Power Games... RNFF Review of Ilona Andrews' Kate Daniels series

In a recent post on the Popular Romance Project web site, Jayashree Kamble discusses the rise of paranormal romances featuring heroes who are part human and part animal. As the construction of dominant masculinity popularized in 1950s-80's Harlequins and 70s-90s single-title romances has become less culturally acceptable (or, perhaps, simply less desirable) to many women raised in the wake of second-wave feminism, the alpha-hero who once dominated contemporary and historical romance has become, if not an endangered species, at least a far less commonly sighted beast. But he has found a safe haven in the subgenre of paranormal romance, a development that gives Kamble pause. "It is no grievous fault to desire a passionate hero," Kamble argues, "but when that translates into animality (and a dismissal of men who do not care to be animals), it is time to reassess the desire."

An early shape-shifter: Jupiter as bull abducts Europa

Just as I'm wary of critics who would dismiss the entire romance genre, I'm also suspicious of those who would reject a subgenre without looking at individual books within it. Do all paranormal romances that feature beast-men return readers to a male dominant/female submissive paradigm? Or are there differences between titles, and between authors? Do some books endorse female submission to the alpha male, while others espouse a more equitable relationship between hero and heroine?

Ilona Andrews' Magic series (Magic Bites, Magic Burns, Magic Strikes, Magic Bleeds, and Magic Slays) provides at least one example of a man-beast story which doesn't glorify the alpha male at the expense of any woman. Urban fantasy novels, the Magic books focus on action and suspense in an Atlanta transformed by repeated periodic incursions of magic. But romance, in the form of the developing relationship between the novels' narrator, mercenary Kate Daniels, and Curran, the shapeshifting leader of the "Pack," serves as an underlying leitmotif.

Curran's shapeshifters,  who include not only were-wolves, but also were-jackals, were-rats, were-bears, and, in alpha-male Curran's case, were-lion, are organized strictly along the biologically-based hierarchical lines common to pack animals: a dominant alpha rules over the entire group. Such is the appeal of many a man/beast tale: the alpha-male dynamic frowned upon in more realistic fiction gets validation from its occurence in the natural world of the beast half of the man/beast.

But Andrews' Pack also includes sub-alphas, who rule over each sub-group (for example, were-jackals have their own alpha, whom they obey, but who owes allegiance to Curran). Kate believes Curran "wasn't in charge because he was the smartest or the most popular; he ruled because of those three hundred and thirty-seven [shape-changers in Atlanta] he was unquestionably the strongest. He was in charge by right of might; that is, he had yet to meet anyone who could kick his ass" (Bites 52). Curran is called "alpha," "Your Majesty," or, most often, "The Beast Lord." Though Kate learns through the course of the series that there's a lot more to Curran than just physical strength, if you're looking for egalitarian political structures in your romance reading, you're not going to find them in Andrews' alternate Atlanta.

Leader of the Pack

But if political structures in the Pack are regressive, gender relations prove far more nuanced. The pack contains both male and female shape-shifters, and most sub-groups in the pack are lead by both a male and a female alpha. The alphas are generally mated (i.e., married or in a long-term-relationship) couples; the only exception to the male/female couples are a male-male alpha pairing, a welcome, unobtrusive nod to homosexual romance. Female as well as male shape-shifters fight and kill, and protecting the children of the pack seems a primary shape-shifter goal, no matter what gender one is (not surprisingly, given the action-based nature of the genre, little actual child-care is depicted in the novels).

Kate Daniels, the novels' heroine, is not a member of the Pack. But she proves herself the equal of any of its members, including its alpha leader. Readers are first introduced to Kate as she easily dispatches a vampire with a single toss of her knife. No damsel in need of rescuing, Kate is more than capable of saving not only herself, but also the denizens of Atlanta, whether they be human, shape-shifter, or even, when absolutely necessary, necromancer. She's also a rebel, a woman who hates authority with a capital H. Kate works as a freelance mercenary, unable or unwilling to be subject to the rules and regulations of any of the several institutions designed to do what she is best at: subduing magical threats and creatures. Looking for the embodiment of "kick-ass heroine"? Kate Daniels easily fits the bill.

As the series of Magic books unfurls, Kate and Curran engage in a cat and cat game, each trying to assert dominance over the other, each resisting the other's attempts to do the same. Curran assumes his usual tactics—intimidate via a mere show of his overpowering lion form—will lead to Kate's submission. Kate, in contrast, resists through wisecrack, using her anger (and fear) at being expected to be submissive to drive her ever-sarcastic mouth. For example, at their first meeting, she thinks:

     Where was he? I scanned the building, peering into the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, creating a mirage of twilight and complete darkness. I knew he was watching me. Enjoying himself.
      Diplomacy was never my strong suit and my patience had run dry. I crouched and called out, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." (Bites 54).

Though Curran initially tries to intimidate Kate through word and appearance, and even through physical force, over the course of the series he learns that mere displays of power won't impress or subdue her. For she has power of her own, power different than his, perhaps even stronger than his in many ways. And she will never agree to subject her power to his.

Myrna Loy and William Powell as Nick and Nora Charles

But Curran can verbally spar with the best of them, and the insulting back-and-forthing between hero and heroine as each asserts her or his will in the face of one equally as strong gradually shifts to bantering designed to signal knowledge of the other, and even affection. My favorite bickering motif occurs when Curran teases Kate whenever he has to "rescue" her, when in fact all that's usually necessary is to take her to the infirmary after each battle she fights and wins. In the grand tradition of verbally-duelling detective couples like Nick and Nora Charles, The Avengers' John Steed and Emma Peel, and Moonlighting's Maddie Hayes and David Addison, Kate and Curran trade verbal ripostes between bouts of fighting the bad guys (and girls, and disgusting demonic creatures), and over the course of four books, gradually learn to trust each other and open themselves to vulnerability.

In an intriguing exploration of power, Kate and Curran also learn the dangers of their alpha-ness. Though were-wolf Derek, who becomes Kate's friend, protests her budding romance with a human doctor by arguing that "You're harder than he is.... The man's supposed to be harder. So he can protect," his real objection is that "He will never tell you no" (149, 150). But the head of any social hierarchy needs to have someone to stand up to him or her; otherwise, power becomes absolute, sliding from alpha-ness to despotism. Kate seems to be the only one who will stand up to Curran, who will disobey his orders, who will fight him, both physically and intellectually. And if she wants any kind of romantic relationship with Curran, Kate needs to recognize the need to compromise, to listen when he protests her plans, agreeing with him when she can see the reasonableness of his objections, proceeding if those objections simply wish to keep her safe from harm.

In Andrews' world, an alpha male doesn't need a submissive mate. He needs a woman with as much alpha-ness as he has. In Kate Daniels, alpha Curran meets his alpha-match.

What other man/beast romances explore the dynamics between two strong protagonists without forcing a heroine to cede her power?

Ilona Andrews, Magic Bites. New York: Ace Books, 2007.
      Magic Burns (2008)
    Magic Strikes (2009)
    Magic Bleeds (2011)
    Magic Slays (2012)

 

 

Photo/Illustration credits
• Titian, Rape of Europa (1562). Courtesy of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
• Wolves sparring for dominance. Courtesy of Marty Sloane.
• Alpha lion. Courtesy of Christian Sperka.
• Myrna Loy and William Powell. Courtesy of Megan Walsh Gerard.



Next time on RNFF: Cheers for meta-fictive romance

Behind Every Good Rake... Review of Courtney Milan's UNCLAIMED

RNFF BOOK REVIEW

The rake abandons his pregnant betrothed

A mainstay of contemporary historical romance is the dashing figure of the rake. The word rake originated as an abbreviated version of rakehell, which, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, came into use during the sixteenth century as a derogatory term for "a thorough scoundrel or rascal; an utterly immoral or dissolute person; a vile debauchee." As the shortened version of the word gradually began to replace the longer, so, too, did the term's connotations began to shift. By the late eighteenth century, rake could refer to the somewhat less reprehensible "man of loose habits and immoral character," and even to the fairly harmless "idle, dissipated man of fashion."*

The rake as fop

But for today's Regency romance readers, the rake is a man not to be shunned or made fun of, but to be desired. All About Romance describes the rake as "a ladies' man, a bon vivant and possibly a libertine." A search at amazon.com for books with the word "rake" in the title turns up more than 800 in paperback alone, a testament to the popularity of the once derided figure.

Embodying the same appeal as the leather-jacketed rebel of the 1950s, the rake is valued by historical romance readers for his virility, his air of danger, and his unwillingness to conform to the strict social (and sexual) standards of his time. As a 2009 discussion of the rake on the Dear Author website suggests, the fantasy of being able to "tame" or "reform" such a figure is also a big part of the ungentlemanly gentleman's appeal. "I think the whole concept plays upon women's fantasies of being that one special someone who can affect positive change," argues author Maggie Robinson. "Lord knows in real life, men are not so amendable to reformation, or even putting the toilet seat down..."

But behind the figure of the rake looms an all-too-often forgotten shadow, Courtney Milan suggests in her historical romance, Unclaimed: the women whom he has seduced and abandoned.

A 1837 sex conduct book

Milan begins her questioning of our love affair with the rake by making her protagonist his very opposite. Unclaimed's Mark Turner is not only a virgin, but also the very public embodiment of early Victorian male sexual abstinence. When he writes A Gentleman's Practical Guide to Chastity, Mark thinks it just another philosophical treatise, one that will be printed then quickly forgotten. But to his surprise, his philosophizing draws the attention of young Queen Victoria, who knights him for his efforts. Mark becomes the rock star of his generation, known far and wide for being a man who won't succumb to any woman's physical charms. Mark is hounded by newspapermen eager to report his every move to his adoring fans; annoyed by his publisher, who is making a mint from subscriptions to the Male Chastity Brigade (MCB), a group inspired by his book; and tortured by well-meaning MCB members, who compare him to Christ, proudly inform him how many days they've gone without sex ("Forty-seven, sir!" Tolliver squeaked), and act in ways that clearly demonstrate they've never read his book.

Everyone in the rural village of Shepton Mallet, where Mark retreats to avoid the reporters and groupies who dog his every footstep, tries to matchmake on his behalf, believing that such a perfect man will want a similarly perfect woman. But Mark, and Milan, know better.

Jessica Farleigh is a courtesan, a woman who has sold her body for sex. She's followed Sir Mark to Shepton Mallet in order to win the cash prize, offered by a rival of Mark's, to any woman who can prove she's seduced the morally upright gentleman. Jessica believes the seduction will be easy: "If Jessica knew anything, she knew men. She knew what men wanted, and she knew how to give it to them.... [A]s with all men, she only needed to imply she was available. Sir Mark would be a willing participant in the destruction of his own reputation" (46). But what draws Mark to Jessica is not what all men want; thought he notices her beauty and her provocative dress, he won't be driven by it:

No doubt the inhabitants of Shepton Mallet had no idea what to make of a woman like this one—or a gown as daring as the one she wore. But Mark knew. That was the sort of dress that commanded: look at me.
    Mark had never taken well to commands. He turned away. (34)

Regency courtesan Harriette Wilson and her "look at me" dress

What convinces Mark to reconsider is not how Jessica looks, but the incongruity between her dress and her actions. Though her gown signals sexual availability, the way she flinches when the local rector touches her arm clearly signals stay away:

For one instant, she had more the look of scalded cat about her than graceful swan, and that half-second of response betrayed her air of worldly sensuality. She was not who she appeared at first blush.
     Mark was suddenly interested—interested in a way that a low-cut gown and a striking figure could never have accomplished. (36)

Mark sees the specific, the individual in Jessica, refusing to universalize. Unlike Jessica, he refuses to insist that all women are anything. And what he wants in a romantic partner is someone who can see him for who he really is: not the pious, sexless plaster saint the fans of his book assume him to be, but the man who desires, yet chooses not to act on that desire.

If he feels sexual desire, why does Mark choose to remain celibate? First, because he refuses to buy into the popular wisdom that places all blame for sexual impropriety on the woman. "A man must claim responsibility for his own temptation, and not pin it on the woman who arouses him," he tells the young MCB member who urges him to kick the all-too-alluring Jessica out of a town picnic held in his honor (87). As Jessica discovers when Mark refuses her seduction attempts, Mark believes there's an important distinction between thought and deed: "Yes, I want you, he'd as good as told her, but I won't act on the want" (89). In many historical romances, a hero's loss of sexual self-control in the face of the woman he lusts after is a positive sign; through Mark, Milan asks us to consider sexual self-control as a sign of respect.

Second, Mark realizes that the double standard makes indulging in sex far more risky to the woman than to the man. Frustrated by the misguided principles of the MCB, Mark lectures the group:

You should hold to chastity not because you fear what your cohort will say, but because when you indulge your own lusts, the woman you indulge them with is hurt. She is the one who will weather the censure of society. She is the one on whom the burden and expense of an unanticipated pregnancy will fall. She is the one who will be cast out. (243)

Mark's words point to the debilitating double standard of his society (and, far too often, of our own), a clearly empowering feminist message. Intriguingly, though, by insisting that it is the male alone who is responsible for making the choice about whether or not to indulge in sex, Mark comes dangerously close to justifying the same male privilege as his words decry. Such a protective attitude toward women can all too easily lead to a man making all the choices on behalf of his beloved, Milan's novel cautions. And given Jessica's history, the choices that she's made and the choices that have been made for her, that is a danger that bodes ill for any worthwhile romantic relationship.

Before Jessica and Mark can reach their happily ever after, then, Mark needs to accept that Jessica is not just a victim waiting for his knight in shining armor to rescue her and absolve her for her sins. She doesn't need him to stifle her with his protection, taking away her choices just as much as did any of the "protectors" who gave her money rather than love. Instead, she needs him to accept her, flaws and all, and to let her fight her own battles. The novel's climax allows Jessica to act as her own savior; the specific means by which she accomplishes this may not be very historically likely, but they are intensely satisfying to the feminist reader.

The opposite of a rakehell isn't a prude, Unclaimed asks us to believe, but rather a man who takes responsibility for his own sexual desires, and for their consequences. And a man looking for a relationship of equality with a woman will not smother her with his protection, but will allow her to ride to her own rescue, all the while admiring "how brightly [her] armor shone" (400).

* "Rakehell" and "rake." Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edition on CD-ROM. Oxford UP, 2009. 

  Courtney Milan, Unclaimed. Book #2 in the Turner series.    
  HQN Books, 2001.

   







Photo credits:
• William Hogarth, first painting in The Rake's Progress series (1735). Wikipedia.
• Detail from George Cruickshank, Monstrosities of 1822. Reprinted in Mark Bills, The Art of Satire: London in Caricature. London: Philip Wilson/Museum of London, 2006.
• Harriette Wilson, from the BBC Radio 4 web site
• Sylvester Grahame, Grahame's Lectures on Chastity, specially intended for the serious consideration of young men and parents. Internet Archive.
• Self-Rescuing Princess T-shirt. Thinkgeek.com

Next time on RNFF: It's a guy thing...

What can a feminist get from reading romance?

Earlier this year, out of the blue, a man named “Ken from NY” sent me an email via Goodreads. He wrote that he was primarily an adventure novel reader, explaining in detail what he loved about that genre. But he added that he was thinking expanding his horizons by giving romance fiction a try. He’d heard that Nora Roberts was one of the most popular romance writers out there, and since I had reviewed some of her books on Goodreads, he wondered if I might write back to him, to explain what I get out of reading romance.

Those familiar with the arguments of early feminist critics of the romance genre might be forgiven for doubting that a feminist reader could gain much of anything positive from reading a romance novel. Tania Modleski’s Loving with a Vengeance: Mass-Produced Fantasies for Women (1982) and Janice Radway’s Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy and Culture (1984) set the stage for such an assumption, arguing that in the battle between feminism and patriarchy, romance novels clearly side with the enemy. 

Contemporary scholars of romance have taken issue with many of Modeleski’s and Radway’s conclusions. But conventional wisdom has yet to be persuaded; most non-romance readers still take it for granted that romance as a genre is bad for women. How, then, could I explain my reading tastes to Ken from NY, even while justifying to myself that said tastes should not automatically disqualify me from claiming an identity as a feminist?

I ended up sending Ken in NY a brief list of 5 benefits I get from reading romance. None of them are at odds with feminism; several of them stem directly from feminist beliefs. In future posts, I’ll be discussing romance scholars’ ideas about romance’s potential benefits, but today I share my own list (with a bit extra expounding to highlight the connections I see between romance and feminism). I also invite you to offer your own thoughts about ways in which romance as a genre is, or has the potential to be, feminist.

Pleasure in reading good writing 

This isn’t a benefit of reading all, or even most, romance, much to this literary critic’s chagrin. But good writing is there to be found in the romance genre, and as a literary scholar, I take particular pleasure in reading stylistically interesting writing. Georgette Heyer, Judith Ivory, Laura Kinsale, Mary Balogh—all in very different ways—offer the pleasures of language, as well as the pleasures of story. I don’t think such pleasure is feminist per se, but I don’t see it as negating feminism in any way.

A better understanding of how people relate to one another in romantic relationships

At its core, feminism is committed to the equality of men and women. Central to that commitment is feminism’s call for us to explore and understand the differences in power between men and women, differences that often stand in the way of achieving such equality. While much early feminist activism focused on equality and power in the workplace, power dynamics are often as much, if not more, at play within personal relationships, particularly within one’s relationships with a sexual partner.

Romance novels, by definition, are all about such relationships; at the heart of the romance novel’s central conflict is a struggle between two individuals intent on negotiating how power will be divided and/or shared between them.

The romance genre provides not just one, but a multiplicity, of models of the ways in which two people might undertake such a negotiation. Some offer examples of feminine submission to a dominant man; others explicitly reject such submissiveness while implicitly endorsing it; still others marry action and ideology, presenting protagonists who share power equally and/or equitably.

Since we often tend to surround ourselves with people similar to ourselves, such a variety of examples might not always be available to us in our everyday lives. It can be a welcome relief to discover that the way your parents, or your siblings, or your friends came to understand power and its use within their love relationships are not the only models out there. Though the covers of romance novels tend to look the same, the power dynamics between romantic partners that lie behind them can differ radically. By comparing and contrasting how different books portray what a successful negotiation of power in a romantic relationship looks like, a discerning, feminist reader can learn not only about equitable models, but also about the tricks our culture uses to convince women to accept inequitable ones.

Romantic yearning via proxy

Traditionally, romance as a genre has been characterized by a strict heteronormativity (i.e., a belief that the only proper ending is one in which a male and female protagonist end up in a committed relationship, most often marriage or engagement). The publishing of romance novels featuring gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transsexual protagonists during the past decade suggests that the genre itself is not inherently heterosexist. But with the exception of erotic romance, the genre still does take monogamy as its norm (Ann Herendeen’s historical romance Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander a charming exception—more about this book in a future post). 

As someone who has been married for 15+ years, and who was with that same partner for 8+ years before marrying, yearning after an unattainable love object isn’t really something I get to experience much any more—my love object is right here beside me in bed every night. But by identifying with the characters in romance novels, I get to re-live these feelings second hand. Such identification often reminds me of the early days of my relationship, which helps me to renew my commitment to that relationship, and to monogamy. While monogamy may not be the only feminist choice for how to participate in a romantic relationship, I don’t believe that monogamy in itself is inherently anti-feminist—do you?

Pleasure in knowing what to expect—there will always be a happy ending waiting at the book’s conclusion

This one is a bit tricky, and I’m still working it out for myself, so let me know if it doesn’t make sense yet. It starts with the idea that literary critics tend to value the original, the unique, and the special over the generic. “Genre fiction,” defined as books intentionally created with the conventions of a particular literary genre in mind, so that readers already familiar with the genre will know what to expect and will be pleased by the familiar, is commonly set up in binary opposition to “literary fiction,” with literary fiction clearly viewed as the superior of the pair. Not surprisingly, since romance is the most commercially popular form of genre fiction, romance is often seen as the wormiest apple in the genre fiction barrel.

In the past decade, literary critics have begun to take issue with the idea that genre conventions are inherently limiting (see for example Mary Bly’s essay, “On Popular Romance, J.R. Ward, and the Limits of Genre Study”*). But I’d like to make a slightly different argument, one that doesn’t urge us to look for the original, the special, within the generic, but instead holds up for admiration the very repetition that is the central characteristic of genre fiction.

In our everyday lives, we have to continually renegotiate our relationships, particularly those with our romantic partner, if we are to maintain them. Reading a single romance, which often gives the impression that a couple’s problems are largely over once they have cleared the hurdles placed in the way of their relationship, could be seen as the opposite: holding up a false model, denying the necessity of the constant dance of love, hurt, anger, and forgiveness that make up the day-to-day workings of most real-life relationships.

But if you read romances on a regular basis, you actually find an echo of the relationship work you have to slog through each and every day. Though each individual novel presents different characters undertaking this relationship work, the repetition of the pattern across multiple romances more closely resembles the repetitive pattern of work you do in real-life relationships. I’m continually hurting the ones I love, especially my partner; I’m continually being forgiven. And I’m continually being hurt, being disappointed, and forgiving in my turn. Repetitively encountering the pattern through my reading of many romance novels heartens me for the work of enduring the same repetition in my day-to-day life.

Pleasure in reading the sex scenes

If you want to make a romance reader mad, just toss the label “pornography for women” in her (or, more rarely, his) direction. Sometimes the insult is meant to suggest that romance novels are somehow harmful or denigrating to their readers, just as reading or viewing pornography is thought by many to be degrading to its consumers. More often, though, the accusation seems to suggest a belief that unlike men, women are more likely to find sexual pleasure when emotional connection is also present; in order to become consumers of pornography, they need it to be encased within the protective shell of a romantic storyline. Romance novels are really just wolves in sheep’s clothing, such people seem to claim, pornography made palatable by the addition of narrative gloss.

The “pornography for women” label also suggests that women in particular should be ashamed about being interested in, and reading about, sex. As a feminist, I take exception to such a belief. I openly acknowledge that I find the reading of sex scenes in romance novels fascinating. More than that, I often find reading them a turn-on. Returning to reading romance novels in middle age, after leaving them behind after adolescence, helped me to get through a time in my marriage when stress and personal problems had made me feel like sex was the last thing I should, or even could, give a damn about. But getting turned on by a romance novel made me want to search out actual sexual pleasure again for myself, and share it with my partner.

Though feminists have long been at odds with one another about whether pornography is denigrating to women or a positive celebration of their sexuality, if pornography is defined simply as sexually-related subject matter that sexually stimulates its reader/viewer, then calling romance novels “pornography for women” is no insult in this feminist’s book.

What do you think of the above list? And what other aspects of the romance genre do you think are, or could be, feminist?


* Mary Bly, "On Popular Romance, J.R. Ward, and the Limits of Genre Study." Sarah S.G. Frantz and Eric Murphy Seelinger, New Approaches to Popular Romance Fiction: Critical Essays. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012: 60-72.


Photo/Illustration credits
• Gender equality: Equalmoney.org
• Monogamy wine: Sara Golzari and Sali Golzari Hoover
• Happily Ever After ticket: afavoritedesign
• True Horse Romance cartoon: Rubes © by Leigh Rubin
 
 

Next time: Behind Every Good Rake...

An RNFF Review of Courtney Milan's UNCLAIMED