MY ROM-COM RENAISSAINCE

Back in the 90s, I adored, romantic, comedy movies. They filled me with hope. They reminded me that, despite what I saw in the gay community, love was possible and, yes, it was worth waiting for. It could still be an aspiration. 

Even when the movie was a cookie cutter copycat of a Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan movie, even if the knock off still starred Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan, I still left the movie theatre with a broad smile on my face. These movies were sweet confections that went down so easily.

Until they didn’t. 

My disillusionment with the romantic comedy came at a time when the fairytale relationship I found lapsed into a nightmare. Darkness replaced light and I felt trapped. 

On the rare occasion when I would allow myself to watch a rom-com, I no longer smiled. I felt bitter. These movies had set me up with false hope. Life was more complicated, much harsher.

I became a cynical viewer. I poked holes in the light plots, like an armchair quarterback yelling at the screen as his beloved Cowboys were intercepted, fumbled and got all-out whooped.

“Yeah, right.“ 

“Get real.” 

“Not buying your bullshit.“ 

The sticking points that threatened to undo what looked like a blossoming, cinematic relationship were too easily resolved. Happy endings seemed contrived.

My conclusions were not unreasonable. The expectation upon watching a rom-com had always been that reason and reality were tinkered with, any nods to them played out lightly and loosely. I could no longer suspend disbelief for a ninety-minute sugar rush. Deep in survival mode, I anything light or loose taunted and mocked me. Any attempts at escapism were futile.

Almost two decades after getting out of my abusive relationship, I still couldn’t bring myself to return to rom-coms to give them another chance. 

I tried another option. I read a few romance novels. Usually, this experience did not go well. I could not find enjoyment. Too much fantasy. Too little reality. Worse, I could never buy into the complications that arose in the plot. A romance novel, by its very structure, requires a happy ending. I could not muster up any suspense. Every obstacle would be overcome, no matter how insurmountable the author had set it up to be. I would dutifully read through until the end, always being in a state of disbelief, despite never buying into any aspect of the story.

And then, for reasons that still astound me, I began to consider writing my own romance two years ago. I’d write a little, then walk away from it. Let it breathe, I told myself. But I knew there was more reason for my avoidance. Who was I to write romance? I wasn’t a believer in fairy tales. Not anymore. I’d fallen in love a few times but never with a happily ever after. How dare I give a reader their own sense of false hope? 

Still, during my breaks from that writing project, I would pick up the occasional romance novel, giving the genre another try. I attempted to let down my guard. Let it just be a nice story. Often, I found myself wanting to give the book a radical edit. If I just tear out these fifty pages of “complications,” I can get to the ending. Let us all be happy. 

 

Relax. I did not deface or destroy any part of any book. I just sighed a lot. Loudly. And not in that Meg Ryan diner scene kind of way from When Harry Met Sally. My neighbor seemed to tolerate my reading behavior. The police never showed up to investigate a noise disturbance. 

 

Maybe I’d never be able to embrace rom-coms again or binge-read romance novels on a dateless weekend. I could break up, once and for all, and move on. "Sorry, genre. It's not you; it's me." 

Let somebody else enjoy them while being in a period of feeling hopeful and aspirational about love and relationships, as I once was.

In time, even I could see my resistance was overblown. I’d fallen in love two more times since the Very Bad Relationship and the second one is still going. (This is when I hear RuPaul in my head, dropping a certain Drag Race meme.) If I could believe in love again in my actual life, why couldn’t see it again in fictional representations?

A few months ago, I took a big risk. I pulled Meg Ryan out of the vault. I pitched to my boyfriend, Evan, that we watch Sleepless in Seattle. It was research I told both him and myself. The romance project I had been working on, off and on, was set in Seattle. One of the things that I’ve been wanting to do in the manuscript is to pay homage to that movie, bringing back some of the more memorable settings in the city, and having the events in my own novel play out in a more tragicomic rather than meet-cute manner.

Um...is there such a category?

Evan is neither a reader of romance books nor a viewer of rom-com movies. A Netflix night for us does not involve much chillin’. It takes extensive negotiation. He suggests zombies and cowboys or the wrong Ryan—not Meg, not even Mr. Reynolds or Mr. Gosling, but Mr. Murphy, whose work long ago lost its G/glee. The way I conned/coerced him into watching Sleepless in Seattle was that, since he had much more experience living in Seattle, he could identify the public settings more accurately than I. Being the wholehearted supporter of my writing that he is, he sat down and watched with me. A true trooper. His first viewing, my umpteenth.

He’ll deny it, but he liked it. And so did I! 

 

Oh, Meg, how I’ve missed you. And you, too, writing goddess, Nora Ephron! I didn’t spend my time pointing out the many absurdities in the plot or projecting shame onto Meg’s Annie who was tracking down—even stalking—Tom Hanks’s Sam while engaged to Walter (Bill Pullman), an affable, stable, nerdy man whose biggest “flaw” is he has allergies. I bought into all of Annie’s sparkly hope, I loved Rosie O’Donnell’s nudging as her bestie, I rooted for Sam as he got “Back in the Saddle Again” (yes, the song played), giving dating another go, and I cheered as Sam’s young son, Jonah, pimped Pops to Annie. There is no wooing between Sam and Annie. They never go on a date. They don’t have a bad breakup, only to get back together again. Nope. They just end up at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day so we know they will live happily ever after. A cute old-timey Jimmy Durante song playing over the credits cements our feel-good vibes. Ahh, love!

 

A couple of weeks ago, Evan suggested we finish a nice day with Netflix. I tensed for the typical back-and-forth bidding, his Scarface versus my Rustin, his Riverdale versus my Maid. “You pick,” he said. “I don’t care.” Huh? Battle-weary even before the first round.

 

I called his bluff. “How about You’ve Got Mail?”

 

To be honest, I’d never loved this movie, even when I lapped up rom-coms. [SPOILER ALERTS.] Maybe I never saw the reason to make some bigtime business tycoon likable. Maybe I couldn’t handle seeing a charming little children’s bookstore close. Opening such a store had long been a dream of mine. How could a happily ever after not include the store’s survival? Goliath wins…where’s the feel-good in that? But, watching with Evan, I felt it best to suppress any objections. He’d let me pick, after all. I didn’t need to feed him with examples of the movie’s weaknesses. I needed to block any possibility of zombies being part of our next movie night. So I watched less critically.

 

Gosh golly, I really enjoyed it. Meg can do anything! She’s an actress with all sorts of cutesy tics that make her adorable and make her perfect for rom-com roles. There’s a skip in her step (even when she’s standing in place) that exudes positivity. She’s got what Mary Richards had on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. In the pilot episode, Mary’s future boss, Lou Grant, interviews her. “You’ve got spunk,” he says. Then, after a beat: “I hate spunk.” (Click on the link. The interview is wonderfully written.) In all Meg Ryan’s rom-coms, she believes in love and sees goodness in the world. She adds just enough tiny frowns to make the sweetness go down smoothly without resulting in a sugar coma. 

 

Evan liked the movie, too. Toward the end, his eyes may have even watered up. No doubt, a reaction to something in my stuffy condo. An allergy perhaps, but nothing on the level of Walter’s sensitivities in Sleepless. A keeper, that Evan. 

 

It seems that watching two rom-coms with a guy I love has allowed me to love the genre again. I can stop resisting on behalf of all the jilted. I can hope for happy endings again. Maybe I can enjoy a romance novel without the urge to rip out huge chunks. Maybe I can gain momentum with my own manuscript. Maybe I can just let love be—on the screen, on the page and in real life.   

 

 

 

 

ARE YOU A SAMANTHA OR A CARRIE?

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Okay, so Kim Cattrall and Sarah Jessica Parker aren’t as chummy as Samantha and Carrie. (Here's the link to an article on the subject, in case you've had better things to do.) I can see Jack McFarland flipping out on “Will & Grace” but the rest of us should take a long, slow sip from Karen Walker’s martini glass and get over it.

I loved “Sex and the City”. Like many gays, I inserted myself into the show, engaging in frequent banter on whether I was Carrie or Miranda or Samantha or Charlotte. Maybe I have a conflict of interest here as I always went back and forth from Miranda to Charlotte. No one would ever take me for Samantha and Carrie always seemed to be overshadowed by each of them. Who wants to identify with that?!

The entertainment business works hard to create a make-believe world, not only regarding the storylines of characters on TV shows but also as to the happenings on set. Doesn’t every actor say, “I know it’s going to sound cliché, but we really are like a family”? We’re supposed to believe that on these sets and locations, strong, warm bonds form all the time.

I’m glad social media wasn’t around way back when I connected with “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” and grew to love the characters and, in turn, the actors. I want to forever believe that that group hug at the end of the series represented pure love between characters and among the cast (even if Rhoda/Valerie and Phyllis/Cloris had already left the nest). Same with “The Bob Newhart Show”. Bob and Emily forever, along with Howard, Jerry and Carol popping up for regular smiles and yuk-yuks.

Let “Friends” always be friends. May “The Golden Girls” always commune and console over cheesecake. And I can go on imagining that those “Designing Women” of seasons one and two continue to enjoy their southern charm while tuning out any of the on-set drama involving Delta Burke. Again, we mercifully only got reports of that through weekly tabloids.

On Twitter, I’m seeing #TeamKim and #TeamSJP emerge. Mostly, it seems people are looking for excuses to tweet the latest sassy GIFs.

I didn’t read of any tensions between Cattrall and Parker until the fall of 2017 when Kim Cattrall’s disinterest in a third “Sex and the City” movie put the kibosh on it going forward. Whatever the reason, I was glad. I saw the first and found it entirely disappointing. Couldn’t stomach the second, which might further tarnish the shine of such an outstanding series. The only unfortunate part of reading that there wouldn’t be another movie was the public muck that came out.

It’s with that in such recent memory that this newest uproar arises. Kim’s brother was missing and she’d taken to social media, desperate to find him. That got attention. When it turned out he’d died, the sad news got even more internet and new media attention. Celebrities are now scrutinized for their responses or their “failure” to respond. Given what public spat in the fall, what was Sarah Jessica Parker to do? The norm now is to tweet love and condolences, often with generic wording. Enough to make a public acknowledgment. It’s the same as the sympathy cards that get passed around in our own lunchrooms. The standard sentiment is a “Thinking of you” and a signature. For celebs, silence—or perceived silence, even if condolences are sent privately—would be new fuel because, even in this #MeToo era, everyone loves a good cat fight. Let women be empowered but let the sideshows continue to satisfy the gawkers.

I’m not on either team. (Perhaps stirring up wounds from childhood when I was last to be picked, let me be #TeamNoTeam.) But why would a TV environment be any more collegial and more familial than any other workplace? The reason “The Office” was such a success is that it was relatable. A work setting brings together people who are, well, not so relatable to one another. People get on each other’s nerves. There are falling-outs. Some quit but don’t we all know of people who stick with a job because of the pay or out of fear of what else is/isn’t out there? Don’t we know people who can ruin a Friday night happy hour with an unrelenting diatribe on all their co-workers? Whether Sarah Jessica should have tweeted and whether Kim should have responded, can we just move on?

In my mind, Carrie and Samantha will always be friends. And if all that was just good acting, then so be it.

    

SWISS AMISS

Nothing against Switzerland. It’s beautiful in pictures. Someday I hope to visit. But, beyond its alpine imagery, the country sticks out in my mind as being a peaceful nation that maintained its neutrality in time of war. Yes, that is a good thing. I think I came out of the womb as a pacifist. Not that I was angelic. Didn’t see the point of a water pistol when a bucket of water had a greater impact. Never found the slightest fascination in any kind of weaponry, any movies with violence or drab military uniforms. While being peaceful is a noble ideal, being neutral sometimes isn’t. Okay, here’s where I need to leave Switzerland alone and focus in on gay and lesbian subject matter. I attended a wonderful conference a few weeks ago and a counselor spoke to a group of thirty of us for two extended sessions. Her talk had many important insights that I have used at work, but what lingers more is the way she spoke of her family. There were wonderful stories about her aging, pie-baking mother in Nova Scotia and a few relatable anecdotes about her Twitter/text-obsessed teen stepson and stepdaughter. And then there was her “partner”. Always referred to as such. Never he or she, never husband, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend. The only pronoun used was “we”. It was masterful maneuvering, the kind of gender neutrality that takes constant self-monitoring. I’ve done it before, though not nearly as smoothly. As effortless as she made it seem, it became a distraction for me. This lovely, self-effacing, empathic woman who spoke passionately about accepting and embracing people neutered the most important person in her life. On my gaydar checklist, she had all the stereotypical lesbian traits. It wasn’t as though she was desperately trying to be straight-acting, yet she adopted a stance I have taken many times in my life: You can figure it out for yourself. Why should I have to make a proclamation? As the day went on, I kept waiting for her to get comfortable for the big reveal. Yes, she relaxed enough to throw out a couple of expletives that had proper context and made her stories more realistic. She made multiple references to her golf game. She shared many of her own flaws, some deeply personal. But The Partner remained a genderless enigma. Being single and chronically dating-challenged, I tell myself there isn’t much harm in my closed/closeted stance. No one suffers. I do not have a “partner” who has been slighted/neutered/erased. I am an introvert. I do not need to share that I am gay, just like I do not need to share that I am a vegetarian or a lover of old episodes of “The Mary Tyler Moore” show (and, particularly, its oh so empowering theme song, the lyrics markedly more positive after Season One). I do not like calling attention to myself. No need when others crave the stage. Despite the fact I could relate to Neuter Syndrome, I remain bothered by the countless references to The Partner over the course of the day. I may not have gone with any family references and stuck to stories about my dog. Heck, I can connect everything in life to my dog. Or “The Mary Tyler Moore Show”. But this respected speaker who spoke so eloquently about creating genuine relationships could not be fully honest with us. We have made progress over the past four decades since Stonewall, but we have a long way to go in terms of self-acceptance and societal acceptance. Locking ourselves in a gondola in Switzerland is safe, sometimes even restorative, but neutrality that amounts to neutering can be harmful.