Love After the Passage of Years: Is it Possible?

I mention on Votaries that the Holmes's tale "The Adventure of the Crooked Man" is deeply romantic. Arthur Conan Doyle was a man with a deep romantic nature--one possible reason his Holmes's comes across as somewhat more layered and complex than the man pretends to be. 

The story is a good one, and the Granada production is excellent. 

Interestingly enough, both tale and episode do not try to explain what will happen to Henry Wood next. Will he stay away from Nancy? Will she try to seek him out? Their positions in Edwardian society would make a marriage unlikely. But the question here is more universal. 

They may still harbor romantic feelings for each other. But with the passage of time, is the past enough? 

Stargate SG-1 has a great episode, "The Torment of Tantalus," where Catherine goes through the gate to a planet to track down her fiancee Dr. Ernest Littlefield who went through the gate 52 years earlier. 

A later passing reference suggests that Catherine and Ernest got back together. 

And I kind of don't buy it. 

In the nurture/nature debate, I tend to come down (partly) on the side of nature, as in genetics. But in the nature/agency debate, I come down on the side of choice. 

A person's character can stay much the same. But the same person isn't  un-impacted by experience. They make decisions that lead to other decisions that lead to other decisions. C.S. Lewis comments in one of his books that the choices look haphazard at the time but entirely organic and "meant" in retrospect.

As Joe in Joe versus the Volcano remarks, "It's a long crooked road that brought me here to you." 

Is Catherine the same person she was in 1945? In essence, sure. But in lifestyle? Living arrangements? Wants? Needs? 

For instance, the woman is a powerhouse and was when she was younger (excellently played in the episode by Nancy McClure). In 1945, marriage was more of a given. She's managed without marriage for years. And now she's going to change her mind? 

Maybe she just hauls Ernest around with her like an extra retainer. 

As for Nancy and Henry Wood, she might leave her life and go with him. But the time period and their backgrounds could likely preclude them being able to leap the social stigmas. 

And maybe the memory of romance in this case is enough. 

  

Good Break-Up: Death in Paradise

I usually dislike break-up stories, just as I usually dislike constantly fighting exes.

However, the break-up at the end of Death in Paradise, Season 3, is excellently written. It also demonstrates an internal transformation (on Votaries, I am currently examining characters who undergo such transformations). 

I'm conservative enough to not have the highest opinion of couples who divorce because they are bored or irritated. The statement, "My needs aren't being met" may be legitimate but sometimes, the needs are so entirely unrealistic that nobody would ever be able to meet them.

My annoyance at easy break-ups being stated, the split between Humphrey and his ex on Death in Paradise is a good example of how incompatibility actually can lead to a marriage falling apart.

Humphrey Goodman moves to St. Marie, believing that his wife will follow. She doesn't. She requests a divorce instead. However, she shows up a few months later, having discovered--as anyone with sense could have told her--that simply declaring a marriage over doesn't automatically make life exciting and satisfying and fresh. Her world didn't become instantly magical, just because she shed the supposedly boring husband.

There's a fantastic scene at Catherine's bar where Humphrey orders a rum drink, then encourages his ex to also order one. She takes one sip, grimaces and sets it aside, requesting her usual gin & slim.

Humphrey then points out that with his move, he was trying to save their marriage--that's why he took the post to St. Marie in the first place. And it might have worked. It worked for Humphrey. He is fundamentally open to new experiences and the move expanded his horizons while shoring up his abilities as a leader. He absorbed it all, from classic mystery denouements ("That thing where you gather everyone together--I rather enjoyed that last time") to garish shirts to lizards to rum...

The point here is not that people have to like rum. In his unending search for decent tea, Poole never did.

The point is, the ex-wife wants both: she wants her unadventurous, yuppie, staid life back in England alongside FUN and ADVENTURE and CHANGE! This unlikely combination of needs is something Humphrey attempted to give her.

Except he no longer can. He has moved on--too far--while she didn't. He can't backtrack. He puts the gap between them down to individual growth (and to him being in love with Camille Bordey, though that is arguably a convenient emotional idea for him to hold onto). And the truth is, I rather think the ex-wife would have ended up bored in St. Marie. She carried her dissatisfaction with her. Nothing can cure that.

Shakespeare Couples: Falstaff Shouldn't Have His Own Sitcom

It's wild to realize how much human nature remains the same. Individual people are different but people's desires remain remarkably consistent. 

Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor was apparently the equivalent of Joey or Frasier. It was a spin-off, written for the sake of a subordinate character, Falstaff. People loved Falstaff so much that Shakespeare had to keep bringing him back. He supposedly wrote Merry Wives at Queen Elizabeth's command (which reminds me of Jamie saying bluntly, "Really!?" when Obama wanted him and Adam to try out the mirrors-as-weapons experiment again on Mythbusters). 

And Merry Wives of Windsor was one of the first Shakespearean plays shown at the start of the Restoration (after the equivalent of lockdowns were lifted).

Despite being requested by Queen Elizabeth, Merry Wives of Windsor wasn't particularly liked even at the time. And I really didn't want to read the play since I don't care about Falstaff. Instead, I watched Orson Welles in The Chimes at Midnight. It helped that the older Orson Welles is how I see Falstaff!

This movie is basically Henry IV, Parts I and II with text from other plays. It is exceptionally well-edited. It is told mostly from Falstaff's point of view but the plot isn't about him (directly).  

And it proves that Falstaff is best presented within a larger story. Like with so many spinoffs, he is more interesting as a subordinate rather than a main character (Frasier was truly an exception, not a rule.)

From a lovers' perspective, Falstaff has less luck than the man who played him. I'm not a fan of the poor buffoon plot used by Merry Wives. And I agree with those critics that the complication of Falstaff is that despite his jokes and joie de vivre, he is in fact a villain. Hal is right to repudiate him.

The true relationship is Falstaff and Hal.  

Trios are All the Rage

Speaking of Leverage...

Lately, more and more shows are presenting the trio rather than the duo, the set of three who take on the world together. Sometimes, a romance is involved or implied. However, since I despise romantic triangles, the four trios I chose here don't rely on the romantic triangle to keep the trio functioning. 

Leverage: Parker, Hardison, and Eliot form a unit, especially in the later seasons. In one episode, they solve the case without Nat and Sophie's help. Eliot becomes the de facto leader, but he is less Mastermind and more the guy who knows how to pull everyone together.  Their group is far more democratic than Nat's group, in part because Nat has trained them to go it alone. 

My Roommate is a Detective: Qiao, Lu Yao and Youning form a unit against the world. Qiao and Lu Yao are the linchpins, being the Watson and Holmes. However, I was quite touched that one of the later episodes heavily implies that circa World War II, Lu Yao will use his contacts to get Qiao, his best friend, and Youning, his wife, out before the Battle of Shanghai, the occupation by the Imperial Japanese Army, and what would shortly become Mao's China. They are functioning members of their social orders--city, family, police force, gang--but ultimately, they will save each other. 

Mysterious Ways: Declan, Peggy, and Miranda. I adore this show and was able to get the DVDs on eBay. It is Adrian Pasdar at his finest since it combines his Hallmark side with his Profit side. The guy can get dark! In some ways, it is X-Files lite, but it has its own vibe and mandate. The three form a believable friendship with no competition. 

Chihayafuru: Chihaya, Arata, and Taichi. I hesitated with Chihayafuru since an underlying romantic rivalry does partly define the relationship between Arata and Taichi, who both are drawn to Chihaya. However, ultimately, the rivalry--at least in Season 1--is a source of inspiration rather than contention. The three formed a bond that is unbreakable, whatever the ups and downs--and whether or not they literally compete against each other. The chivalry here is reminiscent of Coach's line: "We played great. They played better. That's the way the game is supposed to be."

The Transformation of Gilly from Heyer's The Foundling

On Votaries, I am discussing characters that transform. A character that transforms too much may leave the readers confused. A character that transforms too little may leave the readers disappointed. 

Gilly from Georgette Heyer's The Foundling is a great example of a character who transforms just enough. 

Gilly’s uncle and trustee feels compelled to protect Gilly’s inheritance as the Duke of Sale. (His own son, who also supports Gilly, would inherit if the uncle was less protective and upright.) 

Gilly is a soft-spoken young man who has been coddled and watched-over all his life. He eventually goes “walk-about,” leaves his protective supporters, to have an adventure of his own. 

The book is one of Heyer's travelogues, which means that Gilly encounters a con-man and a damsel in distress. He engages in several adventures and acquits himself. 

At the end, when he returns home, his uncle attempts once again to "help" Gilly through blustering goodwill. Gilly finally lays down the law and makes it clear that he, not his uncle, is the Duke of Sale.  

What makes the scene so perfect, however, is that Gilly remains Gilly:

The Duke raised his head and met his uncle's fierce look with one so icily aloof that Lord Lionel was startled. "I have borne enough!" he said, his voice still level and low-pitched, yet anger throbbing in it. "I will not endure any longer this ceaseless thwarting of my every wish. I am fully sensible, sir, of the great debt I owe you for your unremitting care of me...but my gratitude would be increased tenfold if you would bring yourself to believe that I am neither a child nor a fool...It is not I who stands in danger of forgetting that I am Ware of Sale!" 

Lord Lionel is taken aback. But he is a fair-minded man: 

"I never saw you look so like your father before....Ware of Sale, indeed. There, stop glaring at me, Gilly. I have a good mind to box your ears."

The rigid look vanished from the Duke's face. 

He quickly accepts his uncle's olive branch. He continues to speak in a sweet and low way that is more effective than shouting the place down. He doesn't transform into a perfectly confident, perfectly extroverted, perfectly commanding (in style), perfectly perfect Duke of Sale. He remains Gilly--only he has gained the ability to trust himself in his role. He expects others to treat him accordingly. 

The Bratty Lover

Allec is my "bratty lover." Like Rory, 

he saves his older, more stable lover.

One rather adorable archetype in romance is the bratty lover. The character is often younger than the lover, full of piss & vinegar with a sharp tongue and lots of attitude. 

When the archetype works, it is--as noted--adorable and fun. 

Unfortunately, when it doesn't work, it is simply irritating. The character comes off as entitled and self-centered and rather incapable (almost deliberately incapable). 

In Therin's Magic in Manhattan series, Rory is a bratty lover. And he works for several reasons:

1. He isn't entitled. 

His adorableness is built-in, not deliberately cultivated (a character who deliberately cultivates a persona can be interesting but if the purpose is grifting--using others--the deliberate cultivation ultimately fails. Rory, in contrast, is behaving like himself; he has no idea how much he delights his lover, Arthur.

2.  He thinks about others. 

In fact, one of Therin's insightful points is that Rory thinks about all kinds of things, even his complicated relationship with religion. He is aware of people, their variation, their complications. When he starts to figure out Arthur, he goes out of his way to track him down and bring him a meal. 

3. He is fully capable. 

A delightful aspect of the book is that Arthur, the lover, isn't only protective of Rory; he is protective of everyone. 

"You're right, I'm being monstrously overprotective. I'm afraid it's a bad habit of mine. If it makes you feel better, Jade is a telekinetic ex-spy who can kill a man with her mind, and sometimes I can't sleep because I'm afraid she's lost control and accidentally stabbed herself."

"He calls," said Jade.

"I do," Arthur admitted. 

Arthur is protective of Rory, but Rory isn't helpless, and he doesn't practice learned helplessness.

Rory as a bratty lover allows him to be tough as nails, despite several bad events in his past, and to meet Arthur head-on, despite the disparity in class. 

From Yugi Yamada's oeuvre, Naoki plays a similar role with the people around him.  

A-Z Romance Paperbacks: Therin and the 1920s

I complain in several places of the non-historicity of historical romances. The characters behave and talk like moderns. They have modern expectations. They scold each other for violating modern norms. 

It's highly irritating. 

Allie Therin's series Magic in Manhattan (and Roaring Twenties Magic) is a great example of the opposite phenomenon. Therin excellently captures the time period, the zeitgeist, of New York City (and later, London) in the 1920s. The series is urban fantasy, so Therin had more options--could take more liberties with historical "facts"--but generally speaking, the books feel like a tribute to the era of Al Capone and speakeasies and new automobiles and luxury liners than stories containing off-the-cuff allusions to those elements. 

As a writer who struggles with setting, I have to ask, How does she do it? 

She uses language--cloche hat, phonograph, "asylum" rather than "mental institution"--and settings--the series starts in New York City and one of the main characters operates a speakeasy. And Therin references certain events, such as a character learning to drive, which is considered--for a woman of the lower-middleclass--to be highly unusual. 

More than providing language and setting and references, Therin USES them. When Rory, the main protagonist, breaks his glasses, the possible cost of another is considered as big an imposition as me having to fix part of my car. The fact that the woman he works for can drive becomes a factor later on. And the speakeasy is an ongoing setting, especially since the woman who runs it needs to avoid being cheated by bootleggers. 

As I mention in one of my fan fiction posts, capturing a historical time period means taking the conditions of that time period seriously. Therin's series do.