It’s In Our Nature

Not too long ago, I had a post, It’s in Their Nature, in which I deplored the sexist attitude toward pictures of  nude women evidenced in a thread at Photo.net. It seems only fair that I give equal time to sexist attitudes toward men. Turnabout is fair play.

All of the below is from an essay about Harlequin Romances (books for the uninitiated), The Old Flame, by Don Gillmor (May 2009) in The Walrus:

Covers have always been an integral part of Harlequin’s marketing. They are known for “the clinch”: the heroine being held by the hero, eyes locked in a mutually meaningful stare. As part of Harlequin’s sixtieth anniversary celebrations, a retrospective of covers, titled The Heart of a Woman, is showing at a New York gallery. The ones from decades ago are surprisingly lurid, with enticing titles (Pardon My Body, Virgin With Butterflies, Brittle Bondage). All of the early books had illustrated covers, but by the late ’80s, most featured photographs, which are now sometimes treated to resemble illustrations — a hedge against too much reality. Harlequin shoots 120 covers a month, so the authentic men chosen today won’t be restricted to fireman poses. They could end up as cowboys, or powerful, ruthless millionaires. Some of them may be digitally aged so they look like older men, which Harlequin maintains is easier than finding actual middle-aged men.

There is a shortage of ”actual middle-aged men” ? I wonder where they are.

With the exception of the gloriously inauthentic ET Canada television people, I am arguably the least authentic man here — though authenticity is an imprecise concept. Almost all the authentic heroes are buff, clear-eyed, square-jawed men with Hollywood smiles. Some have the thick orange colour that comes from tanning salons. Body hair has been sculpted, shaved, and plucked, and some of the precise haircuts have discreet highlights. In the audition room, the men are filmed, photographed, and interviewed in five-minute segments by a casting director and a team of art directors. The most promising are asked to take off their shirts, displaying a fair amount of ink. Tattoos are now featured on Harlequin covers, though they are usually Photoshopped on for maximum appropriateness and appeal (a winding, sensuous lizard on a shirtless cowboy, say, rather than the name of the model’s girlfriend written in dripping blood). “I just had a double hernia operation,” one of the firemen laments. “I’m down fifteen pounds of muscle mass. I’m a bit pale, too. I mean, I don’t want to reiterate. I’m a bit tired. I’m just not feeling that rosy.”

The judges’ decisions are instinctive, almost instantaneous, and almost always unanimous. Sometimes it’s obvious: a buff physique, hair like Fabio, a killer smile. Other times, it’s subtler, less quantifiable, something in the model’s brief monologue, a quality they like but can’t articulate.

The advent of firemen’s calendars, which date to the mid-’90s, has created a curious beast. Almost all the men at the casting call have posed for calendars for their local fire halls, and they have bloomed in that exhibitionist culture. At charity events, women line up for their autographs. A certain male power has been released. Most of these men have done modelling and/or TV work, and outside in the waiting room some speak about callbacks and pilots and casting calls, or chat with their agents on cellphones. In many ways, they are the perfect Harlequin creations: they have the beauty of male models but less of the toxic narcissism — genial family men grounded by a dangerous job that involves the fundamentally Harlequin notion of rescue. In these coiffed, understated, muscular, businesslike young men lie the dreams of 10 million women. If not these men specifically, then the tousled hair and washboard abs and everlasting love they are paid to represent.

I don’t believe I have ever read a Harlequin Romance, but I have often admired their cover art in bookstores and at the supermarket. As a teenager I did read many, many of Georgette Heyer’s Victorian era romance novels. They had no actual sex scenes, but lots of innuendo.

What is going on? What’s the attraction?:

According to Jayne Ann Krentz, a romance writer who champions the genre in the collection Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women, “For those who understand the encoded information in the stories, the books preserve elements of ancient myths and legends that are particularly important to women. They celebrate female power, intuition, and a female worldview that affirms life and expresses hope for the future.”

Little of this was evident in the books I read. They celebrate handsome men with limited communication skills and a somewhat steely emotional core. The male characters are rich (usually self-made) and powerful and athletic, and have thick, tousled hair and strong jawlines. They can sail, drive fast, cook. In Tycoon’s Valentine Vendetta, Jack throws several condoms on the bed and declares to Lily, “I have more.” This comes only minutes after they’ve had sex. So, a tireless stud in the bargain.

The women in both Surrender and Tycoon, meanwhile, are either poor or become poor, and in the end are taken care of by men. In Surrender, Shaine has been celibate for the thirteen years she and Jake have been apart, while Jake has had empty sex with an army of supermodels. In Tycoon, Lily is “whimpering with hunger” upon getting into bed with Jack, and worships him as he tosses fresh scallops on the grill. “‘You amaze me,’ Lily said as she watched him, mesmerized by the play of muscles in his forearm as he flipped the spatula again…’You’re so capable. Is there anything you can’t do?’”

Read the full article for more of the same. [ link ]

They have a gallery of twenty rather tame Harlequin covers (I think they are meant to show the historical progression in content).

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/