When confronted with a romantic novel, not unlike
The Prince's Cowgirl Bride, it is difficult not to be reminded of Lynley Stace's article listing the many number of reasons to hate romance
novel. As proof perhaps that her ravings were not the irrational womanly
opinions of a female, Stace backed up some of her claims by linking to
the irrefutable evidence of a source. The source in question was A
Billion Wicked Thoughts by the indecently monikered Ogi Ogas and Dr. Sai Gaddam and the chapter of the book that piqued our interest was the
eighth, A Tall Man with a Nice Tush. Naturally, because who wouldn't
have their head turned by a lanky male bearing impressive facial ivory?
Yet A Billion Wicked Thoughts offers more than just appealing chapter
titles, as it also contains facts and figures.
Ogas
and Gaddam reviewed ten thousand books published between 1983 and 2008.
From these hundreds of millions of words they sought the most
frequently mentioned male body. The top seven were cheekbones, jaws,
brows, shoulders, foreheads, waists and hips. Any true romantic hero
features at least three of these, but there are notable absentees. Where
are the eyes, arms, buttocks, sixpacks, lips, pectorals and penises? Is
forehead a euphemism for hairline? If not, why is the forehead more
popular than any other indistinguishable stretch of skin? What is a
brow? By brow do authors mean Brad Pitt's eyebrows? Would a billionaire
consisting of two cheekbones, a jaw, one brow, a pair of shoulders, a
forehead, a waist and a handful of hips be deemed a complete
billionaire? How is there no mention of eyelashes, a man's most
important characteristic? What kind of scientific survey is this?
While
bachelors everywhere alter their beauty regime to place greater
emphasis on forehead-upkeep, what do these words teach us about the
romance genre? Those readers thinking very little are probably onto
something, but aspiring authors would be wise to take heed and update
their manuscripts accordingly. A lengthy and detailed forehead
description might well be what separates rejection and international
glory. Yet any talented novelist will know that simply pointing out that
a hero has a forehead is not enough. A forehead, like any body part,
requires an adjective to make it come to life. Popular adjective-body
part combinations include blue eyes, straight nose, high forehead,
square jaw, dark hair, white teeth, sensual mouth, crooked smile, broad
shoulders, broad chest, narrow waist, flat stomach, strong arms, big
hands, big feet, long legs and powerful thighs. A Billion Wicked
Thoughts notes the non-appearance of genitalia, but it seems safe to
assume every one of the above can be insinuated to mean impressive
length.
Lynley Stace used this article to criticise homogenised and shallow attitudes
towards male beauty. The romance genre does not deserve the brunt of the
blame for this, although it is guilty of depending upon a classic
version of the ideal man. Every alpha male hero is basically the same,
save for a handful of superficial differences such as black or brown
hair, arrogant or conceited, billionaire or millionaire. Where are the
Harlequin heroes with low foreheads, broad waists and narrow chests?
Where are the teeth with coffee stains? What about men with small hands
and feet? Are those with intellectual mouths doomed to a lifetime of
loneliness? Was the Twilight series solely accountable for the inclusion
of crooked smile? As critics attempt to shake romance from its rigid
understanding of what is worth writing about, and hope to someday see an
assorted and healthy range of heroines, it would only be fair if heroes
then received their own politically-correct makeover.
The
seven most common adjectives to describe a man in the ten thousand
novels Ogas and Gaddam searched through were lean, handsome, blond,
tanned, muscular, masculine and chiseled. There are no surprises here,
besides blond hair being as crucial to desirability as gender and
regular exercise. Over the course of reading a small cross-section of
Harlequin's product, Bewildered Hearts will recognise these traits as
standard, not just in the novels they have read, but also in the
photographs of Hugh Jackman on their fridge. Mills & Boon is not
responsible for helping short, fat, poor or bald men feel better about
themselves. Their novels are escapist fantasies and their heroes are the
pinnacles of manly perfection. Variety exists, albeit not especially,
as readers will surely know the difference between a Greek tycoon, a
Brazilian surgeon, a Sheikh from a country that does not exist and a
cowboy from a Mediterranean island that does not exist.
While
the target audience wishes to see representation in their heroines,
there is no need to imbue heroes with flaws for the sake of anything
other than a satisfying storyline. Perhaps this monotony justifies the
opinions of those who hate romance. Once you have read one, is there
enough diversity to characters, plots and structures to validate continued reading? The study carried out in A Billion Wicked
Thoughts does little to prove a tedious repetition of handsome. Gaddam
and Ogas have merely proven that romance tends towards cliché and women
generally prefer their men to be gorgeous, strapping, healthy and men.
This is hardly damning, and not what the investigation of sexual desire even intended to discover. Given the choice of hero, as well as the dream husband, this is the kind of man women choose. After all, a fairy-tale prince is unlikely to suffer any
physical defects, besides the occasional curse.
If
Harlequin heroes are uniformly attractive in a style an evolutionary psychologist would surely approve of, the originality in romance fiction
must come from elsewhere. There seems an unwillingness to challenge the
successful rut romance has worked itself into, and culturally there is
no need to revolutionise the hero aesthetic. Perhaps fresh and
exhilarating adjectives are required, such as wobbly or immense. Perhaps
long-forgotten body parts never previously considered erotic can
receive recognition. Has the time finally arrived for gratuitous
lingering on elbows? Do chin dimples denote wealth and virility? Could
the moustache make an overdue comeback? Should the genre take the advice
of Lynley Stace and do away with flowery description to just get on with telling a
story? Is it possible no changes will be made at all? For certain it is
the readers who will decide, but some of those options sound more
plausible than others.
