Dumb Trope: Good Guys Are Always Right

One of the dumber tropes is, Good guys are right because they are good. 

NCIS used this trope to an extent with Gibbs, but it wasn't entirely aggravating because Gibbs's "gut" is established early-on as a "given"--and also because Gibbs is capable of doubt. (In the same way, Saitama's incredible power--a "given"--is a source of angst.) 

The trope gets more aggravating when the reader is supposed to accept that a couple is broad-minded and tolerant yet...isn't it amazing how many characters who simply disagree with the couple end up suffering terrible ends? Rather like Victorian "bad" children who choke to death or fall down wells. 

A series that I otherwise liked up to the last book became so vindictive in this way, I become increasingly uncomfortable. When the 2 male characters decided to get married and selected a pizza place for the reception, I thought, "Well, that pizza place better not make the mildest objection--not even being closed that day. Otherwise, it's going to burn down!" 

I've encountered this "God or fate delivered just punishment to the people we despise" idea in religious fiction (which supports growing proof that the fundamentalist right and progressive left are staffed by the same types of people). 

In either case, what is happening is not tolerance or compassion. For that matter, it's not good versus evil. It's not as magnanimous as the former or as big-picture, difficult, and objective as the latter. 

It is rather a run amuck version of high-schoolers-clawing-up-the-social-ladder.  

Great Chivalry Moment: Columbo in "Dead Weight"

So many times in Columbo, Columbo figures out the murderer early on. In "Death Lends a Hand," he figures out the murderer within their first meeting because (1) the man has inserted himself into the investigation; (2) the man's job of private investigator accounts for the claim by the husband that his dead wife had "a clean bill of health"--she supposedly wasn't having an affair; (3) the man is wearing a ring that corresponds to the cut on the victim's cheek. 

In fact, Columbo makes a correct deduction based on strong circumstantial evidence! 

Sometimes, however, his conclusions seem more random. 

"Dead Weight" is a nice exception since Columbo doesn't immediately pinpoint the murderer. He is cautious, in part because of the suspect's reputation but also because he is investigating based on a single eyewitness, and eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable.

And yet...he investigates anyway. And when he investigates, he is thorough, even to insisting that a crate be reopened (see image above). He listens closely to the eyewitness and takes her seriously. He withholds his judgment of accuser and accused until he has thoroughly examined the case. He later points out to the eyewitness, who struggles with self-doubt, that he trusted her more than she trusted herself. 

Wonderful chivalrous and objective role model! 

The Transformation of Leonie from These Old Shades

On Votaries, I am examining characters who transform/don and discard disguises. Women in disguise are a common trope in romance. 

Leonie from These Old Shades doesn't change in personality. She does transform from girl-dressed-as-boy to girl-dressed-as girl.  Justin Alastair, Duke of Avon immediately identifies her true sex. His friend, Hugh, takes a little longer. By the time Alastair delivers Leonie to his sister, a number of people in Leonie's life have already seen through his disguise. 

That is, the transformation is not like Viola's in Twelfth Night, the ultimate revelation that she actually is female. For Leonie, giving up her disguise means she must accept a change in roles.

Leonie weeps bitterly when Alastair gently informs her that she will stay with his sister and be introduced to womanhood. In the long run, Leonie is comfortable with the transition. In the short run, Heyer captures the pain of change, whether due to circumstances or age.  

Heyer's triumph is that Leonie remains herself: honest, active, a little bloodthirsty, and utterly devoted to Alastair. She learns to dance. She enjoys "dressing up." She learns that she is pretty and enjoys her prettiness. 

She sheds her disguise when she accepts the inevitability of change. She does not shed her fundamental character.   

The Non-ness of Pericles

Pericles, Prince of Tyre is one strange play. 

Although I think that Shakespeare was capable to writing bad plays, in this case, he likely only wrote half. I surmise that he wrote the second half since that is the half that actually has a plot. However, even the part with a plot reads exactly like a "fixer" came in to make the play actually producible. 

In fairness, lots of exciting stuff happens. But it rambles--it reads as if someone tried to create an epic but the end result is similar to the Anne of Green Gables: Continuing Story movie, in which Anne almost but doesn't quite do anything. Pericles might marry a young woman sleeping with her father...but doesn't. He might settled down in a country he saved from famine...but he doesn't. He might stay in the kingdom where he is shipwrecked...but he doesn't. 

With such a lack of focus, it's hard to pin down any relationship that actually goes anywhere at all. 

I suppose the primary relationship (in the second half) is between Pericles's daughter, Marina, and Lysimachus, who meet precisely once before the denouement. The relationship strains credibility, mostly because Marina--who is sold to a brothel at the age of 14--retains her virginity by...delivering speeches to men. 

Yeah, right. 

The play is sentimental, moralistic, unbelievable (even by Shakespeare's "hey, let's have fun!" wacky standards). 

Again, as pure spectacle, it wouldn't be boring, but for the purposes of this blog, the relationships are mere passing references. Pericles's wife, with whom he is reunited at the end, is mostly famous for being dumped overboard when the sailors think she is dead. That's it. 

These couples are a world away from Katherina & Petruchio or Beatrice & Benedict.  

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder: Really?

A common trope I rather dislike is the trope of the disappearing significant other. 

The idea is that a couple is dating. They are still figuring out their feelings. Then, one member disappears on a business trip or into a work project or to another country or to visit parents. Sometimes, the significant other announces the event beforehand but quite often, the vanishing act is unexpected. The first member, the one who was less sure, realizes, "Oh my gosh, I really do love this person!" 

The trope isn't entirely useless. It shows up in Cherry Magic between Tsuge and Minato. However, in that case, it is truly more of a plot point than a crisis. The crisis in the relationship comes later when Tsuge confesses that he can read minds (and Minato reacts far more normally than Kurosawa did to the same revelation from Adachi--though Kurosawa's reaction is hilarious). 

Likewise, Kurosawa and Adachi's separation just when they've started dating creates some tension, which is beautifully resolved (that letter!) but everyone knows about the separation going in. 

What is less believable or bearable is when the vanishing act is used to force feelings I'm not entirely sure a character feels. In Real-Time Fever, Shizuka goes home to tend to his father. Kurosaki, who is something of a playboy, is forced to confront that he wants a full-time relationship with Shizuka--.

Sure, when people don't get what they want, they can get quite possessive. It's one reason that auctions and eBay are so effective for sellers. It's one reason that car dealers say things like, "Oh, it will be gone tomorrow." Desperation, a feeling that one is going to lose out, a sudden flooding of "I want" emotion can swamped the rational part of the brain. 

What happens when the significant other does comes home? For that matter, what happens when the relationship moves from high emotion to everyday life? 

In truth, in reality, absence can break or almost break a relationship--as Only the Ring Finger Knows demonstrates. The heart doesn't get fonder. It gets more self-protective.   

Transformation and Disguise in Palace of the Omega

Ilia, an omega, is sent to Hanu to marry the young king, Khalid. The young king is 10 years old but forms a friendship with Ilia and determines to eventually make him his consort. 

The plans are derailed when the king's brother Zayn carries out a coup. Both Khalid and Ilia are presumed dead after one is supposedly killed on a journey and the other jumps from a cliff.  

They find each other 8 years later and they have naturally undergone changes. Khalid's fundamental serious and charismatic character hasn't altered, but he is older and much taller. 

Ilia undergoes a change not in personality--he is still somewhat sarcastic and a bundle of concentrated intent--but in attitude. Though he starts out cynical and indifferent, he grows attached to Khalid for his youthful and innocent earnestness, for his devotion to Hanu, and for his total acceptance of Ilia as his consort and equal. Ilia becomes a believer in something. 

The character development is quite believable since it takes place over time and after personal interactions. 

The series also includes a disguise--namely, Khalid becomes the leader of the rebels without telling others his identity...except they aren't that surprised when he reveals himself...which amuses Ilia to no end. 

Good couple in a story with decent external and internal arcs! The transformations--quite a lot of them--make sense, and the characterizations remain consistent.  

 

Couples in Much Ado about Nothing

Much Ado about Nothing proves that Shakespeare was aware of and capable of creating a relationship of equals. 

Benedict and Beatrice are so well-matched in terms of intelligence, wit, and independence that various retellings of the tale, from Branagh's magnificent and lush masterpiece to Shakespeare Retold's lovely modernization with Sarah Parish and Damian Lewis, do not need to "fix" the relationship to make it modern. Beatrice and Benedict are entirely comprehensible to us. 

Hero and Claude are less likable--of which truth I think Shakespeare is well-aware. If Claude's behavior--shaming her at her wedding--wasn't so reprehensible, Beatrice would have no reason to demand that Benedict challenge Claude. He would have no reason to take her part. 

The problem isn't the anger and jealousy that Claude feels. Shakespeare, as always, is dealing with entirely recognizable human emotions. The problem is, Why would Hero take him back? 

Shakespeare Retold leaves the matter open. And even the play veers away from the youthful idiots to the couple that draws us in. 

One of the best couples in all literature!