“We are all just one small adjustment away from making our lives work”

When you reach a certain age and pass on feelings such as hope and not having pain in your knees to the next generation you settle into a resigned attitude towards most experiences that have consistently disappointed you to stop the never-ending suffering of resentment, and replace it with the joyful superiority of cynicism. Chief among these experiences is the Hollywood movie genre known as the romantic comedy. As we move into whatever we are calling this decade that presumption that the next boy-meets-girl nonsense will be appalling has managed to evolve into downright hostility. Nowhere has this been more noticeable recently than in the case of James L. Brooks' latest How Do You Know. Early indications suggested poor results, the budget had soared to over $100 million and critics and audiences were ready, as they always seem to be, to punish such excess with scathing reviews and a paltry gross revenue. There was little surprise when the film was released to scathing reviews and audiences staying away in their droves, instead heading next door to spend their hard-earned money on the likes of Yogi Bear, Tron: Legacy and Little Fockers.

When you imagine scathing reviews, however, you imagine something more fierce than those How Do You Know received. Critics instead reserved their utter contempt for the likes of Yogi Bear, Tron: Legacy and Little Fockers. Nevertheless, the romcom, starring such luminaries as Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, Jack Nicholson and Owen Wilson, had its fair share of caustic remarks. Philip French described it as, 'interminable', perhaps a dig at the running time which clocks in at an epic two hours. Better still was Peter Bradshaw, who wrote of, 'a fatuous and depressing parade of nothingness.' David Jenkins of Time Out called it, 'Contrived, mawkish and mirthless,' leaving Lou Lumenick to end with this neat summation, 'a rambling, over-produced, tone-deaf melange of romance, comedy and drama.' Many of those adjectives are harsh, of course, as How Do You Know is too bland to provoke such bile. Other critics were stung by Brooks' continuing downhill trajectory from the contrived and mawkish Terms of Endearment, to the Network for Dummies romcom Broadcast News, to As Good as It Gets and that interminable parade of nothingness, Spanglish. Brooks is finely-considered as a writer, director, producer, and rightly, so expectations were higher for How Do You Know, compared to the collective holding-of-breath that preceded Little Fockers.

Reese Witherspoon is a much-loved and very successful professional softball player whose career is coming to an end prematurely due to her turning thirty. Disillusioned and without a future she does what any woman should do in such a circumstance and begins putting herself out there sexually in order to snare a wealthy husband. Immediately two such Lotharios begin sniffing around. First there is Owen Wilson, a professional baseball player enjoying his success, laid-back charm and thick, luscious hair. Clearly entranced by at least one of these, Reese jumps into his bed without so much as a serious conversation only to discover he is something of an insensitive chauvinist, who cares not for her constant whining. Soon after she meets Paul Rudd, who is possibly the protagonist. Paul has his own set of troubles, caused by the financial mismanagement of his father being blamed on him. This causes Paul to lose his job, his fiancée and his luxurious apartment, while also being threatened with having to choose between saving his father from jail or going to jail himself. Why is there the tale of corporate fraud and father-son tensions clumsily forced-in to a romcom about a woman saying goodbye to her youth? Because Brooks got as bored as we did by the romance story and decided to clumsily force-in a whole second movie on a whim.

How Do You Know's flaws are conspicuous and fatal. The story never rises from its disorganized origins, the actors coast without much effort, there is minimal chemistry and the majority of the dialogue is lifted directly from self-help books and the psychiatrist's office, even though only Reese briefly drops in on an analyst to quickly dismiss any need for insight. Despite these glaring faults and an excessive budget the mauling the movie received seems a result of the unnecessarily large cost and indulgent salaries for the stars. That the content fails miserably is something of a happy coincidence. However, How Do You Know does not deserve to be remembered as one of the Hollywood's biggest follies. How should anyone of us know what insipid drivel audiences will flock to out of their devotion to love stories? After all, lazy romantic comedies continually rake in a fortune at the box-office much to critical dismay, so why shouldn’t Brooks have some coming?

On paper, the film sounds promising, so long as the paper isn't a page of the screenplay. When judged by the trailer, Brooks' film plays heavily on star-power, but there lacks a striking concept such as a magical fountain, a male maid of honour or commitment-free sex to draw the viewer in. All these scenarios scream jokes and a happy ending, meaning it matters not whether they are then forthcoming. How Do You Know has loftier ambitions and avoids meet-cutes and gimmicks, yet this should not be interpreted as a sign of greater intelligence. The corporate fraud subplot is borrowed from newspaper headlines and is introduced without any consideration of how it will affect the central premise. The script abandons any pretensions of realism, or even sympathetic characters, in the hopes of entertaining us with our favourite thespians traipsing out their usual shtick in a world of aspirational success, beauty and expensive real estate.

Romances exist as escapist fantasies involving impossibly-attractive people falling in love in an idealised location. Their popularity rests comfortably on a universal, timeless empathy, safe in the knowledge that audiences shall always identify with someone searching and falling in love. We cherish the books, television series and films because they are honest in their intentions and sell us on delusions that love conquers all, attractive people work in offices, there is a soul-mate for everyone and becoming sexually-desirable is only a montage away. How Do You Know offers an alternative insight. Sure, all the characters are wealthy and pretty, and even the most cramped apartments are spacious and handily-located, but life is difficult and painful, problems are never easily-solved and financial corruption is occasionally punished with appropriate retribution. A potential single mother is saved from her fate by the father of her baby proposing marriage, and Reese's forced retirement, career limbo and general confusion about men, life and infirmity is fixed by loving a man with the same inadequacies. Brooks creates a melancholy world of fraught disturbances where there are no easy answers and then climaxes his story by solving everything with an easy answer, and an unseen comeuppance for the film's thankless villain. How Do You Know ends as nothing more than the superficial veneer Brooks invented to convince us there was more to his film than there was.

Such a spectacular failure with critics, audiences and on its own terms as a film, there came an unexpected sense of pallid disappointment from those still capable of being disappointed. The contempt How Do You Know provoked was caused largely by our superior expectations attached to James L. Brooks, but he was let-down by a misguided sense of ambition and an alienation from modern audiences who have never been fully committed to explaining what they want from this strange genre. His was a story of grown-up troubles settled by cheap romcom tricks. Either poor, getting old Reese Witherspoon is single, yet likeable, and suddenly meets the man of her dreams leading to any number of hilarious social embarrassments and grandiose displays of affection, or she is facing the second act of her American life and needs a few big answers to comprehend the meaning of her existence, in which case meeting the man of her dreams just won’t cut it as a solution. Equally, if Paul Rudd is having a bad life, but then through an unlikely circumstance meets the woman of his dreams, but must hide his impending strife for fear of scaring her away leading to hilarious social embarrassments and grandiose displays of affection then we have a strong idea for a romantic comedy, possibly starring Jack Lemmon as Paul Rudd. However, if his impending doom is tied to the actions of his estranged father with whom he has never had a happy relationship and has never escaped from under the shadow of you cannot then introduce a blonde woman and hope that will take care of his predicament. Nice try, Mr. L. Brooks, but somehow we viewers saw through that from just the trailer.

‘Should Rick start mixing business with romance -- and both with a baby?’

The talk of Mills & Boon titles being proof of anything has made Bewildered Heart thirsty for a romance novel with a heavy-handed title indicative of female mating interests. One of the many omissions of the scientific study was no noting of the gradual evolution the publishers have made towards ridiculous titles containing market-researched signifiers and away from the previous generation’s more artistic leanings. Nowadays there is no ambiguity in a Harlequin title, with modern monikers increasingly close to those a website such as this would invent for parody. Even our limited travels into the world of saucy fiction have thrown up names such as Finding Nick, Romantics Anonymous and Leopard in the Snow. Those don’t include the words billionaire, bride, mistress or pirate. What on earth will the female reader base her consumer wants on?

For this reason, among others that will soon become clear, we have chosen to investigate the Mills & Boon Desire 2-in-1, named 2-in-1 because there are two stories offered in one novel and not because of any sexually-explicit love triangles. In this case we have Emilie Rose’s The Millionaire’s Indecent Proposal and Under the Millionaire’s Influence by Catherine Mann, two writers challenging readers’ expectations by asking us to fall in love with millionaires when there are so many gorgeous single billionaires running amok. Best of luck, Rose and Mann. Before we tackle the stories, however, our research begins with the publisher’s description of what a Desire is.

Originally an imprint at Silhouette over a Simon & Schuster the sub-genre was bought by Harlequin in the mid-eighties and today Mills & Boon operates it solely as 2-in-1, having before that run it as Desire Double. Why is Desire only sold as two times the amount of novel at twice the price? No one seems willing to explain, but each coupling is themed, as ours is themed by millionaires and force, while others might instead use cowboy tycoons, secret babies, virgin brides, billionaires, blackmail and force. With instant appeal and obvious differences between others sub-genres aspiring authors can look to the Writing Help for further information. ‘A powerful, passionate and provocative read…guaranteed!’ it says, temptingly. All alliteration, and rhyming, aside, this is a strong start. Whereas Cherish would guarantee a gentle, loving and inoffensively bland read, Desire sets its stall out without any ado. We can only hope they don’t instantaneously become vague and contradictory in the opening paragraph.

‘Desire books are filled to the brim with strong, intense story-lines. These sensual love stories immediately involve the reader in a romantic conflict and the quest for a happily-ever-after resolution. The novels should be fresh, fast-paced and modern, presenting the hero and heroine's conflicts by the end of chapter one.’ Do you see, gentle reader, here we are offered palpable narrative instructions to help us understand the key variations that mark Desire unique, from, for example, Modern or Nocturne. Those sub-genres are stagnant, meandering and archaic, presenting tensions eventually, once the reader has bored of all the easy-going camaraderie. But who are these heroes and heroines the Author Guidelines speak of and how should we, starry-eyed writers, attempt to present our leading men, other than perhaps making them desirable?

‘The hero should be powerful, wealthy — an alpha male with a sense of entitlement, and arrogance. While he may be harsh and direct, he is never physically cruel. Beneath his alpha exterior, he displays some vulnerability, and he is capable of being saved. It's up to the heroine to get him there.’ These are the conflict seeds we have previously discussed. Firstly we introduce the hero, as conceited, believing he has the right to have sex with a woman just because he is authoritative and prosperous. However, our heroine is not attracted to those traits, though she is enamoured by his physical appearance, money and influence and thus, over the course of some two-hundred pages, she must teach him to stop being egotistical by having sex with him and acting womanly. Any further character details for those who haven’t been paying attention? ‘The Texan hero should own the ranch, not work on it, and the urban hero should be the company CEO, not a handyman.’ Indeed. Female readers will not buy A Texas Handyman’s Respectful Courting, and more fool you for even suggesting it.

Desire heroes, therefore, are much like all the other Mills & Boon heroes, with the exception of Cherish men, who, by this definition, aren’t men at all. Now, what of the protagonist, the heroine herself? ‘She is complex and flawed, strong-willed and smart, though capable of making mistakes when it comes to matters of the heart. The heroine is equally as important as the hero, if not more so. There is room for both protagonists' perspective, as long as his thoughts are centered on the heroine and their conflict. Desire novels are usually 60% heroine and 40% hero.’ Everyone understands percentages. We can expect our two upcoming Desire novels to be more women-centric than any examples from the other categories. Due to this statistical breakdown then, it is advisable to create a compelling heroine with more depth than cooing at babies in supermarkets and having frizzy hair on especially humid days, although it is most likely this is what they meant by complexities and flaws.

‘The conflict should be dramatic with such classic plot lines as revenge, secret pregnancies, marriages of convenience and reunion romances.’ Where is the implied prostitution? From the list of fairly standard soap opera clichés we can only hope marriage-of-convenience is code for live-in-mistress-but-not-prostitute-because-they-love-each-other. After all, that is a pretty classic plot line. Wannabe Mills & Boon creators should look to these suggestions for a scenario for their own ideal novel, where a couple reunite, arrange a marriage of convenience and then the heroine makes a terrible mistake in matters of her heart by getting pregnant because of the hero’s arrogant misplaced sense of entitlement, but gets revenge by falling in love with him. We can call it The Millionaire’s Blackmailed Bride’s Secret Baby Revenge. Cox and Fisher would adore that one. All we have left to learn is how many gratuitous sexual acts we will have to type.

‘Desire novels are sensual reads and a love scene or scenes are needed, but there is no set number. Rather, the level of sensuality must be appropriate to the storyline. Above all, every Silhouette Desire novel must fulfill the promise of a powerful, passionate and provocative read.’ Goodness, how helpful. With there being little discernible difference between Desire and Modern, besides a minor emphasis on the heroine, we should assume by the over-use of words such as sensual, passionate and desire, as well as the red cover, that this series will have a large story-appropriate quantity of copulation. Once you have decided your story will contain a wealthy tycoon buying a woman for cohabitation (and possibly more!) only to discover his physical attraction blossoms into genuine emotional connection you are going to need a gregarious attitude towards describing their love-making just to reach the required fifty-five thousand words.

First up for our reading pleasure is the aforementioned The Millionaire’s Indecent Proposal by Emilie Rose, part of her 2007 Monte Carlo series that included The Prince’s Ultimate Deception and The Playboy’s Passionate Pursuit, so we can comfortably assume Emilie knows what she is doing. The blurb promises passion and drama and the title hints are derivativeness. ‘Would she accept one million euros to be his mistress for a month? How could practical American Stacy Reeves say no to Franco Constantine's proposal?’ Hopefully these are the first of many deeply philosophical questions the scenario will throw up. How do women refuse money in exchange for sex? ‘The wealthy, arrogant CEO of Midas Chocolates was overwhelmingly passionate in his pursuit. Their union would be pure pleasure, but Stacy did not know Franco's offer was part of a bet.’

Intrigue, pleasure and chocolate, the dream trifecta for every lady of a certain age, but how does this differ from Modern’s The Billionaire’s Housekeeper Mistress, besides the gulf in wealth? Reading through the Writing Guidelines we are supposed to study before submitting our manuscript to the beloved publishers the only alteration should become apparent from reading on, and that shall be the focus on Stacy over Franco. This suits the story perfectly, as Franco, a millionaire who pays vast sums for call-girls, can remain suitably enigmatic, to hide his blatant sleaziness under layers of sexy mystery, while Rose can delve into Stacy’s psyche and convince the reader that her protagonist’s actions are credible. Our empathy will be vital to prevent us from falling into the trap of leading with prejudices and concluding that Stacy sounds like a hussy. Emilie Rose will presumably do this by making Franco incredibly gorgeous, charming and seductive, the offer impossible to turn down and the terms quite agreeable, thus under-mining those guarantees of passion, drama and provocation.