The Problem with the Romantic Spy Novel

Agent Smith is NOT a nice guy.

On Votaries, I post about Spies & Spouses. 

The below is a repost.

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The problem with the romantic spy novel is that (realistic) spies are not the kinds of people who should inspire commitment.

I argue on this blog that dysfunctional relationships can work as long as all the people involved know what dysfunction they're signing up for. But there are lines. And a firm line stands between ordinary-dysfunction and con-artists/grifters.

Spies--actual spies--fall into the latter category. Someone like Philby comes across not as clever, resourceful, daring, or even dangerous (in the James Bond sense) but as someone essentially hollow.

Lee, from Scarecrow & Mrs King, is

more like Seeley Booth.

John Le Carre's chilling depiction of spies in The Spy Who Came In From the Cold (wherein the sincerely loyal-to-his-country character is sacrificed by an amoral agent for the sake of protecting a sleazebag asset) is a far more realistic depiction of spies than the noble secret agent who wants to protect his/her country.

A variation to the amoral agent who protects a sleazebag asset is the tough assassin. The problem here is that generally speaking, tough assassins are like the mafia hitman serial killer in an episode of Criminal Minds: a fascinating character with a great deep voice who has no soul.

Every romance writer wants to create Jason Bourne (who doesn't?)--as opposed to the schemer in the backroom. But unless the character IS Jason Bourne and has a good reason to protect himself without becoming callous, amoral, and deranged, the romance writer is stuck. (In Person of Interest, John's determination to regain his soul means he has created a set of personal criteria that he sticks to no matter the cost--he is constantly watching himself--plus he already walked away from being an official "spy".)

Spy movies should not even try to be

realistic--put the secret agent in a tank!

The end result: spy romance novels often end up being (even more) unrealistic (than the average adventure movie). In one I read recently, the spy handed a gun to the object of his assignment, the mark (and love interest), within 24-hours of their meeting. At that point, I rolled my eyes and gave up on the book being anything more than a series of chases (well-written, I'll grant, but still--). A hard-headed, intelligent, resourceful, non-novice, non-amnesiac expert spy simply HANDS over a weapon to a wild card?

Where did my suspension of disbelief go? Oh, there it is, wafting out the window...

I love the "but love conquers all doubts" theme as much as the next romantic. Only, please, not in a spy novel and not in the first three chapters. Even Leverage gave its grifter several seasons to "repent" (and she was a nice grifter).

Mystery Couple: Alleyn & Troy

Many, many mysteries have a romance--either the detective falls in love with someone or one of the suspects falls in love with another suspect.

Some of the most famous couples in literature come from mysteries. 

On Votaries, I discuss Ngaio Marsh's Alleyn. 

Here I'll discuss Alleyn and Troy. 

An artist, Troy meets Alleyn first on-board a ship and then when he investigates a murder at her workshop for students. Alleyn falls for Troy immediately. She takes longer to come around. Marsh rather half-heartedly puts Troy's uncertainty down to a dislike of Alleyn's job (the murder committed at her workshop is rather horrific). Marsh has Alleyn continue to believe that Troy hates his profession. 

As with Alleyn the character, Marsh is a better writer with Troy than she seems aware. That is, Marsh writes Troy as a solid character whose reserve and diffidence are ingrained. When she tries to explain Troy, she doesn't appear to know what she has created. Troy is a shy woman for whom marriage is not a necessity--due to an inheritance and a vocation. However, unlike Harriet Vane, who struggles with her options, Troy isn't opposed to marriage because of her past. Troy struggles because, hey, marriage is a big leap.

That is, in many ways, Troy's reaction is more similar to that of a Japanese manga character (relationships are HARD--do I really want to go down that path?) than to a Western character suffering from trauma.

I quite like Belinda Lang as Troy in the BBC series. Lang is now the adorable and amusing Mrs. Clam on Sister Boniface.  

The Problem of Ross & Rachel: Why It Still Doesn't Work

Julia Roberts shows up, Friends, Season 2

I discuss the rival-character on Votaries. I was reminded of Ross & Rachel whose entirely dysfunctional relationship relied to a degree on jealousy over rivals. 

Here is a repost from 2017. 

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I recently rewatched most seasons of Friends (with self-censoring). It is a remarkably well-written and well-cast show, especially for its time period, 1994-2004. Friends slightly precedes the years when television became the massive money-maker it is now. This may sound odd to the younger generation, but when Michael J. Fox (intelligently) returned to television to star in Spin City in 1996, his decision was still considered rather daring. A television star who made it to the movies going BACK to television?! (That he'd been diagnosed with Parkinson's was not known by the general public until 1998.)

Now, no one thinks anything of Fox's courageous choice. So Friends--with its Hollywood guest stars--was oddly and impressively prescient, and was from Season 1. The network obviously decided to do what all shows wish the network would do for them: back it to the hilt.

David Schwimmer as the Holiday Armadillo

Having said that, I find it almost impossible (still) to watch Ross & Rachel together. Jennifer Aniston is a fine comedienne and David Schwimmer is surprisingly willing to be the Don Knotts of the show--although Don Knotts is more charming.

As a couple, they grate. I self-censored nearly every one of the "fighting" episodes--and a number of the "wondering if we should be a couple" ones as well.

Why? As Eugene points out, failure to mature is the main reason. On an episode to episode basis, what becomes increasingly unbearable re: Ross and Rachel is the ridiculous business of both characters waiting for some special lightning bolt from the blue to decide "we are in love."

They date. They're friends. They care for each other. They sleep together. They have a baby. They live in the same apartment for a number of months. But they can't marry because "it doesn't feel right"?

It's a level of emotional self-indulgence that makes the brain melt. What exactly are they waiting for? As far I can tell, they are waiting for a single subjective moment that writes "I feel it! I feel it!" on their souls--which makes me doubt that the (final) marriage will last more than two seconds. After all, subjective feelings are prone to wax and wane. How long will it be before the writing fades?

Elizabeth hearing praises of Darcy

from his housekeeper.

Compare this with Elizabeth, who was likely always attracted to Darcy but acknowledges her feelings when she encounters his good reputation at Pemberley. It isn't his wealth (although Elizabeth herself jokes about that possibility) but his decent behavior that confirms her (subjective) feelings. Her respect for him grows until she can answer her father's incredulity ("Let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life") by "relating her absolute certainty that [Darcy's] affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months’ suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities."

Compare Rachel & Ross with Booth in Bones who doesn't immediately leave Hannah the moment Bones confesses her feelings to him. The man doesn't substitute a lightning bolt for loyalty and commitment. 

From manga, compare R&R to Fumi Yoshinaga's What Did You Eat Yesterday in which Shiro's desire to keep the relationship growing (partly because he hates the idea of having to start over) leads him to spend extra money on fresh peaches for Kenji (Shiro is a cheapskate so this is a big deal). His later resolution to spend New Year's Eve with Kenji--rather than his parents--is handled with maturity: he invests in his partner.

And from anime, compare R&R to Taeko and Toshio from Only Yesterday who slowly discover similarities as well as differences to admire during Taeko's vacation in Yamagata. In the end, they indicate a willingness to further a relationship of mutual respect.

Love and attraction is part of the equation in all these cases. The difference between them and Ross & Rachel is that the believable relationships don't rest upon some arbitrarily designated moment that may or may not arrive. Initial love/attraction plays a role, but the actual relationship is the result of investment and the additional perception, "I am lucky to have found this person." At the core is (to go old school) high regard, a quality I simply don't believe Rachel and Ross have for each other.

Shakespeare's Couples: Everybody in Hamlet is Dysfunctional

The only thing that keeps Hamlet's relationships from being totally annoying is that Shakespeare appears to have been perfectly aware that all the relationships are horrible. 

Hamlet doesn't trust Cordelia. She is weak and lets others push her around. Even Branagh's addition of sex didn't give that relationship more substance. And that's mostly the point. Hamlet is playing a game. Cordelia is a pawn. There's nothing there because there never really was anything there. 

Gertrude's relationship with Claudius is interesting but it is also a relationship that rests on enormous self-deception. And Updike's version didn't improve it. 

On the male/male front, there is Hamlet and Horatio, but Horatio disappears for most of the play, only showing up to deliver a stellar final line. Nicholas Farrell's Horatio is fantastic, but also gives the impression of carrying on a somewhat one-sided fascination with his prince.

I think the play is a good one, but it is the story of entirely dysfunctional people who can't hold onto anything real and consistent for more than 2 seconds. There's a deep cynicism about it which all the profundity can't allay.

There have been several plays/books about minor characters--the actors who show up at the castle, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern--and those minor characters often end up...not completely miserable. (At the end of Stoppard's play, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern aren't dead yet!) And from that perspective, a romance might be possible. To go traditional, one of the players and the gravedigger's sister (I'm inferring a sister). To go male/male, Fortinbras and, say, Horatio. 

Nobody else stands a chance. 

Perhaps, Hamlet was Shakespeare's answer to Greek tragedy. 

Shakespeare's Jealous Couples: Imogen & Posthumus and Others

First of all, Cymbeline is a strange play. 

It is credited to Shakespeare, but it comes across as a kind of spoof play using bits and pieces of Shakespeare from Othello, The Tempest, Romeo & Juliet. Except it ends positively--with pure schmaltzy moralizing--not tragically.

It reads like Stargate having fun with its own tropes, except it is supposed to be serious. So more like a Hollywood production that is trying to capitalize on the latest trends by throwing them all into the screenplay and then demanding that the Oscars treat the result as an intellectual triumph.

Or something. None of the oddities are helped by people continually running off to Milford Haven in Wales (I'm serious). The whole thing sounds like a Greek tragedy set in Swansea or Staten Island. 

The biggest reason to doubt that Shakespeare was taking himself even remotely seriously is the cause of jealousy between the primary couple. It is one of those cases where the Iago figure, Iachimo, persuades the dopey husband that because he has a particular belonging from the wife, she must be guilty of adultery. The dopey husband immediately believes Iachimo--who isn't motivated by anything more than being Italian and something of a playboy (again, I'm serious)--and complications ensue. (The play also includes kidnapped brothers grown to manhood living in the wilderness--Wales--and Roman senators wandering around Briton trying to get tribute and an evil stepmother and an evil prince and...I'M SERIOUS.)

Consider the differences between Imogen/Posthumus and Claudio/Hero from Much Ado About Nothing, not to forget the classic jealous husband/innocent wife: Othello/Desdemona. 

Claudio believes Hero is faithless based on what he sees. His reaction is completely over the top and not all versions keep the couple together at the end. However, Shakespeare is fully aware of Claudio's overreaction. It motivates Benedict to challenge Claudio at the instigation of Beatrice, who is justifiably outraged by the humiliation of her cousin. It also underscores Shakespeare's theme, that words are more reliable than "seeing." 

"Here's our own hands against our hearts," Benedict proclaims at the end. 

In Othello, the behavior of all characters, while not entirely explicable, is grounded in personality. In part, Othello is worked on by Iago, who is jealous of the world and wants to tear others down (Iago is a pre-social media "troll"). In part, Othello is susceptible due to his own mindset.

Sarah Caudwell's Thus Was Adonis Murdered delivers an excellent explanation of Othello. Cantrip, who was forced to see a stage version of the play, is speaking:

I said afterwards I thought it was pretty silly, because the Othello chap's meant to have done frightfully well in the army and be a wiz at strategy and all that. And in that case, he wouldn't be the sort of twit who thought his wife was having it off with someone else just because she lost her handkerchief. And Julia didn't agree. Well, what she was actually said was that I was a semi-educated flibbertigibbet whose powers of dramatic appreciation would be strained to the utmost by a Punch and Judy show....You see, the way Julia saw it was that a chap who'd spent all his life in the army was just the sort of chap to get a bee in his bonnet about pure womanhood and so on, because he wouldn't get the chance to find out that women were more or less like anyone else and he'd start getting all idealistic about them. So as soon as he found out that Desdemona wasn't perfect--I mean, the first time she spilt coffee or dropped cigarette ash on the carpet--he'd start feeling all disillusioned and thinking she'd betrayed his ideals. And after that, making him believe she was having it off with some other chap would be absolute child's play.

The meat of what Cantrip states is in Shakespeare's script.

In Cymbeline, there's little character development and little thematic development. Posthumous gets jealous on cue. Feels bad on cue. Iachimo behaves badly on cue. Repents on cue. Things happen because the script says so. 

I can't help but wonder if Shakespeare was badgered by his shareholders into writing a play and said, "Fine! You want a play?! Here's all my ideas in a single script--I'll trot them out one after another."

Or, since Shakespeare wasn't adverse to making money, he said, "Sure! Let's trot out all my best ideas and make a bundle!"

 Or maybe Shakespeare was getting meta:

Shakespeare's Couples: The Twins!

Comedy of Errors is entirely dependent on audiences being amused when people mistake one twin for each other.

And I think Shakespeare knew that--that is, I think he knew that he was taking one comedy trope and pushing it as far as it could possibly go. You want twins? Fine, I'll give you TWINS! 

 

So we get not only a set of male twin protagonists but a set of male twin servants. Of the original twins, one is single and one is married. The single twin falls for the sister of the other twin's wife. The twinned servants mix up messages and deliveries. A twin subsequently gets arrested for one of these mix-ups...and so on and so forth.

 

The play can be funny if it is presented as a non-pause, slapstick production with music and Judi Dench talking at Gilbert & Sullivan patter speed. 

 

Yup, it's been done! I just described Trevor Nunn's production: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXP9MMI72Ts

 

Judi Dench plays the wife of the angry, cheating twin. Francesca Annis plays the sister: the beloved of the quieter, more confused twin.

 

What's impressive is that even in this rollercoaster-of-a-ride play (it starts out at an ordinary pace, then gets faster and faster and faster...and weirder), the couples are distinct. The twins are not twins in their marriages. 

 

That is, the angry, impulsive twin is paired with a feisty wife. They are kind of the Burton-Taylor couple. 

 

The other couple is more cerebral (they talk a great deal about love) and romantic. 

 

Shakespeare seems to have believed to his bones, "Each to their own." 

Jane & Tarzan: Instinctive Couple

Tarzan: The Ape Man (1932) starring Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan is a good reminder that the Hays Code didn't come into being until 1934. Pre-Code Hollywood was quite provocative and steamy and fairly unfettered, putting paid to the (irritating) assumption that the mores of a culture only work in one direction. (This assumption is why modern-day Progressives can go on believing that they aren't thorough Victorians.)  

Tarzan and His Mate (1934) slipped by (barely and some stuff was cut). By the time Hollywood reached Tarzan Escapes (1936) and Tarzan Finds a Son (1939), weird anti-body attitudes were in greater play. The last movie gives Tarzan and Jane a non-biological child (and O'Sullivan was pregnant at the time!). Because, you know, biological bodies having biological needs and actually accomplishing biological ends based on things like chromosomes and biological sex is soooo shocking!

Back to Tarzan (1932): Johnny Weissmuller, Olympic gold medalist (swimming), is frankly hot stuff, even now-a-days (what constitutes "good-looking" doesn't change all that much but what gets promoted does). Despite Maureen O'Sullivan's penchant for screaming, Weissmuller's Tarzan wisely takes her body language more seriously than her demeanor. She is very tactile, handling his bare legs and arms and chest without any maidenly qualms. She's more pissed (and at one point legitimately scared) than offended. O'Sullivan's unapologetic physical affection continues unabated through the initial films.

Johnny Weissmuller succeeds in large part because he has the innocence of George of the Jungle (Brendan Fraser) though he forgoes the smirk at the camera. As Taliaferro points out in his biography of Edgar Rice Burroughs, "Americans...viewed Johnny Weissmuller as the least inhibited man alive...Weissmuller...was clean-limbed in every sense. He gave the impression that he could have sold Bibles door to door wearing nothing but a G-string. Like Adam himself, he was naturally ideal and ideally natural. There was no hint of either embarrassment or braggadocio in his comportment." 

In fact, most amusingly, Weissmuller's Tarzan initially treats O'Sullivan's Jane with the good-natured curiosity of a teenage boy towards the new kid. At one point, he takes her handkerchief and tears it to pieces in sheer "hey, look, it rips!" adolescent mindlessness. Stick him in Toy Story and he is innocently blowing up GI Joes and burning ants (and showing off to the kid next door). 

This is Rousseauian innocence, not nature's innocence. Tarzan is surrounded by apes. Apes have sex. Not exactly a mystery. 

In terms of the primal relationship, Jane's screeching in the first movie gets irritating, but her pluck--which Maureen O'Sullivan captures exceedingly well--is refreshing. When she's allowed, she lets her voice dip and go husky.

Interestingly enough, from a feminist Rousseauian point of view, one gets the impression (especially in the second film) that her sudden adoption of helplessness and swooning fear is a cultural instinct, not an inherent one (and there might be some truth in that). As soon as the protective men disappear, she demonstrates that she is fully capable of outsmarting the lions on her own. 

And Tarzan never seems to assume that she can't--he rescues her because he loves her, not because she is lacking in self-reliance.

She also increasingly loses her clothes throughout the first movie. It's the hippie version of Bruce Wayne in Die Hard: her hat, then her shoes, then half her dress...

Clean porn. 

Well, that, and a National Geographic-like (and somewhat exhausting) medley of nature images (if the studio is going to pay for the stuff...). And chimpanzees. People just love their chimpanzees. 

The elephants are fairly impressive as well. 

Romance Archetype: The One That Got Away

The one that got away is a common archetype in romance. In many ways, it is rather lovely and reminiscent of the parable of the lost sheep. There is something incredibly attractive to human beings that missed chances/opportunities/beloveds are still within reach. 

And it quite honestly isn't one of my favorite tropes. 

My problems with the trope in romance are two-fold:

1. Regret is a waste of time. 

In Sense & Sensibility, Willoughby regrets his choice to marry for money rather than love. Eleanor reflects that he would have regretted marrying for love if he'd actually done so. His regrets are the regrets of people who create utopias: the idea or expectation that life choices can be moved around a person's life like pieces on a chessboard rather than as organic events that arise from experience and lead to the next experience. 

Joe versus The Volcano is the reality: "It's a long, crooked road that brought me here to you." People can make new choices but they can't unwind the road. They go forward from where they are.

2. People do move on. 

There's a rather unexpected NCIS episode in which a woman comes to the United States to track down her husband. She is absolutely sure that he is still waiting, unmarried, endlessly hopeful of their reunion. 

When the team find him, he is married. He isn't a bad guy (and the writers give him the excuse that he thought the wife was dead). It's been several years. He moved on. 

Despite my problems with the trope in romance, I am a fan of the implicit grace of the trope. Combine religion and romance and one gets the fantastic ending of Babette's Feast. It isn't so much that one gets to rewind. In the end, everything is granted one. We don't have to bargain with God.

Scrooge versus Phil: Personal Change versus Romantic Change

The repentant hero is quite popular, especially at Christmas! In terms of romance, there is a marked difference between Scrooge from A Christmas Carol and Phil from Groundhog Day. 

Although Scrooge lost a great love--the scene earns a song in The Muppet Movie--few versions reunite him with that great love. Likewise, The Grinch doesn't start dating at the end--not in the picture book or animated feature. And although Russ from The Kid has a girlfriend/wife waiting in his future, his change is due to a visit from a "ghost of Christmas past," not the potential significant other.

Yet, the repentant hero in Groundhog Day does have a romantic attachment.

The difference lies in the character arc. Scrooge and The Grinch and Russ undergo an internal realignment. The internal change is shown through external images and events. The stories are quite remarkably well-told. 

With Groundhog Day (also a great film), the change is about the main character learning to get along with other people.

Scrooge alters internally and shows that internal alteration through his treatment of others. 

Phil learns how to change internally by treating others, even a life insurance salesman!, better over time (one day over and over).

I think that both types of change/epiphany are possible. Romance is more suitable to the second type than the first. The Beast learns to be less beastly by spending time around Belle.  

Scrooge learns to be less awful through forced personal reflection. 

Shakespeare's Couples: Orlando & Rosalind are Kinda Boring

I'll discuss girls-dress-as-boys (or, speaking historically, boys-dressed-as-girls-dressed-as-boys-who-dress-as-girls-again) more when I reach Twelfth Night. 

For now...I'll confess, I don't think As You Like It is all that funny. 

I did when I was younger, likely because I saw a cut version of the play in the park and enjoyed it. But after trying multiple versions this past summer, I determined, "Nah. I don't know what Shakespeare was doing here, but it's not comedy..." 

The play drags as The Royal Shakespeare Company filmed version proves. The many, many, many conversations feel like clever people exchanging in-jokes while the rest of us look on. Shakespeare honestly doesn't have to feel that way. 

 

Branagh's version starts out better than the others because he cuts it ruthlessly. However, I have to agree with various critics who don't understand the purpose of the Japanese setting. I liked it for its own sake but it doesn't contribute to the movie one way or the other.

 

His leads do have great chemistry! Bryce Dallas Howard doesn't look remotely male, not even enough for us to pretend. Still--the premise calls for a great deal of belief and disbelief being suspended.

 

Olivier and Elisabeth Bergner (image above) also have great chemistry. Granted, it's hard to believe that Olivier hiked into the forest to find the exiled duke (good heavens, he looks healthy for a starving man!). But once the two lovers meet, he has supposedly recovered. And she's adorable. 

 

But I decided that the biggest problem with the couple is that the play is more Sleepless in Seattle than You've Got Mail--that is, the play is mostly about the leads when they are NOT together rather than ongoing interactions between the leads. 

 

Not even Helen Mirren changed

my mind about the play.

Much Ado About Nothing and Taming of the Shrew depend more on ongoing interactions. Twelfth Night is somewhere in the middle. As You Like It: not so much.

 

Granted, As You Like It has more interactions than Sleepless. But it takes a surprisingly long time for the couple to have anything approaching an actual conversation. 

 

Maybe the play is a decent drama or an okay comedy about peasants. But as a comedy about a couple...frankly, I think it falls flat.

 

Lifestyles Matter in Love: Rear Window

The idea that love can overcome any barrier is nice in theory. In reality, it is less than practical.

That doesn't mean, love can't overcome differences in backgrounds, family, social standing, economic disparities, educational experience, and future goals. But if members of a couple think that declarations of affection are enough, they are kidding themselves. 

In Rear Window, Jeffries argues that (1) Lisa wants him to change (she implies he could change by becoming a society photographer, which, of course, he would loath); (2) Lisa isn't prepared for the life he leads. He is entirely correct, at least in that moment. The exchange also produces one of the best lines by Jeffries: "I'm just trying to make [my lifestyle] sound good." 

They come together over the case. Lisa is daring and clever. Moreover, the script implies a few times that she is not entirely enthralled by her shop-lunch-get-quotes-from-celebrities lifestyle. She may in fact be up for jaunts in the wild. 

Which doesn't mean Lisa has subordinated her personality. She still is greatly interested in fashion, which world can be cut-throat in its own way. 

The relationship could possibly work if both parties accepted that certain things they do are off-limits. So Jeffries visits warlords and takes pictures, then returns to Paris where Lisa is easily navigating political and personal minefields within the fashion world. He attends a show. And then they both go to, say, the 1956 Olympics or the first interfaith meeting in Morocco or a session of the House Un-American Activities Committee. 

In other words, I don't think Lisa should be hanging out around the Suez Crisis with Jeffries. It has nothing to do with competence or well-meaningness. It has everything to do with experience. And I rather suspect that Jeffries' sardonic comments may not go over terribly well with Balenciaga (though fashion designers are fairly tough), especially since it is doubtful that he would have any  idea what he was talking about. 

They could be a working couple, who each respect the work the other does partly alone.

Shakespeare's Couples: Antony & Cleopatra

These posts examine Shakespeare's couples. For Antony and Cleopatra, however, I went to the Hollywood extravaganza rather than Shakespeare's play. Cleopatra stars Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra and Richard Burton as Antony.

By all accounts, the historical couple truly were that attached and tempestuous. That is, Cleopatra and Caesar slept together as high-powered political entities. They knew exactly how to use each other.

But Cleopatra and Antony were apparently that much in love and that...dumb about it. A number of historians tut-tut over Roman insularity, used by Augustus to argue that Antony was pitting a "foreign" mistress/power against Rome. They point out, correctly, that Egypt wasn't seen as a different Empire but as part of Rome. Every Roman general was occupying land outside of "Rome."

However, I think the historian's arguments are special pleading. I think any populace would look askance at Antony's behavior: a guy who leaves his wife and family to spend more time than necessary with a royal entity who has already linked herself to Caesar--who is also a problem for Rome. She is, moreover, a canny politician (not the drug-addled character in HBO's Rome) and has her own host of familial complications. And all of this during a Civil War!

In any case, the pair require smoldering passion. Elizabeth and Burton mostly deliver. Critics have accused Taylor of being too shrill and Burton as being too sour. Both criticisms are true. 

However, Taylor is far better than most Cleopatras, who far too often are too young, pretty, and pouty. Taylor, at least, comes across as self-possessed. At best, she comes across as tough while being sexy, not sexy in spite of being tough. And Burton exhibits charisma, a great man in diminishment. They are believably romantic and believably dysfunctional. 

Romance in Historical Epic Films: Couples as a Given

Although romance is almost always in epics, it is usually not the focus of the epic, not even Last of the Mohicans, which I would argue is mostly an excuse to look at the landscape and the beautiful people.

I don't consider the lack of romance a flaw. It isn't good to not have it. It isn't bad to not have it. It just is.

I do get irritated when it seems like the romance is there just to be a source of epic angst. I quite enjoy the first half of Cleopatra with Elizabeth Taylor. I find the second half--as Antony self-destructs--rather dull. Likewise, I never moved on to Rome's second season, in part because I thought the death of the wife was pointless (I was far more interested in watching an ordinary family survive the upheavals in Ancient Rome than watching them enact melodramas) and mostly because I don't care how much Cleopatra and Antony loved each other or destroyed one another, which the second season, by default, focused on.

 

From a more workable standpoint, Dov's romance with Karen in Exodus belongs in the "and then she died" category since no parental figure of good sense would encourage Karen to commit to Dov. Her death is more about Dov's growth than Karen's in any case. 

Maria and Andrea

Two non-doomed romances in epics--Hawkeye and Cora from Last of the Mohicans and Andrea and Maria from Guns of Navarone--work to an extent because they are taken for granted. Hawkeye does rescue Cora and there is a kind of a rival but the relationship by the leads is assumed. In Guns, Andrea's relationship with the freedom fighter, Maria, provides motivation for Andrea to change direction in his life. The romance is skillfully set up in prior scenes, in part because Maria announces her attraction to Andrea (providing an opportunity for Gregory Peck's Keith Mallory, who is in the car during the exchange, to look blankly bemused, which he does effortlessly). 

 

Epics in romance are opportunities to present romances as givens, which approach can itself be quite relaxing. 

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-onlys, and what-ifs 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.

Time Traveling and Love: The Problem

I saw Somewhere in Time with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour when I was a teen, and I've never forgotten it even though I doubt I've seen it since. 

In many ways, it is the ultimate romance time travel story since it combines the circular plot idea (the old woman comes to see him--he goes back--to meet the woman--who will grow old and come to see him--) with star-crossed lovers. It also uses one of my favorite ideas: that researching a time period may not be enough to get facts correct (Richard is complimented by an older lady in the past for wearing his grandfather's suit).

And so on and so forth. 

But it isn't one of my favorite movies and not due to the unhappy ending. It seems a lot of effort to...end up where they started.

Generally speaking, I think the time travel-love story always has this problem. I quite like The Lakehouse--in part because the issue isn't IF the couple will get together but WHEN (they meet prior to the final meeting). 

The Time Traveler's Wife accomplishes the same feat of ignoring IF for HOW. The couple have already met and married. The focus is Henry's wife's adjustment to her lover, a man who is in the process of maturing when she meets him chronologically rather than the mature man she met when she was younger.

IF can be interesting--and is extremely well-tackled in Star Trek Voyager's "Year of Hell" 2-parter, in which a man keeps trying to get back the wife he lost--but there isn't much else to do apart from the "if." Stargate tackled the idea of "if" for one episode. It doesn't need much more time than that.  

Generally speaking with time travel plots, someone else's problems are better plot fodder, as in Quantum Leap and Back to the Future, rather than the protagonist's personal romance.

Even Sam Beckett, ultimately, remains unattached.