"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.