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.
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| 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.
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