in plastic boxes of gravel.
Worst of all, they eat cat-food. Christina continues her way around the darkened apartment, getting ready to go out.
“A few jewels will get you noticed,” she advises, adding, “Don’t walk — sashay.” And then the money shot — “Always let them know what you want”, as the plate of disgusting cat-food looms into view.
Ding dong! The doorbell rings. “Lesson over,” she breathes, shimmying to answer the door to what is implied to be her date for the evening. “Miaow.”
Miaow? OMFG. Look, if you want to sell cat food, get real. Get some lesbians involved. Or old ladies. Or Russell Brand. Or a Bond villain. Any demographic famed for their fondness of cats.
But do not — DO NOT — demean either women or cats by trying to add sexy to the mix. Christina Hendricks, are you struggling with your mortgage repayments?
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