Bromances: Joe Penny

Joe Penny is quite good at bromance. In Jake and the Fatman, he is younger enough (by thirty-six years) than his co-star (William Conrad) for J.L. McCabe to refer to Jake at one point as a son. However, the show presents them more as friends than a father and son.

In Riptide, Joe Penny and Perry King are peers who served together in the military, then started a detective agency run out of a boat.

In both cases, there is a strong domestic side to the relationship. McCabe drops in on Jake unexpectedly and expects him to make McCabe dinner. Cody and Nick live together on the boat.

In all cases, the young virile detectives pursue girls. But they always cycle back to their home base.

Since Joe Penny is a main character in both, I'll focus on him. And what makes him good at bromance is his unself-consciousness. He is quite tactile, not just with the other main characters but with minor characters, such as his nephew. That is, he isn't afraid to hug and kiss. He is physically at ease. This easiness goes a long way towards selling the bromance relationship.

I know that cultural assumptions are...assumptions. However, Penny's mother was Italian. There's a whole science of proximity (proxemics)--how close people are willing to get to each other, what feels natural versus what doesn't--which states that North Americans apparently prefer a distance of about 2-4 feet with strangers. For Italians, the distance is half. 

So perhaps, Penny grew up with less wariness about closeness.

The Archetype of the Plain Girl

Also acceptable.

The Plain Girl is a common archetype in romances. The archetype has been done well, but I generally find it somewhat tiresome. 

To get the acceptable treatment out of the way, Mary Balogh's First Comes Marriage presents a plain girl as the primary female protagonist. The heroine has been told all her life how plain she is; instead of moping about, she adopts a pleasant and happy attitude. But after her marriage, a few incidents leave her feeling insecure. Finally, her husband says (I'm paraphrasing), "Look, I'm attracted to you. That should be enough. Let it go!" And she does!

Now, for the unacceptable: 

[T]he human race is broadly divided into

angels & trolls...the angels don't always get the

best of it; when [they] fall in love with each

other, they'd better be sure it's not because

they're beautiful people. When my wife and I

fell in love in 1953, we were both pretty ugly

customers. That's how we knew it was real.

1. She doesn't let it go.

One of the admirable aspects of manga is that despite the presence of enormous self-doubt, the resolution--quite often--is for the protagonists to get over it. 

That is, their self-doubt is a problem that others are NOT expected to solve. In Cherry Magic, Adachi's ability to read minds doesn't send him into a state of constant self-affirmation. Rather, it propels him to meet Kurosawa half-way.

Books where the heroine (or hero) is constantly being reassured result in a kind of  perpetual victimhood.

2. The plain heroine is paired with a handsome hunk, and the writer never lets us forget it.

What I dislike about this motif is that the authors don't play fair. There's a double standard at work where the heroine should be accepted for herself (her intrinsic character!) while she and every other character in the book continually comments on the handsomeness of the hunk: ooh, his rock-hard abs. Isn't she lucky that he loves her for her soul while she gets to love him for his body?!

Poor handsome hunk. (I have encountered the opposite--men who honestly seem to believe that they are owed a beautiful female companion because that is what men are wired to want; I generally don't feel bad for the women because I think they often know what they are signing up for. But I don't envy them.) 

I prefer romance books, where appearance is a non-issue because (1) the hero and heroine are both plain; (2) because the hero and heroine are both good-looking; (3) because "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" (people have individual and sometimes wacky tastes). In any case (and this applies to real life as well), everybody just shuts up about it and gets on with the plot.

I do find it notable that traditional romances and, for that matter, lesbian romances, fret about the female protagonist's appearance far more than male/male romances. In male/male romances, even if one male is supposedly plain, the issue almost always falls into #3 above. 

The reason is not because the physical has been abstracted. Quite the opposite! Attraction matters. So does sexual compatibility. Returning to the Plain Girl trope, women and attractiveness is a common topic throughout history and in literature. The need to explain (sometimes, defensively) the writer's choices is understandable if unfortunate. 

It does begin to wear. As mentioned above, the male/male romances I read generally solve the problem by physical passion coming down to "that's what I want" (see Ruin of a Rake above). If one wants an explanation for why so many women read the stuff...

Sir Walter Plays the Lothario

Sir Walter at Home; Mrs. Clay is to the left.

In Jane Austen's Persuasion, Mrs. Clay is trying to snare Sir Walter. When that doesn't work, she snares Mr. Elliot.

Penelope Clay's hopes for this engagement have precedence. Gentlemen--members of the gentry and the aristocracy--did occasionally marry "down." There are even cases of peers marrying courtesans, actresses, and servants. Although Pamela's marriage to Mr. B shocked Richardson's contemporaries, it didn't surprise them. It was improbable, not impossible.

Penelope is certainly not as low down the hierarchy as a servant, but she isn't as high up the hierarchy as, even, Elizabeth is to Darcy. Elizabeth argues, correctly, that since both she and Darcy are products of the gentry, there can be no objection to a marriage between them. (Note, however, that she does not argue, "Darcy can marry whomever he wants!")

Like the wife that warmed King David's bed in old age, Penelope Clay's hope (for most of Persuasion and my tribute Persuadable) has been to catch Sir Walter's interest when he is feeling his age or, more specifically, when Sir Walter is feeling abandoned.

It may seem odd that Sir Walter would experience the empty nest syndrome when his eldest daughters are nearing thirty (rather than going through it earlier), but during the Regency era, people stayed home until they married. This interesting trend has begun to reassert itself in recent years ("reassert" since children staying at home until marriage has been more common throughout history than single people living on their own).

With only one single daughter left, Sir Walter will surely wonder who is going to cosset him in his remaining years. Anne and Will Elliot both correctly foresee how Sir Walter's vulnerability might make him susceptible to the suggestion of marriage; this is not a man who manages well on his own.

If he doesn't marry, and Elizabeth does, he will probably try to move in with one of his daughters.Unfortunately, the daughter he understands the least would likely be the most willing. But Captain Wentworth would no doubt put his foot down.

Excerpt from my tribute Persuadable:

[Penelope and Sir Walter meet in the Camden Crescent residence.] 

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Clay,” he said and gave her his roguish look that made him look about as dangerous as a starling. “You’ve heard our latest news, no doubt. My daughter Anne is engaged to Captain Wentworth.”

She joined him at the head of the stairs and coyly tilted her head. “It is difficult to believe that you, Sir Walter, could have any daughter about to be married.”

She conveniently failed to mention Mary, and Sir Walter blustered in a pleased fashion. He took Penelope’s hand and patted it.

“What will I do when I lose Anne’s comforting support?” he said as if he’d ever shown a preference for Anne’s company.

Anne found her own source of comfort, Penelope thought and felt an unexpected surge of jealousy.

She had never desired the middle Elliot daughter’s life with its self-effacement and mildness in the service of others. But she wished now for Anne’s freedom—to be satisfied and respectable and secure. I have such small desires. Can't I have any of them? 

Sir Walter was still patting her hand. He looked genuinely disheartened; Penelope could guess his thoughts. He might have no interest in Anne, but before her engagement she had been available—a spare daughter to look after her father’s needs. Now there was only Elizabeth, and Sir Walter believed firmly in Elizabeth’s ability to marry well.

He was afraid of being alone.

Now’s the time. Penelope should lean in, cover his hand with hers, say, “Oh, Sir Walter, think how much more frightening life is for an unattached woman.”

He would comfort her. She’d put her head on his shoulder. He’d start thinking about his future, about how she could ease his cares.

I’m not a lady, but he’ll convince himself that the merit of his title precludes my lack of one. Sir Walter would put his desire for security above all else.

Doesn’t everybody?

She loosed her hand. She said, “I’m sure your new son-in-law will never place his needs before a father’s.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment. Captain Wentworth was definitely the type to keep his wife by his side. But Sir Walter cheered up and continued on to his bedchamber.

Penelope went to hers, shut the door, and slid to the floor, arms around her knees. From that position, all she could see through the small, square window was blazing blue sky. She might be in any room in any city. She might be in London with Will.

She smiled ruefully. I never thought I’d be such a fool to give up the opportunity to secure a baronet. She knew what happened to women who thought with their hearts.

And yet, Penelope was not like other women. She’d survived a tedious marriage and had two intelligent sons (foisted onto her parents) to show for it. She’d survived interfering neighbors, pushy creditors, and leering landlords. She’d survived Sir Walter and his family.

She could survive anything.

A-Z Romance: Berne & Groundhog Day

Lisa Berne's The Redemption of Philip Thane is...Groundhog Day!

It IS Groundhog Day (even to the point of a runaway carriage ride) The rake, Philip Thane, has been sent to Whittlesey in January by his aunt to give a Plough Day speech, during which he introduces the Straw Bear. He encounters a bright young woman fascinated by folklore. He stays at a local inn. When he tries to leave the next day, a storm sends him back to Whittlesey. When he wakes the next morning, he is back in Plough Day. He goes through confusion, despair, acceptance...and so on. The lovely folklore scholar and he eventually fall in love.

 

The book is well-written. I skimmed most of it.

 

Here's the thing: I don't care that much for the repeat-a-day trope.

 

I don't mind it as a once-a-series episode. Star Trek did it. Stargate did it. And Groundhog Day is a clever and funny movie.

 

I don't find it specifically romantic.

I wondered at first if my issue was the idea of trying to change the past, an idea I philosophically dislike since OCD rehashes, "If only"s, and "What if"s are not even remotely helpful or character-forming. 

 

Quantum Leap doesn't bother me. However, in Quantum Leap, Sam isn't repeating his own life. He is living out other people's lives, and each choice leads to the next. In addition, Al remains a consistent and ongoing part of Sam's life. Sam learns more about Al and himself from episode to episode.

 

Likewise, regarding classic literature, although Scrooge goes back to his past, he doesn't change it. He learns from it and moves forward. 

 

And Back to the Future--where changing the past ends up changing Marty's future--is more about the adventure than about fixing everything. 

 

The problem with the repeat-a-day trope is not necessarily about revisiting the past. The problem with the trope, however fun, is the Love Boat problem.

 

That is, the idea behind repeat-a-day is that the main character undergoes growth or a fundamental shift in character apparently in 24-hours as a result of making constant improvements to the same order of events (rewriting an essay a hundred times until it gets an "A"). 

 

But change needs somewhere to go. I hate to reduce life to the somewhat reductionist idea of being sent to Earth to endure trials, proving whether we are good or bad. Rather, to borrow from C.S. Lewis, 

 

"[A] dangerous world [is] a world in which moral issues really come to the point. [C]ourage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means, at the point of highest reality. A chastity or honesty, or mercy which yields to danger will be chaste or honest or merciful only on conditions. Pilate was merciful till it became risky."

 

In other words, once the couple leaves the "island" (boat), will the relationship retain the qualities that made is so attractive in the first place? (I don't take Love Boat seriously, so I'm okay with that question.)

 

Will Philip Thane remain reformed when faced with options elsewhere? (Will he be able to write ANOTHER essay, using what he has learned?)

 

That is, I like my romantic couples to build on what happened to them an hour before, day before, week before. Will they remain loyal when life DOES change?

 

With my favorite couples, yes: Elizabeth makes mistakes about Darcy and then learns the truth and questions herself. Darcy acts like a jerk and makes assumptions and then reviews his behavior. Jane grows up in fairly miserable circumstances, battens down her passion, and goes to work for Rochester, where she learns more about him. Rochester bumbles around with his life, meets Jane and finds a focus. Jane leaves, stands up to her nutty cousin, and returns.

 

Trajectory.

Again--repeat-a-day is a decent trope. But it doesn't have the romantic power of a person stumbling forward step-by-step and seeing/hoping/testing if each new choice will work in the future.

For those who love Groundhog Day and enjoy the trope, The Redemption of Philip Thane does give insight into the main character's growth.

Self-Sacrificing Archetype: Keep It Out of Romance

I love self-sacrifice in action movies. Spock sacrificing himself for the ship: fantastic scene!

It can be overdone. But quite often, the self-sacrifice makes for a spectacular finish. 

I am not a fan of self-sacrifice in romances. 

I don't mean Darcy taking responsibility for Wickham's bad behavior and then working things out so Elizabeth and her sisters don't bear the weight of Lydia's behavior for the rest of their lives. Not only do I consider Wickham to be Darcy's problem, but solving the problem with the least inconvenience to all involved is chivalrous. Chivalry is a positive attribute.

DemonCartoonist

What I'm referring to is members of couples who completely subordinate themselves to their significant others. They give up career opportunities, personality preferences, likes and dislikes...all so their lovers feel happy and comfortable and get what they want. 

The hard truth is some relationships may just not work. In my Star Trek fan fiction, I postulate that planet-dwellers (people who prefer planet life) don't fully understand ship dwellers (people who prefer a life of service on board a ship) and vice versa. Unless the couple can figure out a compromise, the relationship is simply not going to succeed. 

I distinguish between sacrifice and compromise. Compromise is about reality. I can't live in New York City right on Central Park because I'm not a billionaire. But I live in a great small city that gives me the same experiences in many ways. I also distinguish between sacrifice and choice. I get enormously irritated by television couples where one member of the couple realizes, years into the relationship, "Oh, wait, I don't want to be married to a soldier or police officer any more." 

Figure that out BEFORE the marriage, please (I realized people don't always think honestly and realistically and objectively before the fact). 

Unlike the working couple that makes concessions, the self-sacrificing archetype doesn't negotiate. It is the Little Mermaid walking around on pained feet, all for the sake of something she made up in her head. These sacrifices often fall into the category of unrequited love. 

One not so terrible version of this archetype takes place in Blue Sheep Reverie. Kai pretty much gives up his goals, self, plans, and everything else to Steel Lahti's need to lead the city. 

It is high romance--and high romance, to a degree, excuses the self-sacrifice. Kai knows exactly what he is doing. He is more Shakespearan tragic hero than dopey Little Mermaid (from the short story). 

Generally speaking, the romantic self-sacrificer is fairly awful stuff. I've always favored a version of Phantom where he rolls his eyes at Christine and gets himself a different life.

Romantic Tough Guys

I have a number of posts on laid-back tough guys. 

Below is my favorite example of a romantic tough guy. He is the sheriff, played by Wade Williams, from the Bones episode "The Witch and the Wardrobe" in which Angela and Hodgins get married. He is a stickler for the law, an upright noble man who believes in his calling. 

He is also a romantic, so when Angela and Hodgins get married in his jail cell, he throws confetti! 

The friendly judge who marries them is played by William Stanford Davis. 

The Hero-Worshipped Lover: Hilarious Punch Drunk Love

The hero-worshiped lover is not quite the same as the popular lover. Quite often, as with Kurosawa (Cherry Magic) and Yuichi (Only the Ring Finger Knows), the popular lover is initially avoided or disliked by the protagonist until the popular lover shows his weaknesses. Adachi figures out Kurosawa's imperfections before they start dating--most of his later doubts are about Kurosawa's expectations, not Kurosawa's character. He is amused by Kurosawa's flawed romantic possessiveness, not upset by it.

The hero-worshiped lover, on the other hand, is craved by the protagonist because the lover is supposedly wonderful and perfect. 

That is, the pedestal is part of the (initial) attraction/courtship. Although series like My Beautiful Man are able to point out the unfairness of "you must allow me to admire you" demands, many series that run with this archetype appear to remain on the worshiper's side. It's the ultimate fan experience: Isn't it great to get the hero's attention? Okay, now, the fan and hero will easily adjust to real life.

I find it creepy. Agatha Christie was right to present a worshiper (of her husband) as also the murderer of the thing she worships. The worshiper doesn't adjust to reality. The worshiper is entirely disillusioned and strikes out. 

The one major exception in my reading right now is the frank erotica Punch Drunk Love. Seon-woo is a worshiper. What makes the manga, at least Volumes 1 & 2, so funny, is that he isn't worshiping Tae-moon for the reasons Tae-moon suspects.

Tae-moon has been taken advantage of by praise-heavy sycophants in the past. He assumes Seon-woo falls into this category. Ha ha, he sneers. I'll take him to a scuzzy hotel. Then, I'll force him to crawl to me, etc. etc. 

Turns out, Seon-woo is so innocent (in some ways), he is thrilled by the hotel. Turns out, also, Seon-woo likes to be dominated during sex. Turns out, as well, that Seon-woo never imagined that Tae-moon was some sweet, good-humored, gentle soul (as Tae-moon portrays himself at work). He always thought Tae-moon was kind of a jerk. That's what he worships! Tae-moon is hot! He's got a great body! What's the problem?! ("Why would I care about your character?")

In fact, the manga heavily implies that Tae-moon is in greater danger of making Seon-woo out to be more of a good guy than he probably is--or, at least, more of a victim (he assumes that Seon-woo is unaware of his own good looks because Seon-woo was abused, not because he was raised by normal people--see below). 

The miscommunication is based entirely on stories each man has made up about the other. 

The outcome, so far, is Cary Grant-worthy farce.  

Bad eyesight. But they have no cavities!

*Note: I used the British "worshipped" for the title, and the American "worshiped" for the post.