"That man was no more a devout Catholic than the dog that begged for scraps at the kitchen door"

During the down time between reading novels and drinking Bewildered Heart scours the headlines for interviews, competitions, medical research and university papers as inspiration and something to write about. In the ever-expanding mass of nothingness later renamed the World Wide Web a day rarely goes by without a baseless accusation, some outrageous opinion or a tired retread of conventional wisdom to tide us over until this weblog can add to the ever-expanding mass of nothingness you, dear reader, are wasting time on at this very moment. Recently, however, keyword searches and Google alerts have not offered much in the way of excitement. However, a recurring theme has developed and, when faced with few alternatives, a recurring theme has to be considered enough. Diana, a biopic of the Princess of Wales, was released and critics everywhere decided that no review could be complete without a reference to Mills & Boon, inundating the Bewildered Heart inbox with antipathy and photographs of Naomi Watts smiling. The storyline of the movie appears to have all the elements considered vital for a conventional romance. There is a beautiful princess, a dashing surgeon and plenty of conflict to threaten their coupling. Yet the critical savaging is not aimed at the scenario, it is based on a supposedly true story, after all, but rather the narrative treatment.

Diana has been reviewed variously as, 'a Mills and Boon with worse dialogue, a doctor and princess book from the Mills & Boon stable, a Mills & Boon-esque misfire, let down by the Mills & Boon-level script, with syrupy sentiment Mills & Boon might reject for being too cloying, and a heroine with a weakness for speaking in Mills & Boon, while events plod a Mills-and-Boon, low-brow and soapy path, playing out like a Mills & Boon romance, with history receiving a full Mills & Boon makeover.' So much for minimising word repetition. Despite this overwhelming barrage The Guardian newspaper disagreed. 'The movie isn't so much Mills & Boon as a horrendous Fifty Shades of Grey with the S&M sex taken out,' they countered, neglecting to notice that Fifty Shades without the S&M sex is Mills & Boon. What can it mean for a brand name to become synonymous with artistic atrocity? Such a calamity befalls Harlequin every so often, as a novel, film, song or heartfelt declaration is criticised for displaying the qualities indicative of the publisher. Is this fair to the likes of Diana and Mills & Boon, their admirers and their detractors? Is this lazy journalism, offering soundbites without evidence or context? Is the use of Mills & Boon in place of an adjective harmful to any hope Harlequin may have of redeeming its reputation?

For a fan of the numerously aforementioned company the backlash aimed at Diana does not make for pretty reading. Fortunately, fans of the numerously aforementioned company are not accustomed to pretty reading. Nevertheless, what can be made of these critiques, besides the obvious insinuation that Diana might be a film to avoid? The use of Mills & Boon as a signifier suggests that the related work is traditionally romantic, predictable and sentimental. The connotations, however, are entirely negative. Even without having read anything from the Harlequin canon any observer will have had their expectations dampened. Devourers of Mills & Boon might be reluctant to flock to a screening of Diana, even though it sounds like an adaptation of their ideal novel. Still, they should bear in mind from real life that their prerequisite happy ending will probably not be forthcoming. More fool the critics, as romance is the most successful genre in literature, boding well for box-office receipts. Still, the implication is unequivocal. Diana is a failure of a film, so bad it is the cinematic equivalent of Mills & Boon. Given sales, however, shouldn't Mills & Boon-esque by an aspiration instead of a depth only the truly inept can plumb? To say something is like Mills & Boon calls for a singular, and agreed upon, definition, but critics have used the term as a shorthand for mushy sentiment, insipid dialogue and indulgent lighting. There is good romantic fiction and then there is Mills & Boon.

A recent interview with Abby Green in the Irish Independent attempts to challenge some of the clichés the public associates with the publisher. Her novels, belonging to the Modern imprint, deal in dark subject matter including rape, sex trafficking, bi-polar disorders and false accusations of rape. Titles such as In Christofide's Keeping and Forgiven But Not Forgotten? are far removed from the likes of The Queen's Nine Month Scandal, Mistress to the Merciless Millionaire, The Brazilian's Blackmail Bargain and The Mediterranean Billionaire’s Blackmail Bargain, which are, admittedly, also by Abby Green. Still, there is more to Mills & Boon than extortion so affordable you would be a fool to pass it up. Anything goes, according to the author, albeit within reason. It is not as if anything goes.  'Nothing is forbidden, but you have to be aware of what interests the readers,' she explains. There is a threshold of what an audience will tolerate, although this uncrossable moral line Green speaks of seems to have been personally marked and based on rationality rather than research. Thus, gay romances are excluded, at least until homosexuals are in the majority, while paedophiles are unsuitable for the role of hero due to their lack of attraction towards the archetypal heroine. Interviewer Mary Kenny offers a handful of sentences in defence of Green's backers. Novels are grittier and more sexually explicit than they used to be, while heroines are typically portrayed as independently-minded young women with careers and contentment in singledom. Nevertheless, endings remain conservative and, 'Despite the advance of equality heroes still tend to be dominant Alpha-males and heroines feminine.'

If Green is right to believe her stories embrace female empowerment this has not been translated into a coherent market strategy. Ruthlessly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded will do little to improve the image of the business, with its tawdry tale of revenge, unexpected pregnancy and innocent heroine manipulated in an exotic location. Taboo-busting adult themes will mean nothing unless they are handled with maturity and insight. Otherwise, concepts such as sexual abuse and mental illness will feel tactlessly included for some unwarranted edge. As Green and Kenny both note, Harlequin is acutely aware of its market and is driven by reader demand. Fairy-tales, brooding masculinity, glamorous locales and incredible wealth are all sought and delivered as a means of escape from the drudgery of everyday living. Darker subject matter either does not belong or is not wanted. It would appear that the unfavourable inferences of the name Mills & Boon have been well-earned and the company show no signs of changing. However, if there are romantic fiction lovers who have wearied of fantasy, virginal heroines and happy endings, but still seek the amateurish standards of writing they are familiar with, critics everywhere agree that there is a film apparently made especially for them, as long as they exit theatres twenty minutes early. Meanwhile, for those hoping for a disappointing conclusion, as always, Bewildered Heart has you covered.

"If Jane Austen had written a book set in a castle off the coast of France"

When we last checked in on Princess Sophie Baldwin for the latest gossip we found her tumultuous life had taken a turn for the turbulent. She and teenage daughter Savannah had decamped to a sovereign island nation to assume their rightful places on the throne after decades in North Carolinian exile. While Savannah's exploits will surely be told in several year's time as another St. Michel romance, potentially entitled Accidental Daughter, Sophie's time is now, and not just because several foreigners are either trying to sleep with her, murder her or offer her shiny headwear. No, there is nothing quite like God-given authority over a well-populated dominion, and the love of a handsome man, to give someone their groove back. Sophie had led a weary existence as ludicrously dressed doormat due to Frank's mistreatment, her adoptive parent's betrayal, her real family's choice of either abandonment or death, her daughter's impertinence, Mary's snobbery and Laura dying. Thus, she has truly suffered for her shot at superiority. One might have assumed that ruling a kingdom would see an end to her troubles, but disaster seems to follow Sophie as closely as her security detail.

Once she has landed and partaken in splendour, the machinations are in place to seal her discreditation. Several inappropriate trysts with the evil Vicomte Yves de Vaugirard sully her reputation and reveal to the world's media that she is in fact the daughter of Princess Sylvie and rock legend Nick Morrison. One might have assumed that this would be the end of her troubles, but there is still the problematic matter of a decades long Founteneau Curse to consider, as well as the mutual physical longing that has consumed the thoughts of Sophie and part-time Oliver Martinez impersonator Luc Lejardin, who isn't the most competent bodyguard at the best of times. Sophie invites her shy yet likeable maid, Adéle and her mother, Marie, to the castle for tea and awkwardly translated conversation. Marie previously worked as Sylvie's most loyal and obsessive assistant, and confesses that when the plane crashed Nick and the Princess were headed on their honeymoon, having been married in a small French village. Does this change anything? Not exactly, because Sophie had already been scandalously born and remains illegitimate, but the revelation elicits a minor response from Luc possibly signifying meaning.

With the numerous subplots established and one hundred and eighty pages filled with words, Thompson is able to pen the final chapter. There is much to resolve and neither the time nor the talent to do so satisfactorily. First up, there's the business of Sophie's claim to her title, which can be challenged on the grounds that her parents were unwed. Fortunately, they were married. Did anyone mention Luc's brother, Alex, is a lawyer who has been studiously scanning the Constitution for legal loopholes? No? Well, he is and he was. What about ex-husband, Frank, and his demands to see his daughter more often than the reader does? This afterthought of an inconvenience is dealt with in a single sentence, as nebulous external conflicts should be. Frank is paid off and invited over whenever he wants. As for Luc's concerns about his besmirched family name and lowly commoner status, this is settled simply by pretending no one had brought it up to begin with. Plot points are resolved in one paragraph of good news, better news and best news, and inevitable love-making follows, as Luc and Sophie fuse into one, although the author rather skimps on salacious detail. There is no time for euphemisms for body parts, not when there are crimes to solve and crimes to prevent.

Speaking of which, how is Luc's investigation going? As the population of the island consists of himself, the King and two other people, Luc manages to narrow his list of suspects down to two. Having patiently waited until after his best friend had been murdered, Luc installs informants in the de Vaugirard household where homicidal schemes are hatched with such Gallic arrogance that staff are invited to listen and offer criticism. Oh, you foolish de Vaugirard's, your secretive and successful killing spree has been uncovered by your lack of secrecy. Yet, despite the damning evidence of countless witnesses, Luc and the King still do not have enough evidence to convict the pair, perhaps because the St. Michel police and court system are inept and open to bribes. Therefore a plan is concocted to lure a hired assassin into the open at the New Year's Eve Ball. Despite the danger, the St. Michel New Year's Ball is something of a tradition and the King isn't about to let threats upon his or his granddaughter's life get in the way of a good party. Still, mannequins are to be dressed and stood on a distant balcony to draw the gunfire. Suddenly and without drama two shots ring out, and, obviously fearing the end, Luc throws his massive body on Sophie's. How did the de Vaugirard's know of the decoy trick? That hardly seems important. What does seem important is not lingering on anything narratively influential.

Thompson skips forward a few days to find Luc and Sophie driving up towards St. Ezra, where Princess Sylvie was wed, to find the necessary documentation proving her legitimacy. King Bertrand was saved by his trusty bulletproof vest. The assassin and Daddy de Vaugirard are behind bars, although Son de Vaugirard escaped. Nevertheless, Sophie is plagued by doubts about her future, and wishes to return to North Carolina with Savannah and Luc in tow. Her lover fixes this fleeting crisis with a similar series of clichés that must have worked on Amanda, because Sophie decides to stay where the money, power and happiness is. All is well, but what's that? Yves de Vaugirard? Awaiting them with a loaded gun? How did he know they would be there? That hardly seems important. What does seem important is disarming him with the minimal amount of tension. Luc takes a bullet to the shoulder and Sophie headbutts the villain. The first headbutt in Mills & Boon history? It seems likely in a world where kisses tend to be spectacular. A cursory epilogue wraps things up as merrily as possible. The murderers are jailed, the hero and heroine are engaged, Savannah is probably all right, the King lives, Luc is redeemed from the scandal only he was aware of and any subplots Thompson forgot about can't have been significant. Everybody loves a wedding. The End.

For all its failings as a romance, and the many deficiencies that prohibit it from working as a mystery thriller, Accidental Princess also misfires as a fairytale. Nancy Robards Thompson is unable to create an atmosphere of wonder to make for a traditional story, while an absence of either wit or insight keeps her contemporary twist clear of subversion. By allowing her heroine moments of clarity she calls attention to the incredulity of the plotting. Despite the world outside intruding hungrily on the idealised island neither St. Michel nor North Carolina are convincing. The characters are too poorly-drawn to perceive events in a credible manner and the novel falls flat around a limp heroine and hackneyed obstacles. With little in the way of internal conflict the plot relies on the supposedly frowned-upon device of external threats. The magnitude of the situation relegates romance to a subplot and fails to differentiate between Sophie's courtship and her regal ascension. Accidental Princess takes a haphazard approach to politics, concluding that unelected Plutocracy works for everyone so long as the oligarchs are nice. As events culminate in farcical crime-fighting Sophie's attempt to redistribute the wealth while retaining all the power and luxury are forgotten, although a Christmas toy drive is tacked on for no worthwhile reason. Her work in social services and initial disagreement with de Vaugirard over just how revolting poor people are become trite indications of Sophie's humanity, and are wasted instead of developed into a moral dilemma as she learns about her new home's systematic inequality.

To bulk out proceedings Thompson introduces several attractive characters for the benefit of a franchise. Luc has two gorgeous, charming and wealthy brothers, while Sophie calls her confidante, the beautiful and single Lindsey (Linds to her friends. Hi, Linds!), ostensibly to learn that Laura's death was an accident, and not suicide, thus absolving Sophie of guilt. Linds, Henri and Alex each later enjoyed their own surprise riches, secret babies and designer shoes with Accidental Heiress, Accidental Father and Accidental Cinderella joining Accidental Princess in a series based around a theme of inadvertency. The first of the series also marked Thompson's debut for Harlequin Mills & Boon, although the publishers repackaged the novel for a Special Moments 2-in-1 alongside Stacy Connelly's Once Upon a Wedding, as a tenuously-linked pair of underwhelming modern fairytales. The publisher's patronage of Thompson is difficult to fathom, as Accidental Princess has the lazy plotting, clumsy prose and laboured setpieces of a seasoned professional coasting on legacy. Authors with several titles behind them have struggled to skillfully combine a standard romance with a dramatic b-story, as The Domino Effect and MacKenzie's Promise prove. Therefore we can perhaps forgive Thompson's indiscretion as foolish ambition. Attempting a cross-genre Mills & Boon just sees a writer offer two disappointments where there should have been one, although if we were to count Once Upon a Wedding on top then that would make three disappointments.

"Obviously new or at least not thirty-three years old"

Bewildered Heart has always maintained the belief that Bewildered Heart is superior to all the other weblogs on this here internet, but until recently we lacked the statistical evidence to prove it. Thankfully those scientific types at Canada's York University have banded together to ponder the significance of people's reading preferences and whether what they read says anything about their personality. The catchy title all psychological studies see as a must have read as, What You Read Matters: The Role of Fiction Genre in Predicting Interpersonal Sensitivity, and appeared recently in the journal Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity and the Arts, an essential journal for those that way inclined. Unfortunately for those that way inclined a PDF of their findings will set you back a hefty twelve dollars, but the money conscious can find succinct analytical breakdowns at places such as The Atlantic, where Julie Beck has offered an explanation for anyone either cheap or inattentive. While the former might want to stop frittering away their income on romance novels, as it turns out the latter might wish to improve their interpersonal sensitivity by reading romance novels.

According to The Encyclopedia of Human Relationships, 'Interpersonal sensitivity can refer to both how well one reads other people and how appropriately one responds.' Reading involves both verbal, including the pitch and rhythm of the voice, and non-verbal communication, such as facial expressions, postures and gestures. The key question for readers of Harlequin Mills & Boon concerns whether or not a history of enjoying romance fiction will, 'provide a distinctive conceptual framework through which readers construct meaning about the social world.' There are few reasons to read trite tales of true love besides the betterment of the self through emotional learning. Has Katrina Fong, and her team of trusty Canadians, found conclusive proof that reading Fifty Shades of Grey makes you an enlightened and insightful milksop, rather than the lonely pervert all logic suggests you are?

To reach the answers a rational person might have guessed the boffins first gathered together a group of 328 willing participants, 258 of which were women, and asked them to identify authors from a series of twenty-five names. The list consisted of non-fiction and fiction writers, along with other names summoned from the imagination. To simplify matters further, four fiction genres were selected, and they were domestic fiction, romance, sci-fi fantasy and suspense thrillers. Following that a personality test was carried out, in order to uncover any significant characteristics that might suggest there is more to sensitivity than literature consumption. The central part of the methodology involved showing black and white photographs of eyes and asking the contributors to recognise the expression from a multiple choice of mental states. The results were hardly surprising. While fiction readers showed more interpersonal sensitivity than non-fiction readers the romance lovers tested higher than fans of the other genres. Does this mean reading romance novels puts you in touch with your feelings, or do highly emotional people simply prefer romance novels due to the dramatic nature of the stories? Thankfully, those running the experiment have no idea either, while Julie Beck figures that the truth lies somewhere inbetween.

There are a handful of estimations one could gleam from the statistics. For example, is it possible that regardless of reading habits females are more empathetic than males? After all, predominantly it is women who read romance novels. The results of previous studies dictate that romance-reading women are likely to be more interpersonally sensitive than the men who traditionally read sci-fi fantasy and the rollicking adventures of seven foot tall ex-military private detectives who solve crimes through a combination of grunting and violence. Still, this conclusion relies heavily on generalisations and prejudice, and if those were able to create irrefutable evidence there would be no need for science at all. The authors of What You Read Matters do end on an epiphany of sorts. 'It may be that the emotional experiences evoked by romance novels lead to rumination on past relationship experiences… perhaps encouraging readers to puzzle out the complexities of their own past romantic relationships. This thoughtful introspection might then be usefully applied to new social interactions.' While this is possibly correct, meaning and benefit continue to prove elusive. Are these conclusions nebulous enough to render the entire endeavour redundant? This appears to be a more worthwhile question. There appears to be only the most flimsy reasoning behind the notion that following words on a page might assist in the distinguishing of emotional states from pictures of eyes.

The full report may offer more indepth insights, but the sensible supposition is that readers tending towards compassion and human interest will seek out romances for their emotional conflicts and happy resolutions. Crucially for Bewildered Hearts though, the study failed to differentiate between the various subgenres of romance fiction, and the varying degree in quality that sees romance as a genre ranges from classic Jane Austen to the likes of Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience or Taken by the Sheikh. For genuine interest in relationships there is a more pertinent and compelling source of entertainment than Mills & Boon where characters are familiar archetypes, the stories are predictable and the writing is lifeless and shallow. You would hope that the truly empathetic would tire of such formulaic nonsense all too quickly. Meanwhile, for someone desiring to improve upon their interpersonal sensitivity there are entertainment sources with greater gravitas and emotional range than Mills & Boon, and so they, like the rest of us, would be wasting their time treating what Harlequin provides as educational material. Nevertheless, no matter how the findings of York University are analysed What You Read Matters is another positive argument for romance, which in turn is another positive argument for Bewildered Heart being superior to every other blog on this here internet.

"An action that could've been interpreted as unintentional... or not"

Those weblog devotees who can remember starting Accidental Princess will certainly want to forget reading it. We left Sophie Baldwin in the crux of a life-changing dilemma, putting aside all reason to decide on either changing her life or keep it chugging along aimlessly. There was little to recommend the latter, only her teenage daughter's inevitable pregnancy would someday break the tedium of working and occasionally living. There was, however, something about the alternative offer of taking on the royal duties of a small Mediterranean island. All the umming and ahhing in the world proved unable to make Sophie decisive and therefore within a few pages of chapter four her mind had been made up for her, through a combination of important men and God, perhaps the most important man of all. Initially Nancy Robards Thompson seemed to suggest Sophie's choice was something of an agonising philosophical conundrum, but within moments of intriguing her readers with three chapters of thinking and back-story she resolved to wrap things up as abruptly as possible. After all, who would say no to becoming an European princess and why would those who would say no be reading a Mills & Boon Special Moments Romance entitled Accidental Princess?

Well, due to her career in the social services Sophie cannot simply abandon North Carolina to live on a fictional island. She has obligations to her clients, such as fraught single mother Laura Hastings, and possibly others with names of their own. Somewhat fortunately for everyone involved Laura kills herself, landing her four young children in something of a quagmire, but completely freeing up Sophie's Tuesday afternoon. Still, there is more to life on the east coast than work. What about her spawn and those two strangers who masqueraded for decades as her parents? Savannah cannot decamp to another country, not with school, her father and a first boyfriend to contend with. Somewhat fortunately Sophie's ex-husband is a jerk, Tick reconciles with a former flame and the school denies ever having a student named after a city, completely freeing up Savannah's life. Meanwhile, parenthood is tricky, and made especially tough with no natural bond between adult and child. When considered on these terms, all the betrayal and dishonesty in the world cannot overshadow the selfless act of devotion Rose and John showed by feeding and misleading Sophie across those thirty-odd years. Thus, with details such as organising emigration glossed over, Princess Sophie and Princess Savannah jet off to someplace even the most cursorary research would have told them only exists in the imagination of a geographically-confused author.

Never mind glaring plot flaws though, because regality is tremendous. Sophie and Savannah are indulged, waited upon and given expensive gifts that aren't even real yet, including a super-cool cellular phone that makes the iPhone look like a cinder block with numbers drawn on. Flashy gadgets and luxurious bedding are used primarily to disguise the lack of emotional development in the characters. Luxury appears to appease the mother and daughter, as they recover from the shock of their overnight success. Still, it is not all pillows made of puppies and castles filled with candy, because the thought does occur to Sophie that her biological mother perished as a teenager, her biological father was a rock and roll legend and her adoptive parents are nothing more than fawning imposters who raised her in deceitful poverty. Still, nothing really matters in the face of Luc's haughty handsomeness, which is used primarily to disguise the lack of credibility in Sophie's personality. The novel supposes that the mutual attraction that develops between hero and heroine overcomes the shakiness of the narrative. Nevertheless, this manages to be more convincing than the single stumbling block standing in the way of their union, the class system. Luc is acutely aware that his disgraced family name leaves him in no position to woo a princess without it appearing as ungentlemanly social climbing. Sophie, meanwhile, is from the far more enlightened United States, and she won't let tradition tell her who she can and can't sleep with.

To let the proverbial gremlin loose in the proverbial system, Robards Thompson remembers to introduce the subplot involving someone murdering the king's family in a bid to claim the throne. Who could it be? Luc, the comically inept head of security? The King? Sophie? Savannah? What about the conceited St. Michelian who hates everyone and is hungry for power? Possibly that last one, but whoever knows isn't telling, and so the fairytale continues with several elements that clearly don't belong in a fairytale. Snooty, middle-aged Vicomte Yves De Vaugirard and his less significant father, Comte Pascal De Vaugirard, are dismayed to learn of a secret love child and an unconstitutional attempt to make her queen. Before turning to his trusted method of murder-to-look-like-accident the elitist villain and the evil mouse that lives in his pocket make a much more innocent play at discrediting Sophie, through a combination of kissing and photography. The public relations nightmare that enfolds only drives Sophie into the grateful arms of Luc Lejardin, who had until then been keeping his distance, unable as he is to control his passionate manhood around royal women. With that Chapter eleven ends with the promise of lip-locking, death-defying and subplot-forgetting.

Casual misogyny, trite political moralising and offensive stereotyping briefly enliven proceedings, but besides that Accidental Princess is largely a disappointment and whatever the opposite of entertainment is. Secrets Uncovered would argue that while situations need not be believable for romantic fantasy the reactions of the characters must be credible to keep the scenario tethered to reality. Nancy Robards Thompson's downfall comes from a protagonist too swept up in wonderment to make the necessary decisions to bring about dramatic resolution. She spends her time asking why her, and the majority of her thoughts tend towards Luc, either thanking the heavens he is beside her or asking the heavens where he has got to. This is necessary, of course, given the genre's demands for a love story, but there seems to be greater need for the plotting and fleshing out of the troubled daughter, decades long murdering and the throne ascension, the things the novel has included as background colour. While optimistic hopes that these strands can be brought together for a satisfying finale border on the delusional, readers have the right to expect that Thompson would not have included a mass of detail without the intention of later remembering what it was.

The politics of St. Michel are discreetly hidden behind a wall of confused understandings of how countries exist. The island appears to be an autocracy, running on a form of an unelected elitism, which seems to have suited everyone for centuries. The people are peons to the royal family and while nearly everyone is somehow financially resplendent Sophie does hear of small pockets of poverty from the pampered lips of an unelected elitist. Needing a mission to keep from appearing the ineffectual figurehead she is supposed to be, Sophie discovers the socialist principles all Americans are taught and reveals her nobility by learning her servants names and ordering them not to work on Thanksgiving. What's Thanksgiving, they ask? You're welcome, she smiles, not as their boss but as their equal. While this does call to mind her sterling social work in North Carolina the narrative has no interest in righting societal wrongs, and includes this fleeting attempt to redistribute wealth as a means to reiterate Sophie's kindness. This is hardly helpful to an already crowded plot, but with everything so easily solvable Robards Thompson should be able to fix Savannah, bring a killer to justice, wed Sophie to Luc, give the serfs a decent wage and bring democracy to St. Michel, thus abolishing the Monarchy and allowing Sophie the quiet married life she always wanted. As always, Bewildered Heart reads on, endeavouring against our better judgement to find out what we already know.

“Fresh air in this climate of women who would stop at nothing to get what they want”

Last time on Bewildered Heart, over a glass of Chardonnay and an episode of Mistresses, we discussed the nature of guilty pleasures. The not entirely recent invention of the MIRA imprint has thrown critical assessments of Mills & Boon into jeopardy. After all, how does a Bewildered Heart analyse an ever-changing body of work that responds to disapproval and reacts to progress? MIRA is not completely at odds with the historical canon of the genre, and the majority of Harlequin's product is uniformly indistinguishable, although the coloured covers are a clue to the superficial differences between subgenres. With certain hip twists such as the introduction of teenagers, vampires, ethnics and NASCAR drivers, there is a danger that Romance could become heralded for its diversity, when instead the entire collection of books, across every imprint and from every author, should be defined by their political and narrative consistencies.

The typical scenario sees an alpha male meet a beta female and after however many pages of sex and hand-wringing they live happily after. This has been accepted and unchallenged for a century of unbridled success, and the romance genre had not exactly been struggling before the advent of Mills & Boon. From the viewpoint of behavioural psychologists there is a question of just how much of Mills & Boon's output is reactionary. Women think about weddings and babies, so why not cater to these passions? The company cannot be blamed for finding an untapped market and exploiting its common interest for financial gain. The audience existed before the business, after all. MIRA has given its readers a little more credit by noting that women also like shopping and celebrities, but this is perhaps not quite the feminist victory it at first appears. Harlequin's push for sexual equality is purely market driven, and that may explain their patient wait before they tackle other inequalities, including race and sexuality. There being a separate African-American imprint seems inherently racist. Yet if the publisher is reluctant to lead the way then their role is to adapt to the readership.

However, critics contend readers have been reduced to passive consumers, preferring familiar formulas and classic gender roles. Therefore, romance purveyors are leading the market they created and continue to manipulate. Within this vacuum how can social and artistic progress be achieved? Were Mills & Boon to be specified as a guilty pleasure their failure to engage in public discourse and confront regressive hegemonies would explain away those feelings of shame among readers, writers and publishers. Yet the state of affairs their stories establish and strengthen only help the company on its financial ascent. For Harlequin to maintain its success a vulnerable, passive following could be seen as necessary, and over the years subversion and intelligence have disappeared from the product. Even the supposedly upmarket MIRA offers intellectually-undemanding, superficially engaging stories of celebrity scandal that empower the social and economic status quo. Gender roles are not disputed, the wealthy are romanticised and the world is depoliticised in the name of love.

Romance novels by their very nature explore identity, happiness and relationships. The Mills & Boon world, the one their characters exist in, is alien yet not unrecognisable from our own. Suffering does occur, albeit in back-story, while poverty is a childhood affliction overcome by adulthood without leaving scars. Resentment might linger, but when all billionaires are hard-working, self-made, philanthropic and charming any anger soon disappears. Love solves socio-economic problems and corporations are embodied by a gorgeous male face with the public's best interests at heart. Examples exist in the small sample of books reviewed on this site, from One Night with the Rebel Billionaire to The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress, to the likes of Fifty Shades of Grey, where the money-driven control freak hero really just wants to feed the world and cuddle monogamously.

In their analysis of book titles Anthony Cox and Maryanne Fisher viewed the glorification of wealth in evolutionary terms. A rich husband and father is a better provider than a poor one, and in romantic fantasies, as well as life, money is preferable to insolvency. The classic formula tends to show the hero as a man at the peak of his powers, having conquered every aspect of life, with only family eluding him. His idealisation requires he be bestowed with desirable qualities such as determination, passion, muscle definition, intelligence, head hair, detail orientation, creativity and time management skills, all needed in the successful pursuit of a mate and, possibly coincidentally, suitable for a captain of industry. However, for a publisher to constantly value material assets so highly, while carefully ignoring poverty, greed and the harmful effects of capitalism, must surely strike readers as incongruous. Is it really necessary for love stories to argue wealth as a cornerstone of happiness?

Romances are typically centred on a heroine being courted by a hero. Occasionally we see a reversal, if the heroine can know what she wants while remaining likeable. Mostly, however, lovers are pulled together against their wills by cosmic destiny and the sheer overwhelming force of physical beauty. This dissolves characters of credibility, but it does give credence to Mills & Boon's prevailing philosophy that love matters most and transcends colour, creed, politics and religion. Love is the reason for humanity's being and relatively important in its continued survival. Bearing this in mind, should art concerning love be ridiculed to the degree it is? Harlequin’s attitude towards its product undermines the objectives of Secrets Uncovered to improve quality. Writing guides and blog posts merely serve to encourage and inspire new writers to flood the market with more manuscripts and sate the public's desire for more of the same. Big sellers such as Fifty Shades and Twilight do not appear to challenge any notions that readers are tired of Mills & Boon and want better writing, more original structures or rounded characters.

Whether Mills & Boon works as propaganda is not as important a concern as the obvious problem of them continually failing as fiction. The alpha hero and virginal heroine archetypes are restrictive both socially and in terms of narrative. The limitations on plot and character keep authors from expanding the possibilities of form. Intent is immaterial, and not a valid counter-argument for novelists claiming their work is apolitical. The refusal to question and explore social concerns is an implicit endorsement of the world as it is. Authors straddle motivations ranging from ignorance to contentment, claiming that now feminism has allowed for marriage, motherhood and romance novels to be choices the movement has achieved as much as it needs to. The genre may desire to be escapist fantasy, far-removed from reality and thus disconnected from political struggle, but this is a convenient and misguided rationalisation. The refusal to engage with progressive thinking can be seen as willful blindness to injustice or a preference for indecent stories of female subjugation dressed up as idealistic fairytales and sold to women as harmless entertainment. The amount of damage done is debatable. After all, the argument over violence in movies seems unlikely to be satisfactorily resolved. While the effect on readers is tricky to prove the intention of the publishers is curious, especially given the unique nature of Mills & Boon as genre authorities.

“That fight to change the world had become an uphill battle”

In the United States the largely inconsequential television channel ABC has begun airing Mistresses, a faithful remake of a British show of the same name. Nothing more than a melodramatic recreation of Sex and the City with soap opera histrionics neither show deserves anything other than the most customary appraisal. Reviewing the latest interpretation with half an eye on their fond memories of the original, The Guardian Newspaper responded accurately, dismissing it as, 'Clichéd tosh.' Why? 'Everyone is hateful, self-obsessed and has stupid hair.' The reviewer, Julia Raeside, is possibly correct on at least several of those points, but why has Mistresses US failed to capture the magic of Mistresses UK? After all, the programmes are ostensibly identical. When the critics came to the lauded British version Kathryn Flett of the Guardian Newspaper called the characters, 'two-dimensional,' and John Crace of the Guardian Newspaper called the plotlines, 'absurd.' How has the move to somewhere sunny blown this direct translation so laughably off course? Summing up the original, Crace wrote, 'The whole point of Mistresses lay in its glossy, drossy pointlessness,' but he meant this as a compliment.

Mistresses US is shallow, dumbed-down, gaudy and decadent. Such adjectives could have worked in the show's favour had the makers been wise enough to aim low. The series concerns mistresses of varied kinds, yet as far as female representations go women do not emerge positively. The main characters are poorly-drawn and hugely unlikeable despite some commendable career success, positions of social authority and expensive outfits. Their chief interest, with the business world conquered, is men, despite the occasional distractions of lesbianism and murder. What follows on from the predictable set-up is a disappointing mass of nothingness that fails to establish theme or even a consistent tone. The aspirational wealth is repugnant and more than a little obscene given the emotional ugliness of the heroines. Only the token black female is not directly responsible for her downfall, but this appears to have had more to do with political correctness than narrative counter-balance. In a bid to write strong women the leads have been loaded with flaws, culminating in lying, cheating, infidelity and assisting suicide. This does not make them sympathetic, but well-written characters needn't be. They must at the very least be engaging and worth following. Yet once the writers failed to achieve this they turned to desperate twists and lazy outside antagonism as alternative means to maintain ratings.

Showrunner Rina Mimoun has welcomed the guilty pleasure tag, but explained, ‘Hopefully we're a grounded, relatable drama that has a lot of fun to it.’ Hoping did not make it so, as Mistresses never comes close to representing true life or recognisable situations, offering only kitsch value to add to its vapidity and softcore nudity. A sudden lurch into earnestness did for the BBC original as it reached its latter seasons because guilty pleasures lose their pleasurability when the illicit thrill of being caught watching them is lost to an attempted upturn in quality. Still, was Mistresses UK a true guilty pleasure, as many critics contended? How could it be when the makers showed self-awareness of their gratuity and silliness? Mistresses US, on the other hand, is so misguided it could be described as a guilty pleasure due to the fact that if you enjoy it you are guilty of something. The term itself is something of a misnomer as audiences are supposed to delight in what they watch on television. While Mistresses UK had the intelligence to dose their ridiculousness with a knowing sense of irony their counterparts across the pond have produced a risible imitation that cannot be enjoyed for the purposes intended.

This somehow leads us onto the always appropriate topic of Mills & Boon. There is no more lucrative a genre in publishing than romance, with sales weighing it at a mighty $1.4 billion annually. While the most popular by an impressive distance romance remains the least critically and culturally respected of genres. The animosity runs so deep that scholars have accused such novels of turning its easily manipulated fans into passive consumers. Therefore the success of romance is not a reason to celebrate, but rather to speculate on the emotional and intellectual deficiencies of its readers. While vicious and potentially upsetting for anyone easily manipulated, this critique is as myopic and superficial as much of the work it attacks. In her book, A Natural History of the Romance Novel, Bewildered Heart favourite Pamela Regis argues that this viewpoint refuses to offer a true definition of the romance novel and fails to discuss the nature and scope of the genre. While Regis sets out to prove the personal, historical and societal value of romance fiction there is an alternative opinion of less significance that no one seems foolish enough to touch upon, and that is the guilty pleasure, depending on what people mean when they talk about them.

The MIRA imprint might suggest that Harlequin has moved part of its business model upmarket, but the majority of the company's output is decidedly unambitious. Mills & Boon and their stable of authors have always struggled to wear the guilty pleasure badge with the strange sense of honour that might accompany it. For their fans, being spotted with a romance novel brings tinges of embarrassment and not necessarily as a result of the poor prose and amateurish characterisation. The mortification stems from the personal assumptions others make towards Mills & Boon readers. Yet what does this, in turn, say about the publisher? Are they cynical exploiters of the vulnerable, are they no more intelligent than their customers, or are they merely sating the public's desire, which appears to be growing in the wake of Twilight and Fifty Shades? What is so wrong with being a guilty pleasure? Why can't the producers of such things embrace their position? After all, EL James seems more embarrassed by her sales than by her novels. The romance genre offers its astounding worldwide success as proof of its method. Their identity as the manufacturers of harmful, lowest common denominator drivel may never be challenged by the company itself, but do they ever want to be taken seriously as something more than just a thriving business?

If an audience wrongly believes that watching shows about the sex lives of fictional women is something they should feel embarrassed about then the intentional trashiness of Mistresses masks these feelings by focusing on the indulgence of Schadenfreude and brainless entertainment. If Mistresses was thoughtful, profound and tasteful then critics would have a greater issue to scruntinize, assuming such a series would find a channel, let alone an audience. The same question cannot be asked of reading literature, perhaps the most noble of all hobbies besides drawing Hugh Jackman. Still, devouring romance fiction is seen as a shameful past-time unsuitable for public conversation, even though everyone seems to be doing it. Yet is this a form of suppression against women, or is this a similar situation that met the Sex and the City movies, the mere demand for better material? Would thoughtful, profound, tasteful romance sell as strongly? Is the inherent cheesiness of Mills & Boon part of its appeal? Do readers enjoy them with a sense of knowing irony, revelling in the tawdry drama, tacky euphemisms and pig-headed characters? The pages and pages of writing guides such as Secrets Uncovered suggests Harlequin is intent on moving away from the inadvertent joys of their novels, but in doing they risk alienating readers and Bewildered Hearts the world over.