Mr. Alpha Squared: A Problem for Romance Novels

There's a very good reason why Alpha Rogue Hawkeye,

and tough-as-steel Hot Lips don't get together

permanently: equals, yes, but they'd drive each other nuts.

A number of romance novels (from G-rated to R-rated, from Heyer to erotica) utilize the series approach: five daughters in a family looking for husbands. Or five sons in a family or club looking for wives. Julia Quinn tackles both daughters and sons in her Bridgerton series. And she does a fine job, mostly because she avoids the problem of the alpha, alpha, alpha male.

A number of romance writers who employ this approach end the series by marrying off the  MOST alpha, MOST mysterious, MOST dark and dangerous, MOST masculine, MOST domineering male of the bunch. The idea is that finally the readers will learn about that glowering, monotone guy in the corner.

And truthfully, the writers usually manage to create a kind of suspense about this final male character. Unfortunately, inevitably, the last book suffers.

The problem with the MOST alpha, MOST mysterious, etc. etc. is the same problem that haunts the omniscient bad guy and, for that matter, the same problem that lurks behind the in-your-face-heroine. In order to be so very dark and dangerous and alpha and disturbed, the final male character is the kind of guy that should send up red flags to any reasonably sane woman (as in, "Are you crazy?! You'll be calling Dr. Laura in a year weeping about how you didn't see the problems coming, blah, blah, blah.").

To a degree, the writers seem to know this, so they give Mr. Alpha Squared Plus a bride-to-be who is the MOST beautiful, the MOST fragile, the MOST desperate, the MOST needy, the MOST . . .

You get the picture.

The problem being, two unhappy needy people do not a strong marriage make. Think Charles and Diana: two people who imagined the other person would satisfy all their longings since childhood. End result: Charles goes back to his mother-mistress; Diana disintegrates mentally in front of the world's cameras. The world breaths a sign of relief when she dies and Charles gets his mother-figure full-time.

The one romance/erotica book where I have seen Mr. Alpha Squared work is In Total Surrender by Anne Mallory. The main male character is basically a ruler of the London underground, a kind of 19th century mafia lord who opposes greedy aristocrats and loan-sharks. He is about as alpha, dark and dangerous as a hero comes (in the opening chapter, he takes out several potential assassins while saving the heroine). The storytelling is clever--less violent, more edgy dialog. And the heroine is ultra clever--she's smart, first of all: she wants the hero's help to keep her family from ruin, so she comes armed to their meeting with a decent business plan (business-wise, she's just as wily as he is). More importantly, however, instead of sweeping into his office full of angst and glamor and "my tragic tragic past that I can't possibly tell you about!" she . . .

brings him cookies (biscuits, that is: it is England).

And he's stymied. Enthralled. But confused. Which is great because she doesn't behave at all like the women in these Mr. Alpha novels are supposed to behave.

In general, it's easier just to make heroes and heroines normal (though not always as much fun). 

Guest Blogger: Mike Discusses The Problem With Comic Books

When first introduced to comic books, I fell in love when Marvel Comics. The series that hooked me was called "What If?" It always explored a variation on the events that had transpired in the Marvel Universe. Story-lines, such as "What if the Avengers had fought Galactus?" or "What if Wolverine became Lord of the Vampires?" were regularly explored and followed to an often tragic end. What thrilled me about these comics was how they played with an established, concrete history. I didn’t know it at the time, but what I really loved about the Marvel Universe was its incredible sense of continuity.

You would often see a character from another comic passing someone like Peter Parker or Tony Stark on the sidewalk. A little footnote below would exclaim "What is the Human Torch doing in Queens? Check out this month’s Fantastic Four for the scoop!" These characters lived in a connected world. Often a character would not be present in the book he guest-starred in because he was busy in his own comic or off teaming up with another hero. The writers seemed to realize and care about continuity, about what was happening, and when, in the world of Marvel Comics. And I was an addict.

In the last few years, this has all changed. The current head of Marvel Comics, who was hired around 10 years ago now, issued a new decree for the formerly continuity- heavy Marvel Comics: "Continuity can be ignored for the purpose of a good story." It was, for Marvel at least, a revolutionary concept. Suddenly, Spider-Man and Wolverine were EVERYWHERE. The problem is that while it worked for sales, the overall quality of the writing suffered once continuity was no longer respected. "A good story" seemed to be confused for "A story that sells like hotcakes."

Along with this sudden freedom, the comic industry also learned something evil. They realized that any time they changed the status quo, their sales picked up. Phrases like "The end of an Era!" or "The beginning of a new legacy!" began gracing the covers of more and more comics. You had Team and Roster changes, heroes donning new names and costumes, heroes dying in big, publicized events and then returning, triumphantly resurrected, having fought their way back from the grave to defend their homes. These days, heroes die all the time, and their resurrection may only be months hence.

When Captain America died a few years ago, it was a pretty big deal. The entire Marvel Universe was shaken, with every hero talking about it, going to the funeral, and dealing with the reality of emotional loss. There was an incredible mini-series published at the time--Fallen Son: The Death of Captain America--which shows different heroes, such as Iron Man, Spider-Man, and Wolverine, each dealing with a different aspect of the grieving process. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance are explored in a single issue, and it’s truly an emotional and moving book.

About a year after Cap’s death, Thor used his great power to summon the spirit of Steve Rogers and visit with him. Moved by the Captain’s sadness at the use of his death for political agendas, Thor flies into high orbit, and uses lightning to silence every satellite broadcasting coverage of the anniversary of Cap’s death for one minute. One full minute of peace for his fallen friend. Again, the story was emotionally fulfilling and moving. It brought real weight to events of a fictional world. These comics not only made me miss the Captain, but also truly appreciate what the world had become after his loss.

And then, they brought him back. "Cap isn’t dead!" they told us. "He was just lost in time! See his return in the new mini-series, 'Captain America Reborn!'"

And suddenly, those wonderful, emotionally moving, and incredibly well-written books reflecting the death of Captain America lost all significance. They were rendered obsolete. Why would someone read a reflective piece on the life and death of an individual that’s still alive?

Death in comics has become a revolving door that nearly every character will pass through, disappearing for a short time before returning completely unscathed. It’s hard for a reader such as myself to really care much these days when a traumatic event comes to pass for a beloved character. They died? Aw, they’ll be back in a few months. No big deal. The most glaring example of just how bad things are in the world of comics is that even Spider-Man’s Aunt May and Batman’s butler Alfred have both died and returned. Let’s consider this. Aunt May. Really.

I think the main problem is this: If an event has no lasting impact on the life of a character, then it is of no importance to the reader either. Continuity must not only exist, it must be respected. If an event takes place, its consequences must be real and lasting. When you remove the consequences, you remove the meaning of the event.

For continuity to truly work, and for the life, adventures, and tragedies of a character to truly matter, there must be a clear beginning, middle, and end. Not only must the end be clearly defined in relationship to events,  it must be defined in time as well. When that cycle comes to an end, you can begin another. Maybe it’s a new character; perhaps it’s the child of the hero. But the life of a fictional character, especially that of a comic character, cannot continue indefinitely as it has in the past and have any credibility or structural stability.

One of my favorite comic runs in the last few years was Joss Whedon’s Astonishing X-Men. Completely free of the continuity of the X-Men comics that were being printed at the time, Whedon's comic explored a wonderful story that touched on many classic moments of the X-Men’s past. The series, while amazing, exemplifies both the problem and the solution to Marvel's continuity chaos. The series did rely on the pasts of the X-Men featured, but while there was a clear beginning, middle and end,  it did not have a clear place in the overall continuity of the X-Men timeline.

Furthermore, while the comic featured emotional growth for many of the characters, some events were spoiled by story-line ramifications appearing in other comics published before those events happened in the main series. Many events featured in the series, such as a long awaited relationship between two characters and the "death" of a hero, have since been undone; the relationship ended, the dead resurrected. Again. Perhaps most problematic is that the series actually featured the resurrection of a long missing character. (However, the character had been out of print for some time, and his resurrection did not undo what his death had accomplished.)

Unfortunately, when continuity does appear in the Marvel Universe these days, it has no real weight. Sure, if it will help sell a comic; a hero might cross over into the big company-wide story. But often, events are written and then ignored or undone according to what the sales figures dictate.

Any event that happens in the life of a character must be true to what he has experienced before and effect what he does in the future. The story must be the most important consideration. What does this story say? What did the character learn? How did he learn or grow? Once the sales of a series outweigh the importance of the story itself, the reader suffers, and the work suffers. Strong characters deserve not only strong stories, but a strong history and complete timeline. Without these things, comics will continue as literary garbage heaps, continually piling and piling yp until the audience is drowned in useless waste.

It’s time for Marvel Comics to change. And not just another reboot like DC’s "New 52" that graced shelves in the last couple months. Restarting continuity from scratch may resolve past problems, but it will still leave writers open to future problems. Soon this new, fresh slate will become as muddled and confusing as it was before. The future of comics, and other continuity-based entertainment, lies not in it's perpetuity, but rather in its end. By introducing complete character timelines (ending with death/retirement), and perhaps redesigning each story arc to function as its own graphic novel, the integrity of the characters and the stories being told would be strengthened and reinvigorated. Instead of following a character doing the same thing over and over for years without end, future comic readers can have complete epics featuring heroes whose lives are worth caring about, remembering, and, who knows, inspiring others.

Iron Man and the Hulk: Conversation Between Mike and Kate

I recently saw Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk. I liked Iron Man, so much I saw it twice! I didn't care for The Incredible Hulk. I referred this conflict to Mike who presents the following explanations. (Mike's wife also prefer Iron Man to The Incredible Hulk, so this could just be a guy-gal thing. Mike tackles this posssibility as well as others.)

MIKE: The Incredible Hulk was fun for me because it, far more than Iron Man, really wove together and created the Marvel Universe on the screen. This is important because Iron Man and Hulk were the first two steps of a multi-movie franchise that will culminate in a couple years with the "Avengers" movie.

But it's not fair for a movie to be only accessible to the fans.

I think the main problem that exists with bringing the Hulk to the screen is that they keep trying for superhero when they should be going for more man-on-the-run western. The TV show got it right on some points, but many of the areas where the TV show got it wrong are the areas that the films also get wrong.

In truth, the Hulk is not and never was originally a hero. Jekyll and Hyde weren't heroes either.

KATE: This is an interesting point, Mike! I think it is notable how often the creation or alternate ego takes over in terms of interest. Frankenstein, for example, is actually the doctor, not the monster. The Beast is more interesting than the Prince. Dracula--who hardly appears in the original novel--gets more attention than the scoobie gang. The list goes on . . .

MIKE: The tragedy of Bruce Banner is that the Hulk is the consequence of his genius, and the price he paid to save a life. In the comics, there was no lab accident. Bruce Banner had created a bomb, a very powerful bomb. And when they were about to test it, a teenager wandered into the testing ground. Banner went and saved the kid, but he was almost too late: the blast went off, showering Banner in radiation, turning him into the Hulk.

I think the film does a better job than the Ang Lee Hulk (which is awful). A Hulk movie should, absolutely, be a chase movie. I think the film also does a great job of finding the humor in the circumstances. And, as I said, it really lays the foundation for the world that the next few Marvel films are going to exist in.

But marketing the film as a superhero flick is a mistake. While Banner has done good things, and is a hero in some ways, this is not a man out to save the world; he is seeking to save himself. And the Hulk, as an entity, is also not heroic. The Hulk can't be a hero because he embodies the worst of Banner: his rage, his guilt, his desire to be alone. Banner is seeking to reconcile himself: to bridge and repair his shattered psyche.

KATE: Speaking of heroes (what makes a hero, etc.), in my folklore class, I have used three traditional folklore images to explain modern superheroes:

1. The strong, down-to-earth countryman: Bill Bunyan, Superman
2. The wise-cracking Yankee: "The Yankee Peddler," Tony Stark
3. The backwoodsman or vigilante: George Magoon (famous Maine poacher), Batman

In all three cases, the hero is larger than life and, even if burdened by personal concerns, has some other larger objective.

MIKE: Now, in the film, when Banner is able to finally control the beast, to bend the Hulk to his will, THAT is when he becomes a hero. Not because he saves the city, not because he takes down a beast that his work unleashed. But, rather, because he is able finally to take the anger, fear, and other emotions that are raging beneath the surface and direct them; he is able to be constructive, instead of destructive.

Controlling our emotions and impulses can sometimes take heroic effort, and Bruce Banner's struggle controlling the Hulk is an amazing, though exaggerated, illustration of that struggle.

The problem with superhero movies is that, for most people, they are only compelling when the character is obviously human, like Spider Man or Iron Man. Superman or the Hulk are both difficult because they cannot go through the same things as a human hero. They can't always be hurt or screw up. The last Superman movie disappointed a lot of people, but that should not have been a superhero movie; it was more of a disaster movie, since Superman is more of a force of nature.

KATE: I think my dissatisfation comes in here. It isn't so much that I demand human characteristics, but that I prize cleverness over brute strength. I quite enjoyed the last Superman movie but what I enjoyed, when it came to the battle/action scenes, was Superman's choices. He makes quite active choices about who he will help next and how and when and where. You can see him thinking through the problem. This is true of Iron Man as well. Tony Stark is--in his blithe, capitalistic way--always thinking through his options.

In The Incredible Hulk, the action sequences were just . . . the Hulk throwing stuff. It was, I hate to say this, boring. (To be fair, I did enjoy the beginning of the movie: the chase stuff.) It reminded me of the critique of The Phantom Menace where the critic explains how much more satisfying the fight scene between old Obi-Wan and Darth is compared to the fight scene between their younger selfs. The fight scene between their younger selfs goes on and on and on and on and where's the emotional resonance? On the other hand, the fight scene between the older dudes is short and to-the-point and filled with emotional resonance.

That's how I felt watching The Incredible Hulk. He wasn't making choices, so I didn't care how many cars he ripped up. But when Superman decides to go back and lift Lex Luthor's island out of the ocean: THAT was cool.

MIKE: The strength of the Hulk concept is that through Banner, you have the protagonist and antagonist wrapped together in one person. A true Hulk movie would make the Hulk the villian with Banner and a close friend the heroes, working to overcome the Hulk and use him, when they can, for higher purposes.

The trouble, though, is that people want violence and action, and parents want their children cheering for the good guys. Which may be why Godzilla eventually went from Godzilla destroying the city to protecting it from other monsters.

KATE: There's a great philosophical problem here! The Hulk could struggle with whether the damage he unleashes as the Hulk is worth the good he could do if the power was controlled.

Mike also addresses the guy-gal issue:

MIKE: I think the Hulk resonates more strongly with men because rage, anger, guilt, stress are all emotions that a lot of men struggle controlling regularly. The Hulk is the end result of losing control: he is rage and emotion unleashed. To lose control, to fear cracking and having the emotions escape is something that all men feel to some extent.

KATE: I think this is an interesting point! And much more honest than the politically correct mantra that men and women are the same (I think women can do as much damage as men but not physically. It's a matter of straight-forward mechanics: the strongest woman in the world will never be as strong as the strongest man.)

I have had a few male students write essays on "Why the Hulk would win against Wolverine" or "against Superman," etc. In general, these male students are burly football types. I wonder, sometimes, how frustrated they feel--sitting cramped behind tables having a 5'2" 110 pound woman yap "Essay writing is fun!" at them--and if the Hulk speaks to them in some way. (By the way, they are also almost always my sweetest students.)

Mike gets the last word:

MIKE: But you are right: Hulk doesn't work as a hero. But I believe it's because Hollywood is trying too hard to make him one.

Good Bad Guys

I recently re-watched Bourne Identity. Bourne Supremacy is still my favorite of the three Bournes, but Bourne Identity has one huge factor in its favor: Chris Cooper.

I've been a fan of Chris Cooper since Matewan. His role in Bourne Identity as Conklin is much smaller than the roles of the CIA members in Supremacy. However, he stands alone as a strong behind-the-scenes protagonist to Bourne.

The scene I like best, though, is when Bourne confronts Conklin in Paris. I like it because Conklin isn't afraid of Bourne. Here is this agent who can kill him a thousand different ways with just his hands, and Conklin faces him down. He ends up dead, but he faces Bourne down. He is fearless.

This is the first quality of a good bad guy: fearlessness. A bad guy who begs for mercy may be pitiable or realistic or, even, funny, but it doesn't make for watchable entertainment. Besides, fearlessness in and of itself is frightening since it isn't completely normal or understandable.

This is why the Joker makes a good bad guy. I happen to dislike the Joker intensely (as a character), and I tend to avoid movies, cartoon episodes, and comics which use the Joker. I prefer my bad guys to have invested interests (see below). The point of the Joker is that he doesn't; he is random, amoral, anarchical.

But he makes a good bad guy--even if I can't watch him. Heath Ledger was correctly (posthumously) awarded an Oscar for that role in Dark Knight (even if I will probably never watch the movie again).

The second quality of a good bad guy is wittiness--and for what are probably sub-sub-subconscious reasons buried in the American psyche, it helps if the bad guy has a British accent. (In fact, whenever I see books or articles about how unfairly Hollywood has treated a particular race/nationality, I always think, "Yeah, and what about all those poor British men?")

One of my favorite examples is Shere Khan in the Disney animated version of Jungle Book: here's this tiger strolling through the jungle, uttering lines in this bored, drawling BBC accent. And let's not forget the unforgettable (and very sexy) Alan Rickman in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves brings us to the next quality: quirkiness.

I mentioned that I dislike watching the Joker: insane villains don't interest me. Quirkiness isn't insane, just unexpected. For example, for reasons best understood by folklorists, the Sheriff of Nottingham is often displayed as just a tad off-kilter. Here are some examples:

Alan Rickman in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves
Q in "Qpid" (Star Trek: TNG)
Keith Allen in the recent Robin Hood television series
Roger Rees (very amusingly) in Robin Hood: Men in Tights

Quirkiness is one reason I like over-the-top villains: Lex Luthor (John Shea) in Lois and Clark and (again) Lex Luthor (Michael Rosenbaum) in Smallville are good examples. And, naturally, Bruce Campbell in, oh, just about anything where he plays a villain. And I mustn't leave out the mayor (Buffy: Season 3)!

The Lex Luthors also, usually, have very narrow motives; the fourth quality of a good bad guy is an invested interest in something real. Yes, there's a place on the villain's pantheon for the Joker, but usually (99.9% of the time), the villain needs to care about something definite.

This is one reason Stargate is so successful a television series: both the Goa'uld and the Wraith are intense villains with narrow, understandable (if deplorable) interests: survival of the species in terms of procreation and food. King Miraz (Sergio Castellitto) in Prince Caspian (the movie) makes a good villain because he has a narrow definable (and from the viewpoint of European history) defendable position (he makes a good villain in the book too).

This is also why the villain of Bones: Season 3 (Gormogon) was a dead loss. There was no "there" there--no real purpose behind his actions or, for that matter, Zach's. 99.9% of conspiracies are a dead-loss in terms of long-term interest. House, for example, almost always produces GREAT villains, mostly because the villains (or antagonists) are so darn human and specific in their desires.

On the other hand, I do prefer the no-nonsense villain to the villain who suddenly, pesto chango, becomes a terrific human being--give me early Vadar versus later Vadar any day. Still, it helps if the no-nonsense villain has a focus (Princess Leia or, for bad Angel, Buffy), and it also helps if the no-nonsense villain has a less villainous, more quirky sidekick like Spike.

Last but not least, the good bad guy needs to have charisma. Now, this quality is problematic because the bad guy's charisma needs to balance the good guy's charisma: the good guy needs a worthwhile antagonist but shouldn't be overshadowed by said antagonist (the snake should not get all the lines). This is terrifically hard to do.

I think charisma is balanced in these instances:

• Ari (against Gibbs and the team) in NCIS: charismatic but completely untrustworthy; besides, he kills the wonderful Kate.
• Q in Star Trek: TNG. Patrick Stewart can hold his own against John de Lancie--barely. (Q ends up being more ambiguous than bad in any case.)
• The bad prince (against our intrepid heroes) in Princess Bride: he's just so icky smarmy: icky smarmy helps to undercut expansive charisma.
• Liam Neeson as the bad mentor guy in Batman Begins (although I think his character misses on all other points except for witty with a British accent: one of my favorite villain lines comes from him: "You took my advice about theatricality a bit literally.").
• Hugo Weaving (all by himself really) in the Matrix.

Of course, few villains meet all the aforementioned criteria. But then, few heroes can match all the aforementioned criteria in terms of fearlessness, wit (with a British accent), quirkiness, invested interest, and charisma.

And the winner villain (today) is . . .

Nicole Wallace (Olivia D'Abo) from Law & Order: Criminal Intent.

I happen to think Law & Order: Criminal Intent falls to pieces after Season 2. Nicole Wallace is a terrific villain though. AND she meets all the criteria.

1. She is fearless. Goren cannot overwhelm or outmaneuver Nicole as he does so many of the other villains on Law & Order: CI.

2. She has that British accent!

3. She is quirky. She's just as messed up as Goren which makes her a good mirror for him.

4. She has an invested interest: namely, Nicole Wallace. Her interests are very narrow and very self-serving--even when she's bent on revenge.

5. She is charismatic. She's also a Star Trek alumni!

Why Rimmer Is Such a Great Character

I've been rewatching Red Dwarf recently and have been reminded, once again, what a truly awesome show it is! It is a surprisingly low-budget sitcom with only three (later five) main characters. Of those characters, it is easy to like Lister and the Cat, but I have always had a soft spot for Rimmer, played by Chris Barrie. Here are my reasons:

1. Rimmer has great lines.

This is a very British approach to comedy. The British, more so than us earnest Americans, allow their "smegheads" to be more than just the dupes of the show. The "smeghead" in British sitcoms is often the holder of sarcasm, the rude character who speaks the truth. He is Becker, only, unlike Becker, he isn't the hero of the piece. (One U.S. example is Family Ties where Alex, who is always proved wrong by his so-called enlightened parents, nevertheless has most of the good lines.)

2. Rimmer is unhappy.

The writers make it clear that Rimmer has decided to be miserable. Non-misery creates extreme dissonance in Rimmer's brain. He has constructed a story to explain away all goodness in his life, and he accepts nothing that doesn't jive with this story.

He has also, the writers make clear, had a more stable upbringing than either Lister or the Cat. He has even had more opportunities than Arnold "Ace" Rimmer. Rimmer has literally and figuratively created his own hell.

Yet he remains a pathetic character. His upbringing, however stable, was nothing to write home about--ha ha. And he is truly unhappy. I think this is one of the smartest characterizations on the show. Rimmer's obnoxiousness is grounded in real unhappiness, rather than intrinsic horribleness. Two of the most continuously sweet (but unstated) aspects of the show are that Rimmer and Lister continue to sleep in their original assigned quarters (yes, I know this is largely due to the show's expense budget, but it makes psychological sense) and that Lister never does replace Rimmer with a different hologram. They accept each other as what they are, no matter how annoying. In "Justice," Lister admits that although Rimmer has no friends, Lister cares what happens to him, and Rimmer, who would never be so honest, depends on that emotional support.

3. Rimmer is a good counter to Lister.

Lister is the moral center of the show, but he is also lazy and slobbish. In "The Inquisitor," Lister judges himself the hardest since he has the most potential and knows that he doesn't live up to it.

Lister's live-and-let-live policy is very relaxing, but every so often, this makes him miss the obvious. In "Thanks for the Memory," Lister gives Rimmer the memory of being in love. He gives Rimmer the memory of one of Lister's relationships. Rimmer immediately recognizes the worth of the relationship, something that Lister had shrugged off (I was young, I was playing the field--"I thought that?" Rimmer responds. "I must have been mad. She was great, and she thought I was great.").

Lister does take the moral high ground as he argues that Rimmer (and Lister himself) should retain the memory since it is better to have lived and loved, etc. etc. However, and this is why Lister remains the character all the other characters rely on, he respects Rimmer's insistence that the memories be removed. Rimmer's insistence that the memories be removed takes us back to point 2. Sure, Rimmer is wrong, but which of us hasn't wished (a la Willow in "Something Blue") to simply remove our heart ache, like an appendix? How many of our true fears and attitudes does Rimmer vocalize?

Red Dwarf always astonishes me. The individual episodes are so fundamentally simply, and yet, the psychology could keep a person talking for years.

The Romantic Hero: Three Versions for/by Women

Romance OCD-Style

The first is the most common. This type of romantic hero is all about the girl. He notices what she wears. He notices how she smells. He notices where she spends her free time. He picks up on tiny clues regarding her tastes, her wishes, her whereabouts. Edward from Twilight is this type of romantic hero. Darcy from Pride & Prejudice is a dialed-down and more realistic version. This hero has an impressively retentive memory: for instance, if the heroine leaves town due to some minor misunderstanding with the hero, he will remember that she once mentioned her grandmother used to live on Bailey Island in Maine, and since her grandmother recently died leaving her an inheritance, he will cleverly deduce that she has gone to her grandmother's house on Bailey Island and follow her there.

Positives: The obsessive can be alluring. Darcy is, without a doubt, one of the most attractive heroes in all of literature and television. Colin Firth's interpretation of Darcy as intensely introverted helps to offset the intensity of his observations (and Darcy, thankfully, doesn't notice everything). Still, this particular romantic hero feeds the seductive idea that the woman is the all-consuming and constant center of the male's universe (and he is not usually written as complexly as Darcy).

Drawbacks: Unless tempered by time or some outside interest (like, ya know, an estate), this hero runs the risk of being a creepy, domineering jerk. If he isn't violent or manipulative, he might just irritate the heroine to death with all his minute "observations." Or leave her with the definite feeling that she is being stalked. If he doesn't have a moral compass, he will simply move on to the next woman who fills his universe when he gets bored with the current "all-consuming" interest.

The White-Knight or (as Shawn refers to him on Psych) "Dwight"

It helps if the White Knight is also witty.

The White-Knight flies to the rescue at the right time with the right equipment. He kills the dragon, uproots the bad guy, and, if he's a variation on the first type, remembers chocolates. But he isn't necessarily a noticing short of chap. He notices big problems like dragons, mean relatives, pirates, and the end of the world, and he tries to make an appearance at those events. He has a long and reputable history in film, including Westley (Princess Bride) and Shrek. (I had a hard time coming up with an example from literature, believe it or not! Jane Austen's heroes occasionally perform rescues, but they never rescue the heroine--although Darcy does rescue Elizabeth's reputation--and Bronte's Jane Eyre rescues Rochester. I settled for Ellis Peters' Cadfael series since men do lots of rescuing in those books but it's nice and not totally annoying.) Hugh Beringer from the Cadfael series agrees to a duel in order to catch a murderer and protect his wife-to-be from learning of her brother's perfidy.

Positives: The White-Knight plays to male strengths. While I find it completely unlikely for anyone to remember such a minor detail as the off-hand mention of a grandmother's inheritance (see above), I do consider it likely for any male to render a physical service, such as finding a dog, fixing a roof, or mowing the grass. Granted, killing a dragon is a little more exciting but evolved biology has nested the desire to protect within the male psyche. (Which is a good thing, I say to "all-male-behavior-should-be-stopped" feminists. I'm a feminist, just not that type.)

"Agony!"

Drawbacks: The desire to protect may also be accompanied by the desire to smash things. Which is fine so long as it isn't illegal. Also, once the romantic hero runs out of things to fight, he might not be able to adjust to home life. Dragons v. lawn... as the princes in Into the Woods discover, once the enemy is beaten, the girl isn't quite so interesting (or as House says to Wilson, "You're right. It was the schizophrenia."). And, here's my feminism, the heroine can sometimes rescue herself. (And should in the case of Bella from Twilight; okay, okay, I promise not to bring up Twilight again.)

The Only Guy Around (for Miles and Miles and Miles . . .)

I admit a preference for this particular hero/romantic situation. In this set-up, the hero and heroine are trapped somewhere--a small community, an island, work. They may even be trapped on a trip á la It Happened One Night and The Bourne Identity. In an extended sense, Mulder and Scully belong to this situation since, although they work among many people and have many contacts, they are tied together by their knowledge of the conspiracy. No one else is as fully informed, as invested, or as close as they are.

Positives: First, by necessity, the emphasis is on the relationship. Because there are no other options--because no one has to prove him or herself the better match--the focus moves from "Will they get together?" to "How will they stay or function together?" which is far more interesting. I have stated elsewhere that I consider Mulder and Scully the most romantic couple in all television precisely because in (almost) every episode, the intimacy and mutual reliance is assumed rather than proved. I also find the "trapped" situation interesting due to liminality: when people who might not otherwise come in contact meet on the edges of their cultures, how do they adjust? It isn't the rebel factor that interests me (Romeo and Juliet disobeying their parents), it's the negotiations that have to take place in order for the involved parties to understand each other (My Big Fat Greek Wedding).

Drawbacks: Stockholm Syndrome anyone? I can't help but wonder, "Would they stay together if one removed them from this situation?" Is the relationship built on necessity or desire? It could depend on the participants, but without the setting or, for that matter, the thrill of the unknown, would the relationship have the ballast to survive? If you got rid of the aliens, would Mulder and Scully still have Paris?

Great Jerks

There are good guys and there are bad guys and there are ambiguous guys. And then there are characters who function as jerks or bullies or losers. And some of them are so good at what they do, they become lovable. It isn't that they are mean--I've written elsewhere about my dislike of mean characters--it is that these characters perform a necessary function of unlikability, and they manage to embodied or convey unlikableness in a frankly likable way. They become whole and believable personalities.

1. Hodges from CSI

I love Hodges. He is nerdier than Greg, odder than Grissom. He toadies. He pushes people's buttons (not always on purpose). And he is great at what he is. One of my favorite episodes is when he smells a dead guy (or part of a dead guy) and is defensively embarassed when Grissom finds out. "You think that's gross, huh?" he says. "No," Grissom replies, "that's the first time you've impressed me," and Hodges is so surprised, he shuts up. It illustrates the quirky dynamic that is at the heart of CSI:LV.

2. Jayne from Firefly

He comes off as mean, stupid bully guy, but the thing I like about Jayne is that he remains himself. He doesn't suddenly morph into understanding guy. His apparent meanness isn't a coverup for a really sweet individual (which would make the meanness actually more icky). He is fully himself. He isn't a hero and certainly doesn't want to be mistaken for one. There's a kind of honesty about him except that Jayne would eschew even that praise. Consequently, Mal appears an even better captain for willingly taking Jayne aboard for the sake of his abilities (the episode where Mal remembers collecting his crew is one of my favorites).

3. Chase from House

I've written about Chase here.

4. Cordelia (Buffy Cordelia)

Cordelia was slated for a heroine role almost from the beginning, but she was played, at the very beginning, as the snotty, shallow individual who cuts down the heroine. However, even in the beginning Cordelia had certain attributes that ended up making her a heroine later. In "Earshot," for example, while everyone else is freaking out about what Buffy might overhear, good old Cordelia is saying exactly what she thinks. I'm bored--Can I leave now? "I'm bored. Can I leave now?" I also think Whedon & crew did something psychologically right about Cordelia. The snotty girl is so often cut down to size in teen shows but in Buffy/Angel, Cordelia's High School snottiness is (I think correctly) perceived as an adult strength. One of my favorite early episodes of Angel is when Cordelia gets her new apartment. The ghost woman is criticizing her, cutting her down, mocking her. "Bitch," she finally says to which Cordelia replies, "That's right. I am." She was the bitchiest, meanest, snottiest girl at Sunnydale High and she's going to let someone else push her around? I love that. I think that is the essence of Cordelia-ism.

5. The Thenardiers on Les Miserables

The singing version. First of all, they have great songs, but I also think it is interesting that they are not only not punished at the end, they thrive. Apparently, Hugo's Christianity was of the "it'll come out in the wash" variety. And I think that letting the Thenardiers thrive was, unfortunately but necessarily, truthful to reality.

6. Mr. Collins from Pride & Prejudice

There's only one Bingley (think Superman). There's really only two or three Darcys (think Angel and House). There's a few kinds of Wickham (think Hugh Grant in most roles). There are numerous Collinses. My personal favorite is the A & E version; he is so very pompous and so very self-confident for all the wrong reasons and so very off-putting and so very clueless. And so very, very funny.

7. Charles Grodin from Heaven Can Wait

Technically, he is a bad guy, but he is incredibly hilarious. Not that bad guys can't be funny (think Alan Rickman from Robin Hood) but Grodin's type of sarcastic and amoral badness makes him a likable jerk. He has one of those faces where he lifts an eyebrow and you just start laughing. He does it again, and you can't stop. Why? Why is that so funny? But it is.

8. Quark from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

Granted, Quark borderlined bad/ambiguous guy at the beginning of the series but I think eventually he ended up as supposedly unlikable guy who yet manages to keep, barely, on the right side of the law. He was no Dukat and he wasn't really even like Garak. He was just Quark: not nice, not bad, not good, not ambiguous (he ended up ambiguous; however, unlike Spike or Garak or, say, Faith, Quark didn't set out to be ambiguous. He thinks he is acting morally according to his lights.) Shimerman played it perfectly (he played Principal Snider perfectly as well): nicely nuanced performances that never crossed the line either into totally unlikable meanness or into reformed gushy sentimentalism.

9. Wesley from Buffy/early Angel

I just rewatched some early Angel, and I didn't appreciate how funny Wesley was at the beginning of that show (and the end of Buffy). He was still playing incompetent, pompous guy ("I'm a rogue demon hunter!" "What's a rogue demon?"). Denisof has great comedic talents that were kind of wasted later on. I don't hold it against Whedon for turning him into brooding, dark guy at the end of Angel (and the episode where he shoots the robot version of his father is one of my favorites), but I recommend that fans go back and watch the Angel episode where Denisof and Boreanaz dance ("She" First Season). And then watch the scene again. And again. And again . . .

10. Michael Culver as Prior Robert in Brother Cadfael Mysteries

He plays the priest who is always giving Cadfael a hard time. Culver is one of those (mostly) bald sexy guys with a beautiful voice. As Prior Robert, he manages to exert a self-righteous authority that makes you dislike him without actually hating him. In the books, Cadfael says that he has learned to tolerate the Prior Roberts of this world and even to admire them for their basic toughness, despite the fact that in terms of mental makeup and ambition, Cadfael is Prior Robert's dead opposite. Culver manages to portray a character that fits that description surprisingly well. (I also like Prior Robert's toady, Jerome--played by Julian Firth--mostly for his voice. I can recognize it just about anywhere.)

The important thing with these jerks is that you want to watch them. Somehow the cleverness of their written characters or the self-sufficiency of their acting or the believability of their parts makes you want to watch them again and again, and you do.

CATEGORY: TV