Throwback

"Real women have curves" started life as the title of a screenplay, and later as a movie, about five women working in a tiny sewing factory in East Los Angeles. Over the next thirty-odd years, the phrase turned up on a Dove billboard, a Zara poster, and in countless captions under photos of women who look nothing like the ones the author Josefina López wrote about in her play.

In November 2009, Women's Wear Daily asked Kate Moss whether she had a motto. She said she had loads, and offered one: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "You try and remember, but it never works." That second sentence is probably the most relatable thing a supermodel has ever said in an interview, and it disappeared almost immediately. The first one went everywhere.

There was a formula to early 2000s British television that someone, somewhere, had clearly decided was acceptable. Take a sensitive subject— weight, eating disorders, bodies— strip out any nuance, add a medical-sounding title, and film people being humiliated for an hour. Throw in a doctor for credibility. Call it health education. That is how we got Supersize vs Superskinny.

In the early 2000s, America’s Next Top Model sold itself as an inside look at “the industry”. What it really shipped, week after week, was a rulebook about bodies, delivered with better lighting and a judging panel. The rule wasn’t subtle. Thinness wasn’t a background detail. It was treated like the entry requirement, the performance metric, and the punchline, all at once.

Victoria’s Secret launched in the late 1970s as a lingerie brand, originally designed to sell products in a male-friendly environment. By the 1990s, it had evolved into a cultural phenomenon. The brand no longer sold just underwear. It began selling an idea of who lingerie was for and what kind of body was meant to wear it.

Bridget Jones’s Diary, released in 2001, follows a single woman navigating work, dating, and self-improvement. From the opening scenes, the film repeatedly flags Bridget’s body, measuring and commenting on her weight in ways that go beyond incidental detail. Her size becomes part of how the character is defined.