Showing posts with label romance novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label romance novels. Show all posts

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Bodice Ripping Cliches, Part 3: A Swift Kick In the Crown Jewels

I'll be the first to admit that the romance novels of Bertrice Small were the source of much unintentional comedy between myself and The Happy Scribe in our younger years. For all the talk about Mme. Small's devotion to historical accuracy and painstaking research, even I will have to admit that our tolerance for romance-novel cliches were diminished by our repeated reading of her oeuvre.

Let's run down the cliche list, shall we? Coercion? Check. Stockholm Syndrome? Check. Horny Scottish Lairds? Check. Repetitious sequences involving kinky sex in harems? Check. Too many underage milksop brides trying to be feisty, yet throwing their corsets to the wind as soon as the Horny Intrepid Hero(es) entice them to bed? Check, check, check.

But the most tiring Bertrice Small cliche of them all, in my opinion, is the one involving the Excessively Horny Real-Life Royal. I swear, after reading so many Bertrice Small novels, you'd think that all these European royals were never taught how to keep it in their pants; not the impetuous young princes, and certainly not the lecherously Dirty Old Kings who ought to know better.

Say what you want here, but apparently Bertrice Small may have taken Henry Kissinger's words about power being "the ultimate aphrodisiac" a little too far here.

Don't even get me started on the repetitive nature of each plot line: Royal seduces our heroine in the most lascivious way; Royal shows Heroine a "good time" in bed; history intervenes (regardless of whether or not our Heroine actually becomes enceinte from their one night of "passion"), and Our Lovely Heroine parts with the Royal on relatively civil terms so that she can be reunited with Our Intrepid Hero. Ho. Freaking. Hum.

With all due respect, I'm the kind of romance reader who would rather enjoy a book where the leads engage in Hot, Sweaty, Exclusive Monogamy. No partner-switching, no plot-driven adultery, not even a single attempted rape. Which is why I find it ironic that I've actually found a Bertrice Small novel that actually defies the cliches I've written above, even with a Horny Royal romping about the premises.

Do not be fooled by the cheese-tastic (and horribly inaccurate) cover: Love, Remember Me is actually Not That Bad. Intended as a sequel-of-sorts to the also semi-cheesy Blaze Wyndham, this novel follows Nyssa Wyndham - the daughter of the titular Blaze - into the court of her mother's ex-lover Henry VIII as a lady-in-waiting to Anne of Cleves, rendered here as a pragmatic, good-humored German princess who sees her sham marriage to Henry for what it is and agrees to part with him on civil terms. Here Small's historical research pays off nicely - the court of the Tudor King, and its surrounding characters, have never been rendered with so much rich detail.

Yes, it starts out very, very badly: Amid speculation that the virginal - and brunette - Nyssa may be in line to be Henry's next mistress (which... considering that her mother used to do the nasty with the King himself: awkward!), certain forces conspire to have Nyssa wake up in bed naked next to the "notorious rake" Lord Varian de Winter, in order to take her out of contention and replace her with Catherine Howard. That the devilishly handsome Lord Varian would also turn out to be an illegitimate relation of Cat Howard also factors prominently in the story, since the rest of the story is centered around the rise and fall of a woman who married for power and ended up in the history books as the "beheaded" between Anne of Cleves ("divorced") and Katherine Parr ("survived").

But enough about poor Cat Howard, who would never have lost her head had she actually kept her own legs crossed. I know some readers have complained about Love, Remember Me having too much history and not enough hot lovin', but I thought that the side action (ahem) between Nyssa and Varian dovetailed nicely with the rest of the history-book aspects of the novel. Nyssa starts out as a feisty but proper 18 year old, who is rightfully freaked out to find herself being gossiped about in relation to both Varian (approximate age in book: 32) and the grossly obese fortysomething King Henry (who, as other characters would point out later in the book, may as well have been her own father... again: ewwwww). Once Nyssa enters the marital chamber, however, Varian handles her "first time" with a surprising amount of finesse and sensitivity... and that's just the first of many heartbreakingly intimate revelations between man and wife. Suffice it to say that Teh Sex between Lord and Lady De Winter may be hot, but it's not as devastating as the quieter conversations they have between all the rumpy-pumpy. It's a testament to Small's restraint that not only do Varian and Nyssa remain faithful to each other throughout the story, but that the only other attempt at Nyssa's post-marital virtue is swiftly thwarted by Nyssa with a few well-placed knee jabs delivered to her attackers.

Despite the age difference between them - not to mention the inordinate amounts of sex - Varian does treat Nyssa with more than a fair measure of equality; as he mentions in the story, he was already preparing to settle down when he met her, and he would have been lucky to choose her as a wife anyway. Nyssa also grows to love Varian - and bears his children (yes, folks, she has twins) - but she also learns to find her own strength, and her growth from lady-in-waiting to fiercely protective matriarch becomes a striking parallel to Cat Howard's infidelity, which Nyssa observes with appropriate puzzlement. By the time Cat ends up facing the chopping block, loyalties are tested and lessons are learned... and our beloved Lord and Lady De Winter emerge from the scandal more ferociously devoted to each other.

Yes, it sounds so cheesy and trite on paper - especially after I've left out some pretty spoilery bits out of that summary above - but the great majority of elements in this book do fit together nicely. You'll be surprised to find how a love story like this could actually turn out to be even more touching amidst all the skullduggery - and even more so to find that such a tastefully developed story could come out of the mind of Bertrice Small, who might as well have bartered every single character in this book into white slavery. At the very least, it should save you some trouble for your next European History midterm.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Bodice Ripping Cliches

Those of you who know me know that romance novels are my not-so-secret shame; there's no amount of college-educated veneer that can cover up my craving for far-flung adventures, flowery purple prose, and aesthetically pleasing protagonists who find themselves falling in love in the most improbable ways. (Don't believe me? Click here for the entries I wrote in my regular blog on this very genre.)

And, as I have mentioned on my blog before, I am excruciatingly picky about which bodice rippers I get to buy. None of your $4 Harlequin romances for me - give me the $6-$8 paperbacks with the shimmery gauze and flowers on the front cover (which often conveniently hides the potentially embarrassing Regency-era bodice-ripping tableau underneath), or your contemporary romances with cartoon women in fancy heels and silky scarves! Give me something that has the words "New York Times Bestselling Author" on them, and you'll know I'm a sucker from the get-go.

Now that we've gotten this out of the way, here's a sampling of romance-novel cliches that I truly believe should be retired as soon as possible:


- Coercion. Hello, romance-writing people - it's the 21st century already! How many times do we have to remind you that No Means No? And don't even try to retcon the whole thing by giving us the ol' "hard-to-get" trick, or that she ended up enjoying being in the sucker's own bed, because really - if she didn't enjoy it then, she'd be a fair amount of crazy to think it's acceptable later. It wasn't acceptable back in the days of Jane Austen, and it sure as hell won't be acceptable now.

- The Stockholm Syndrome. In the same token, please don't give us any more of those "heroine falls for her kidnapper" plots unless you can give us a plausible example of how it happens. I personally used to enjoy this particular plot, until I picked up an Ann Rule anthology that explained the Stockholm Syndrome to me in shockingly gruesome detail. Let's just say that a lot of books went back to the library that day, and there was vomiting involved.


- Fabio. Fabio the person is already reprehensible to me (not the least of which for his ongoing childish beef with my boy Intern George), but the concept of Fabio and his clones - the long hair, the rippling muscles - being brandished indiscriminately on the front covers of paperbacks is representative of everything that gives romance novels a bad, bad name. Am I, as part of the Dear Reader contingent, supposed to swoon like a maiden and lay myself down, expecting to be ravaged by this masculine beast? Also, judging by the shots from Old Fabs' guest appearance on America's Next Top Model, it's beginning to look more and more to me that the guy, er, doesn't seem to genuinely enjoy the company of women. I'm just saying.

- The Mandingo as Noble Savage. You will never, ever, find me picking up any books where Africans, Latinos, Asians, Native Americans, Gypsies, and even Hawaii-based surfers are being held up as shining examples of manhood for the bored haole ladies who fall at their feet. Likewise, if you ever find me picking up books where bored haole men fall in love with equally "exotic" women, there's a good chance that you will definitely find me laughing in the aisles. There are relatively few novelists that are truly adept at making interracial relationships believable and plausible without having to resort to such borderline-offensive generalities.

- Vampires. Yes, I'll say it - I'm one of the few women in America who does not, repeat, not get turned on by the thought of an otherwise luscious ol' bloodsucker nipping at my heels (or any other part of my body, for that matter). What is the big deal about fraternizing with the undead, anyway? It's not like you could take them anywhere for dinner. For this, I blame Laurell K. Hamilton and her silly notions of ardeur.

- Improbable sex acts. Man, I wish I had the link to that one actual novel where Our Intrepid Hero takes "a flying leap" into, er, Our Lovely Heroine, with her lying on a wooden floor beneath him. Yowch!

- The Underage Bride/ Dirty Old Hero. If the age of Our Lovely Heroine is younger than the age of consent in a good majority of the 50 states, and/or the Intrepid Hero who's supposed to love and save her is older than her by more than 10 years, that's not romantic - that's plenty creepy.

-The sentence "I'll take that as a yes" as an acceptable closing line. The first time I read this was cute. The next three dozen books that I read afterward that had the same line... not so much.

Yes, I do seem to have more rules on romance novels than Barney on How I Met Your Mother has rules on dating. Please note, however, that not all bodice-rippers have these cliches, and not all romance-novel cliches are this excruciating to behold. It's all a matter of where you look.