The dark side of love

Evocative covers anyone?

It isn’t a coincidence that most romance heroes are dark-haired. It isn’t a coincidence that there aren’t all that many blonde heroines either. It isn’t a coincidence that romance heroes are sexually experienced. It isn’t a coincidence that the hero and heroine have to fight, sometimes hate each other at some point in a romance novel. It isn’t a coincidence that romance has been known to stage cases of forceful love-making or seduction. All these traits of modern romance can be explained by one single idea: romance represents or emphasizes the “dark side” of love. Love as temptation, love as sin, love as carnal desire, love as physical pleasure–think of it, it’s everywhere in romance.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that romance actually endorses a Satanic view of love. There are many romance writers who are Christian (which is a different thing from authors who write “Christian/inspirational romance”), and why shouldn’t there be? What I’m trying to say can be better articulated in two distinct, yet complementary hypotheses: 1) Romance challenges some historically dominant interpretations of Christian love or “good” love, either by abandoning religious validation altogether (non-Christian writers), or by suggesting new criteria for religious validation/shifting the religious paradigm (Christian writers).

2) Romance is literature, fiction, and art; beyond delivering a message, its purpose is to play with popular representations and symbolism. Since Western societies are embedded in Christian symbolism, so we find it at work in Western productions. It is here crucial to note that the romance hero must always end up on the side of good, and the relationship eventually be saved (there is no “moral indecision” in a romance novel); but the devilish, demonic hero, as well as love as redemption, are extremely powerful and common images in romance. The commonplace misconception that the romance genre presents a mawkish, corny, fluffy depiction of love is therefore entirely unfounded: on the contrary, its sensational, popular roots explain its traditional preference for the subversive, dark side of love.

This is basically what occurred to me while I was reading A Duke of Her Own. The novel features a textbook example of what I mean by “the hero as devilish” and “love as sinful”–although the story obviously does a job of turning it around. Some novels will do that by using revelations or a Big Misunderstanding plot device: in reality the hero isn’t as bad as his reputation claims, and the love we thought was forbidden becomes actually possible and honorable. Other books, like Eloisa James’s, don’t attempt to make amends for the hero’s past mistakes (six bastard children! five duels!) or the characters’ behaviour (having sex three times while each is betrothed to someone else?). These books glory in their characters’ faults, in an attitude that is half “so what?” (rejection of assumed good and evil), half “and still they found love” (love as redemption).

“Do you know what I keep thinking?” A wildly mischievous smile spread across her face.
“Please don’t feel that you have to share it with me.”
“Oh, Lucifer, angel of the morning, how art thou fallen,” she said. And then whisked herself off, grinning.
Two could play at that game.

- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)

Lucifer proti Pánovi, by Mihály Zichy

This excerpt isn’t just one among many examples of a romance hero being likened to the Devil, Lucifer, Satan, a demon, or a monster. (The recent rise of dangerous fantasy creatures as romantic heroes makes, in this light, perfect sense.) Besides the use of an imagery that can quickly get old and meaningless, it shows a verbal sparring between the heroes that belies all conceptions of love as fluttery hearts, sickly adoration and dreamy feelings. It is such a cliche in romance that the hero and heroine must fight and irritate each other, that sometimes the reader doesn’t even know why, and gets annoyed at the characters for being so ill-tempered, stubborn or blind (always in the sense of not seeing the other’s goodness, though, ie the opposite of the saying that “love is blind”).

But what better way to underline the romance heroes’ imperfections and the rockiness of their relationship, than by contrasting them with “perfect” supporting characters and smoothly boring human interactions? That’s another strongly recurring pattern in romance. In A Duke of Her Own, the hero considers marriage with Lisette, a blonde, childish, joyful creature, because she seems more conform to society’s standards for women. Conversely, Eleanor is originally enamored of Gideon, who represents everything upstanding, honorable, and good (and blonde)–quite the opposite of the amoral (and black-haired) Duke of Villiers.

He didn’t mind showing some skin to Eleanor. But Lisette was a gently bred lady, with a kind of innocence that made her eyes shine with a deep-down purity.
Eleanor was leaning over the balustrade now, bantering with Tobias. Her bottom was very round under her thick robe. She was the antithesis of innocent.

- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)

One could also mention An Affair To Remember, by Karen Hawkins, in which the hero is engaged to a very blonde, very shy, very proper and very young lady, while the heroine is a tall, fiery redhead who lost her place in the Ton through her eccentric grandfather’s wild investments (his latest idea is to make “French sheaths” available to the lower classes). Or On the Way to the Wedding, by Julia Quinn, in which the hero imagines himself in love with the heroine’s perfect and blonde friend, before realizing he likes the oddball better. Or In the Prince’s Bed, by Sabrina Jeffries, in which the heroine pines for her blonde poet, before falling for the hero’s wicked kisses and fondling. The list goes on…

Of course blonde heroes and heroines exist. Romance doesn’t depend on a single plot device, either. But when it comes to heroes especially, their fair colouring is hardly used as a symbol, rather as evidence that “appearances are deceiving”. He may look like an angel, but he’s really wicked, tempting and lustful like the devil. However, equally often (especially in a series) blonde heroes are portrayed as less virile, less dominant than dark ones. Just look at Brenda Joyce’s Deadly series: (golden-haired) Bragg, the first love interest, can only be legitimately dethroned in Francesca’s heart by an even “maler” male, if I may say so. It will be Hart, the dark-haired half-brother with the scandalous ways, who is even more of an orphan (both parents vs only Bragg’s mother), and has chosen a darker professional path (building a financial empire vs serving in the police force).

Double standards? Clearly most of the dark, subversive burden lies on the hero’s shoulders, while romance heroines often continue being virginal, well-bred, and blonde. Well, yes, and no. The diagnosis may be correct for the romance genre as a whole; but it isn’t intelligible as such. You must consider that the genre is ever-evolving, that different authors occupy different niches, and express different belief systems through different styles, settings, plots and characters. I don’t think anybody who reads romance ever reads a statistically representative sample of the genre as a whole. Readers have favourites, as suits their personal understanding of love and the sexes.

Even so, I would like to offer an argument in favour of very male males and the imbalance between the hero and heroine. This is a genre written mainly by women, for women, yet it cannot abstract itself from the patriarchal environment in which not just the authors, but the readers are socialized. The heroine can be said to do her part in recognizing the hero for who he is–the hero–as opposed to condemning his wickedness or immorality and keeping away from him–and acceding to the fulfillment of her own desires. But there is comfort in thinking that the initiative and responsibility for this scandalous type of love rests primarily on the man. Men do, after all, have a distinct cultural advantage when it comes to doing as one pleases and the rest be damned. Thus romance seeks to speak to women as they are, not as they should be. As for men, well, romance may portray them a little more as they should be… Who’s going to complain, right?

How do you feel about the lack of political correctness in romance? Do you agree with my assessment of modern romance as outrageous rather than sentimental? Do you prefer romance heroes to be very wicked, or more like ordinary men? How do you envision the evolution of het romance regarding gender equality? Is it in urban fantasy (and its sexually hyperactive heroines)?