“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.

“Three heart-breaking, regret-filled, uneventful days”

Anyone who has ever visited the internet will have noticed that there sure is a lot of internet on there. Every possible taste is catered for, and as Bewildered Heart goes to show there are even websites that cater to the interests of nobody. The enduring popularity of romance fiction transcends fleeting phenomena such as technology, but Harlequin has been quick to capitalise on the evolving ways in which humans read, learn, socialise and share photographs. Authors communicate to readers with a satisfying immediacy and fans can unite to discuss, recommend and philosophise deeply their second favourite subject, after themselves. Within this presumably unprofitable cottage industry there are the odd dissenting voices and there are bloggers who are attempting to change the ways in which we assimilate the tropes of the genre. Romance Novels For Feminists argues that even advocates for equal rights can love Mills & Boon without betraying their values. Does Harlequin need to update their attitudes or should the public's perception of Harlequin get with the times? How can RNFF be more popular than Bewildered Heart? Are we really analysing sexism within romantic literature again, even after we effectively solved that whole issue months ago? None of those questions will be answered below.

The traditionally misguided notions of conventional wisdom and public opinion believe Mills & Boon's product is unhealthy, not only for the hackneyed prose and predictable plotting, but because the, 'Genre’s conventions may appear to grant women power, but in truth work to limit women’s power within patriarchy, and resist any messages that might teach women how to subvert its restrictions.' The very publisher offering books by women for women are the ones keeping women doomed to the perpetual subservience and unhappiness that men used to force upon them. However, there is, as there always is in a democracy, an opposing viewpoint. The critic Pamela Regis has suggested that, 'The romance novel is about women’s freedom... and popular because it conveys the pain, uplift, and joy that freedom brings.' Yet presumably readers cannot have it both ways, and Romance Fiction For Feminists points out both arguments are based on sweeping generalisations. The genre is too vast and too categorised for one-fits-all statements. Mills & Boon is slowly developing and with them their heroines are becoming more independent and successful by the novel. The frightfully sexist Doctors and Nurses imprint became Medical™ and perhaps most tellingly of all Harlequin added a new subgenre to its roster, Feminist, where heroines proudly choose to die alone, sarcastic, bitter and without make-up on.

'The romance novel’s central conflict is a struggle between two individuals intent on negotiating how power will be divided and/or shared between them.' While this isn't nearly as romantic a description as it could have been, a Mills & Boon is a deliriously-heightened version of the recognisable politics within any relationship. The compromises, agreements, personality clashes and emotional arcs depend upon credible and honest portrayals of this journey. Romances therefore reach their happy ending through various means. Typically authors favour, 'Feminine submission to a dominant man; while others explicitly reject such submissiveness while implicitly endorsing it.' Occasionally, and with a knowing wink to empowered women, there are many that, 'Marry action and ideology, presenting protagonists who share power equally.' Thus the genre serves a multitude of purposes. 'By comparing and contrasting what a successful negotiation of power in a romantic relationship looks like a discerning feminist reader can learn about equitable models, and the tricks our culture uses to convince women to accept inequitable ones.' Without realising it or intentionally pursuing any objective other than profit and glazed stares into middle distance Harlequin have contributed to feminist theory, albeit much in the same way as the guests on Jerry Springer have benefited cognitive linguistics.

'Traditionally, romance has been characterized by a strict heteronormativity.' What scholars dub heteronormativity we call a happy ending. As previously discussed the eternal union of a beautiful woman to a handsome man at the story's conclusion is the defining trait of romance. Nevertheless, monogamy is no more anti-feminist than a loyal and sensitive billionaire made of chocolate is. Psychologists have demonstrated that women read romance novels to reinvigorate their love lives and reaffirm their commitments to partners, and only the most cynical of feminists would imply that this process masks deep-seated repentance and a genuine desire to escape quiet lives and desperate marriages. Thus we move on to chief among the criticisms of the genre, the predictable repetition, and, on a related note, the sex scenes. Mills & Boon plays upon the reassurance of familiarity, but does the focus on the initial courtship offer a false model, that a couple's problems are over once they declare their undying love and does this, 'Deny the necessity of the constant dance of love, hurt, anger, and forgiveness that make up the day-to-day workings of most real-life relationships?'

Romance Novels For Feminists disagrees, 'If you read romances on a regular basis, you actually find an echo of the relationship work you have to slog through. Repetitively encountering the pattern through reading of many romance novels heartens the work of enduring the same repetition in day-to-day life.' This sounds suspiciously like the self-justifying defence of a guilty pleasure and the writer acknowledges the shaky footing under which this statement was constructed. Why have Mills & Boon not published any stories involving married characters going to therapy, or openly arguing during terse dinner parties at the homes of wealthier, more contented, couples? Such idealistic notions of love and the firm refusal of reality are more widely political than the restriction of women to chains of bondage. Equally the desired and popular fantasies Harlequin sell require an indifference towards logic, so why can't a feminist reader choose the occasional romance without needing to rationalise their behaviour, in the same way intellectuals might accidentally enjoy the cinematic offerings of Michael Bay?

Finally, there is the endlessly problematic view that such novels are pornography for women, as opposed to pornography, which is pornography for men. 'This label suggests that women in particular should be ashamed about being interested in, and reading about, sex. As a feminist, I take exception to such a belief.' Who wouldn't, but then pornography is subjectively characterised, albeit most often with negative connotations. Romance Fiction For Feminists goes into greater detail on this idea in later posts, even daring to chastise the industry for not being progressive enough to elicit rebellion. Author Ann Snitow views sexually explicit prose hopefully, due to her insistence that, 'Good sex for women requires an emotional and social context that can free them from restraint.' Unfortunately romantic heroines tend to wait for their emotionally wary heroes, shedding sexual aggression and spontaneity for the more desirable passivity and innocence. Seen in this way even the sex scenes in romance fiction are part of patriarchal oppression. Nevertheless, 'If pornography is defined as sexually-related subject matter that sexually stimulates its reader/viewer, then calling romance novels “pornography for women” is no insult in this feminist’s book,' the blog post concludes. By the sounds of it the feminist's book she speaks of is shamelessly disgraceful.