Learning from Fan Fiction: Paul Mansell and Heyer's Occasional Pettiness

When I went to write Heyer fan-fiction about one of Heyer's mysteries, I discovered that a character Heyer disliked was truly not that unlikable.  

In They Found Him Dead, Paul Mansell is a member of a firm owned by the first and second murder victims and by a near-victim, heir presumptive to the head of the firm. The Mansells--father and son--are suspected in the murders and murder- attempt since they are trying to put through a deal that the victims and near-victim oppose. 

*Spoilers*

At one point, Paul Mansell, the son, gets upset at the questions posed to him by the detectives. He points out that he is being offered up to them by someone they should suspect instead. 

Turns out--he is right! 

At another point, Paul Mansell discusses the supposed motive for the killings--the possible deal--with the near-victim. He points out that a decision has to be made. The near-victim is right to refuse to make an instant decision. But Paul Mansell is also simply doing his job. 

And yet throughout the novel, Heyer continually has characters refer to Mansell in slighting ways. The way he dresses! The fact that he was divorced! He is oily and snaky!

It's the kind of petty high school labeling that underscores some of Heyer's work (not all) and seems to show up when she is being lazy. There's absolutely no reason for the reader to dislike Mansell, other than that the protagonists (and detectives) keep criticizing him. A writer who uses this approach runs the risk of readers beginning to dislike the protagonists. (Heyer is a good enough writer, her protagonists remain decent people: but it's a close call!)

In my fan-fiction, I kept Mansell's character mostly as is except I increased his interest in cars and gave him more concrete motives: he wants the deal to go through so he can buy himself out of the firm and do something else. 

I also linked him with Trevor. Trevor is the erstwhile boyfriend of a victim's wife, Rosemary. Rosemary--who talks incessantly about her "deep" feelings throughout the novel--is quite hilariously presented (she is believably awful because Heyer shows that she is awful). 

I borrowed Dempsey for Trevor.

In my Heyer universe, men can openly marry men and did so in medieval and Regency times. In a reversal of the usual pattern, modern England has become less supportive of the idea. Without the survival mechanism of earlier times--marriages performed for money and diplomacy--marriage mart lads have fallen out of style. (One reason Paul wishes to leave the firm is that he is tired of his father's pressure on him to marry a woman.) 

Trevor pursues Rosemary because it seems like the kind of thing he should do. When she throws him over--because her husband inherited a fortune--he ends up in Paul's orbit. Eventually, they form a relationship. Trevor's bluff personality complements Paul's somewhat acerbic one. Paul gets out of the firm and sets up a high-end garage for fancy cars. Trevor invests. Eventually, they marry. 

A far happier ending for those characters!     

Du Maurier's Rebecca: How Romantic Is It Really?

Rebecca is a great mystery. It is even a great Gothic novel.

Is it romantic? 

*Spoilers*

Although the wooing of the unnamed bride (I will call her JF for Joan Fontaine) is quite romantic--the classic rescue of a harassed innocent by an older man--the reason for the marriage is never entirely explained. Maxim, the angsty, grouchy groom, seems to be clinging to JF's youth and a need for companionship. As the book and 1940 film capture, after the whirlwind marriage, JF has difficulty fitting into a social class that is slightly above her own. 

The great emotional climax, of course, is when Maxim confesses that he killed Rebecca, his loathsome previous wife, because he hated her. And JF is thrilled. The passage in the book is wonderfully single-minded. She doesn't care about the murder, only, "He had never loved her--never!" 

Except...he IS entirely obsessed with his dead wife. Not only because he murdered her. He is obsessed because he can't shake how far he was deceived, how much he was mistreated, how much he feared people discovering what she was truly like. He is so obsessed with his past that when his current wife appears in the same costume as his dead wife, he gets all wigged out and snaps at her. 

Good grief, Rochester has a crazy wife locked in the attic, and he is less obsessed than Maxim! One gets the feeling that if Jane Eyre showed up in the crazy wife's costume, he would say, "Hey, looks better on you than on her--way to go!" 

It's the constant hand-wringing that calls JF and Maxim's relationship into question. It's like going on an initial date with a guy who wants to tell you all about his ex-girlfriends or all about his past relationship trauma (both experiences that I've had). And the thought occurs, Uh, I don't think you are really over any of that, and I don't really want to get dragged into it. Being in passionate love and being angrily obsessed may be different in intention. They are remarkably similar in behavior.

In fact, Daphne Du Maurier indicates that the relationship may be "romantic" in the old meaning of the term (full of melodramatic action) but not "romantic" in the modern meaning. The book ends on an ambiguous note. JF and Maxim are now living in a small hotel in Europe:

[Maxim] never complains, not even when he remembers...which happens, I think, rather more often than he would have me know. The devil does not ride us any more. Of course, we have our moments of depression...but...I know we are together, we march in unison, no clash of thought or of opinion makes a barrier between us...boredom is a pleasing antidote to fear. I have learnt my lesson [not to read items aloud that will evoke the past]. We never speak of Manderley.

She has grown up. She and Maxim will manage. That's good enough. But the image of JF having to endlessly "handle" her husband--a life in which she can never truly relax, never leave the past alone or discuss it directly, always guard her words and her thoughts (whatever she claims), constantly read her husband's emotional state as she fulfills the role of therapeutic helpmeet--fills me with bone-deep weariness. Not a smidgen of romance. 

Great Sci-Fi Couples: Cam and Arastoo

Forbidden Planet reminded me of one of my lists: Great Sci-Fi Couples

I include Cam and Arastoo on this list. Sure, Bones is a modern detective forensic show, but the very cool equipment and some of the plots have a sci-fi element. 

In truth, though, what I like about Cam and Arastoo is not so much the sci-fi part but how believable I find them. The episode in which Arastoo's parents come to town highlights the couple's compatibility. Some men marry women who resemble their mothers. Arastoo is one of them!

Cam is somewhat more diplomatic than Arastoo's mother. But she is just as tough and independent. And Arastoo, at heart, is like Booth (and Sam from Sister Boniface) and his own father: a family-oriented guy who is somewhat more laid back than his girlfriend/wife despite his personal ambitions. 

Arastoo gets upset with his parents in the episode but at his core, he is mild-mannered and big-hearted. His gentle suggestion that Cam forgive the woman who stole her identity (or, at least, walk away) is a good example of how well the two work together. 

Shakespeare's Couples: Altaira & Adams

Forbidden Planet is based on Shakespeare's The Tempest. 

I consider Altaira and Commander Adams a more than decent sci-fi couple. 

Here's why (repost form  2020):

One of the things that bugs me about many so-called feminists is how susceptible they are to superficialities.

What's also sad is how far these superficialities creep into the culture, so people adopt them without thinking. 

A few years ago, I showed a clip of Forbidden Planet in class. In the clip, Anne Francis as Altaira walks across the floor to speak to Leslie Nielsen's Captain Adams.  

"What do you see?" I said.

All the students could come up with was her short skirt--oh, it is so sexist--and her supposed demureness, based, I suppose, on her blondness and high voice. Or the fact that the man is taller than she (Leslie Nielsen at 6'1"). Or that the two hug. I really have no idea.

They entirely missed her direct gaze; her level, clear voice; her willingness to argue; her nearly proprietary caress, the fact that she controls the situation.

Anne Francis, like other great sci-fi heroines, took the role and made it her own. To miss these obvious clues for the sake of cliches is to ignore her contributions: how she helped create a great film, her steady career as a working actress.

She and a non-joking Leslie Nielsen convey a workable relationship--she isn't a damsel in distress, no matter her temporary role. She's a working partner. 

Learning from Fan Fiction: Some Relationships May Not Work

On Votaries, I discuss Thumbelina, which brings me--on Romance & Manga--to relationships between average-size people and little people. 

A perfectly respectable romance archetype! Think Tauriel and Kili or Mizuki and Caius. In both cases, the archetypes work in part because the issue is less about size or height and more about culture. 

But a romantic relationship between a miniature person and a human is  always, ultimately, about the difference in height. 

In my fan fiction, I had one of the Littles, Tom, meet a human. Much like Arrietty who continually seeks out humans, Tom wants to make contact beyond his somewhat limited family circle. And he becomes attached. He takes himself off to the same college as the human, where he makes a home for himself in the area behind the brick facade above a dormitory window, and--

I then realized that for the relationship to move forward, I would have to resort to "science" (a la Honey, I Shrunk the Kids) or magic or dreams (a la Alice in Wonderland). 

That is, I was not trying to establish a platonic friendship or even a platonic chivalrous admiration but, rather, a romantic relationship with the attendant physical relationship. And unless it descended into salaciousness (see Gulliver's Travels), it needed to be on an equal footing in both the literal and metaphorical meaning of that term. 

"Equal footing" can cover a lot of territory. Note Tauriel & Kili, Mizuki & Caius above. "Short" or technically little (LP) and "tall" or technically average-sized. Or someone in a wheelchair and someone who is not. All these relationships can work! 

Miniature and fully human, however, gets into the metaphysical.   

Bromance: Ryan and Esposito

"Bromance" refers to a type of buddy-buddy relationship between men that exists in older literature. It goes beyond friendship, having a chivalrous and romantic tone. Such friends are often easily "shipped" (think of Spock and Kirk). In some cases, as with Supernatural, the "bromance" elements override the character's fraternal relationship (which naturally confuses the characters). 

I quite like bromances, of all types, from war buddies rescuing each other to not-brothers-brothers being all-in-all to each other (and then there's Castiel!). I like bromances with romance...

And I like bromances without romance. 

Ryan and Esposito from Castle strike me as one of the best male friendships without a romantic element out there. I'm sure someone somewhere has "shipped" them. But I find their platontic partnership and easy camaraderie entirely believable. Unlike some (not all) television bromances, I don't feel like the wife/girlfriend is thrown in to remind us "uh, no, really, they are heterosexual." Ryan with Jennie (played by his real-life wife) and Esposito with various girlfriends, including Lanie, continue to be good friends. Their lives and personalities expand without them dropping that best friend from work.  

Good writing and acting! 

Sato: Transformation to Normal Teen

One of the most fascinating transformations in manga is Sato in His Favorite. 

Sato starts out as a not atypical manga/yaoi/shojo figure: the tall, handsome, aloof, sarcastic, slightly sadistic, intelligent guy who finds ordinary mortals somewhat perplexing. House, MD--but younger. He starts out, in fact, as a kind of non-changing Sherlock Holmes. 

He doesn't stay that way. As he dates Yoshida, he becomes more and more teenager-ish. He gets enthralled by the school trip. He enjoys fireworks. He gets upset and jealous over everyday spats. His peers begin to interact with him more naturally, so that at one point, they defend Yoshida when Sato tries to tease him! Sato even has his own "clique" in which he comes across less as the "pretty boy" and more as a gangling, normally awkward guy who gets invested in the group's various ups and downs and interests. 

The transformation here isn't a mistake. Although His Favorite is one of the funniest ongoing pastiches and spoofs of teenage manga tropes, Sato's transformation from a somewhat nihilistic, indifferent young man to a regular teenage boy is applauded by Yoshida and the author. At one point, the teenage girls bemoan that Sato has lost his superior edge, the "suave" behavior that made him so initially attractive. Sato is disconcerted--but his transformation is already too far gone. He can't go back.

No longer a budding sociopath but a teenage boy with a "favorite," Sato--due to honest, say-it-like-it-is, down-to-earth Yoshida (with whom he has normal fights)--has joined humanity.