Minerva's Ramblings: Favourite Romantic Heroes from Classic Literature

Sometime back I wrote a review of North and South, where I mentioned a few of my favourite romantic heroes from classic literature. Turned out I am not the only one falling in love with fictional characters! And so, for all my soul sisters out there, here are the ones closest to my heart.

First, a few rules –

Rule #1. I have stated my favourites strictly in terms of how ideal I think they are as romantic partners. These are different from my favourite literary characters in general. For instance, I think Heathcliff, Rochester and Rhett Butler are among the best written male characters of all time – incredibly complex and completely human. Yet, I would argue that they can be pretty toxic in terms of relationship material.

Rule #2. I have restricted myself to just one character per author, regardless of how delicious the author’s other leading men are (I have no idea why I decided to torture myself this way. Maybe because otherwise, this post may never end).

Rule #3. While some of the television/ movie versions of these characters have certainly gained a lot of popularity, my choices are based strictly on the original book versions.  

Ok so here goes! In no particular order:

John Thornton – North and South, Elizabeth Gaskell

"Oh! Margaret, could you not have loved me? I am but uncouth and hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for me."

Richard Armitage as John Thornton in the 2004 BBC mini-series

Clearly, this should come as no surprise. I am definitely partial to the strong, silent type, but John Thornton is so much more. A self-made man with a strong moral code, he is a just employer, caring son, dutiful brother and responsible citizen. What’s more, his harsh early life and the fact that he is required to maintain a no-nonsense attitude in his dealings with people haven’t really rid him of his softer, more humane side. While Margaret is entirely prejudiced and therefore unable to see this at first, readers are quickly warmed to this gentle, honest soul for his exceptional qualities. His admiration for Mr. Hale, despite not agreeing with his worldview, is sincere; he treats his somewhat cantankerous mother with utmost tenderness and his insufferable sister with patience; he goes out of his way to procure exotic fruit for a dying woman whose daughter has just broken his heart.

All this without even coming to his love for Margaret. I am someone who strongly believes that a shitty person, however ardently he professes his love for a woman, can never qualify as a romantic ideal because one fine day when the romance wears thin, he is going to end up being a shitty lover and husband. On the other hand, characters like Thornton are portrayed as such beautiful, though flawed, persons in their own right, that you are left with absolutely no doubt of the depth and sincerity of their love for the heroine. 

Thornton’s passionate, unconditional love for Margaret is the stuff of dreams. His reaction to his mother’s claim after the riot that Margaret is obviously in love with him – hence, why she shielded him from the mob – is heartbreakingly innocent and pure - "I dare not hope. I never was fainthearted before; but I cannot believe such a creature cares for me." Once rejected, he resolves to keep on loving her, though he knows it will bring him pain. He does everything for her well-being and happiness; offering her silent comfort at her mother’s death, and pledging his faith in her character at the risk of his own integrity.

And who can forget that very last scene, when he finally realizes she loves him back - 

"Take care - if you do not speak - I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way - send me away at once, if |I must go..." Whoever thought grabbing a woman by her hair and forcing a kiss on her lips as she struggles to escape is romantic, needs to learn a thing or two about consent from John Thornton.

Of course, she doesn't let him go! Who would?

Colonel Brandon – Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention.

David Morrissey as Colonel Brandon in the 2008 BBC mini-series

To everyone going “Whaaaaaaaaaattttt! Picking Brandon over Darcy?” I must confess that, after much painful deliberation among Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth and Colonel Brandon, I finally decided upon the good old Colonel.

Wait, what? Old??

I have often felt that Brandon is unfairly sidelined by many Austen fans, and I can think of two possible reasons why. One – while Austen makes Brandon’s feelings for Marianne very clear, we are not privy to Marianne’s feelings about Brandon. In contrast to her overflowing passion for Willoughby, the details of Marianne’s love and subsequent marriage to Brandon are glossed over in a few sentences, literally in the final passages of the book. This may give some readers the impression that theirs is not an ideal romantic pairing.

Two – Alan Rickman.

If you are still reading this, please bear with me. While I think this incredibly talented actor (and his voice!) was one of the most gorgeous specimens of humanity (what is it with me and British accents?), I believe he was somewhat miscast in the 1995 movie. Marianne certainly is very young; but Brandon himself is a desirable counterpart well within his prime. At 35, he is just a few years older than the sexy Captain Wentworth, whom fangirls gush over constantly…in fact, he is even younger than Mr. Knightley, another favourite Austen hero of many! At the time of the movie Mr. Rickman was not, neither did he look, anywhere close to 35.

However, if you are familiar with Austen’s use of irony, it is obvious that she doesn’t really mean Brandon is a consolation prize. Nor does she hint that ending up with him is a sort of “punishment” for Marianne’s “inappropriate” relationship with Willoughby, as some of the movie’s reviewers have theorized!

Austen’s Brandon is brave, honourable, respectful and considerate. Like Thornton, it is not only his relationship with Marianne, but his interactions with others is very telling of his own character. In this regard, he gets the edge over Darcy and Wentworth in my book, simply because he is a genuinely nicer person. He is a loyal friend to John Middleton. He is kind to Mrs. Jennings. He stays true to his first love, taking care of her when she is destitute and adopting her daughter as his ward. This is particularly remarkable given how “ruined women” and illegitimate children were viewed at the time. And I love his relationship with Elinor, and the mutual respect they have for one another.

Brandon’s love for Marianne is selfless. Rather than trying to possess her or win her over with grand romantic gestures, he simply remains a true friend who holds her happiness close to his heart. As Marianne matures over the course of the novel, she grows to admire his qualities and appreciate his quiet faithfulness, and eventually this turns to love. Theirs is a love borne of respect and friendship, and therefore is the truest kind of love.  

Gabriel Oak – Far from the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy

"I shall do one thing in this life - one thing certain - that is, love you, and long for you, and KEEP WANTING YOU till I die."

Matthias Schoenaerts as Gabriel Oak in the 2015 film

Describing Gabriel Oak as a “hero” is misleading, since he is about as average as you can imagine. He is neither particularly good looking nor charismatic; he does not perform any feats of valour to impress Bathsheba. In fact, for much of the story he is almost an afterthought, fading into the background. Nothing of interest ever happens to him; it is Bathsheba who runs around getting into all kinds of interesting situations while he stands back, a silent observer (well, most of the time, at least).

It is interesting how such a passively written character could also be such a complex one. I believe that what is so special about Oak is the dynamic he shares with Bathsheba. There are many instances where authors have successfully captured the romantic or sexual chemistry between characters; however, it is very rare that a deep platonic relationship such as Oak and Bathsheba’s can be portrayed so believably as Hardy does in his novel. While the limelight is often stolen by Troy and Boldwood, Oak’s rivals in love, it is to him that Bathsheba turns to for support, be it regarding her love life or her managing her farm. And, instead of the usual romantic novel trope where the hero saves the heroine from some major catastrophe or danger, I love that what Oak most often offers is merely sensible, unbiased, honest-to-goodness advice, whenever Bathsheba needs it (and sometimes when she doesn’t – hey the guy does have his faults).

Oak is extremely self-aware. He acknowledges his deep, unrequited love for Bathsheba, yet he does not allow himself to be defined by it. He moves on with his life, works hard, treats people well and earns their admiration and respect for his intelligence and integrity, to the extent that even his rivals turn to him for advice! He is no wimp, either – he never lets Bathsheba play around with his feelings or manipulate him into getting what she wants. The advice he offers is always brutally honest and with her interest at heart, though he knows he might lose out. With Troy, he pleads with her to be cautious and untrusting, at the risk of coming across as a jealous lover; with Boldwood, however, he urges her to marry him, knowing he would make her a good husband.

Like Brandon and Thornton, Oak too has a heart of gold. He empathizes with Boldwood, and tries to help him; he does everything he can to save Fanny. Of course, he is ultimately rewarded for his patience and faithfulness, finally winning Bathsheba’s heart. In classic Oak style, however, he refuses to fall over at her feet, whereby she is compelled to come “courting him”, to which he responds what we have been thinking all along - "I've danced at your skittish heels, my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long day; and it is hard to begrudge me this one visit."

Minerva's Ramblings: Rebecca (2020)

 

When I heard Netflix was releasing a new Rebecca, I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to watch it. Then I saw the trailer, and my first impression was, oh god, the casting is all wrong. It is not that I dislike any of the actors – far from it. Lily James is a pretty good actress and Armie Hammer can be reasonably charming when he wants (and I think Kristen Scott Thomas is simply fabulous, but more on that later), but the lead pair were nothing like the book’s protagonists, either as individual characters or their dynamic as a couple.

One of the book’s major themes is the glaring incongruity between the two main characters, to such an extent it makes both the readers as well as the other characters, quite uncomfortable and more than a little mystified to see them together. In fact, this premise forms the crux of the entire plot. The new Mrs. de Winter (never named) is little more than a child. She is timid and inexperienced. She is a wallflower, and her lack of presence stems not so much from being inherently unattractive, but rather because she is at that awkward halfway stage in life, neither sufficiently childlike to be cute, nor yet woman enough to be noticed, either for her looks or her personality. Lily James, while young-looking is not schoolgirl young-looking, and while the movie doesn’t portray her as a raving beauty, it is entirely plausible to imagine that there are men who would find her attractive enough to fall in love with and to marry. I believe her constant jumping around and general skittishness throughout the movie are meant to make her more true-to-form, but without the physical appearance to go with it, her character’s actions lack motive and just make her look neurotic.

As for Maxim de Winter, he is a 42-year-old, suave, polished, man-of-the-world with an air of romantic mystery and a streak of – what? Cruelty? Sadism? Or is he simply a cold-hearted bastard? We read on, because we want to find out. In contrast, Armie Hammer comes off as your typical rom-com hero. Sure, he is a bit moody at times (his wife died a year ago, let’s cut him some slack!), but nothing a seaside drive and some sex on the beach cannot cure. Hammer’s Mr. de Winter is clearly enamoured by James’ Mrs. de Winter right from the start – so there is none of the “does he love her? What’s his deal?” sexual tension that is felt by readers and Mrs. de Winter alike throughout the book.

And with regards to the conspicuous age difference emphasized in the book – nothing. Now I understand that sanitizing and “normalizing” the entire relationship dynamic was probably a deliberate choice by the director to prevent viewers getting too disturbed – brooding middle-aged billionaire marries destitute teenager and treats her like shit is probably not your average movie-goer’s cup of tea – but the whole point of Rebecca is to unsettle readers, foreshadow like hell create tension and make them sit around nervously waiting for things to get progressively worse. Conversely, there is zero tension created in this adaptation, and whatever disagreements there are between the lead pair come across as petty bickering by your average couple over random issues.

I have not seen the classic Hitchcock version, but from what I read about it (and have seen from his other films) its forte is the atmospheric tension that is created, whether by use of light and shadow, claustrophobic imagery or melodramatic performances. I feel like in trying to get as far away from that film as possible, Ben Wheatley creates a more normal world with normal people who act, well, a lot more normally.

And that is a pity, because a normal Rebecca is no different from your normal daytime soap drama. What makes the book (I will not comment on Hitchcock as I have not seen it) a masterpiece is that everything about it is so freakishly abnormal (it is a Gothic romance/ thriller, for crying out loud!) – starting from the relationship between the de Winters, to the forbidding Manderley estate, to the ever-present yet elusive titular character, to the delightfully ghoulish housekeeper.

Ahhhh…something I enjoyed about the movie that I can finally sink my teeth into. Ms. Thomas never disappoints, and her take on the perfectly respectable, alarmingly efficient and fiendishly creepy housekeeper descending surely into madness was a delight to watch unfold. Unfortunately, in a completely normal movie with completely normal characters this whole act is somewhat out of place, and you never quite feel that sense of panic and encroaching terror as you look on with revulsion and a certain morbid relish as Rebecca (and Rebecca) closes in on you, egged on by the relentless Mrs. Danvers. 

Rebecca herself is the central character in the book. She is whom the book is named after; she is the mystery that, along with the nameless second Mrs. de Winter, we crack our brains to solve. We, along with Mrs. de Winter, are in turn awed, fascinated and repulsed by her. We hate her. We fear her. We wish we were her, with her adoring minions and her fuck-all attitude to life. How du Maurier manages to make us feel such a visceral connection to what is, technically, not even a ghost but simply a figment of imagination (Mrs. de Winter’s) and a memory (everyone else’s) is testament to the brilliance of her writing. The movie, on the other hand, never really concerns itself with who Rebecca is – is she a ghost? Is she dead? Is she alive? What does she want? The movie never raises these questions, and we never really care (neither does Mrs. de Winter, it would seem).

Without this, whatever remaining potential the movie has for dramatic tension, simply flies out the window. We are just watching an oversized, over-decorated mansion full of servants ruled by a manic housekeeper who in turn has to suffer the antics of a neurotic (with no reason to be) young woman who just so happens to be married to Mr. California with bad British accent a 1930s poster boy.

Before I dig myself in even deeper, however, let me touch upon a few general points I did like about this movie. The visuals are gorgeous, particularly in the earlier shots, where the South of France is depicted in all its lush, romantic glory. While I would have liked a more overtly gothic feel to the Manderley estate, based on the mood the director was going for (most definitely not gothic) the mansion was faithfully presented, and managed to look sufficiently grand and imposing. I also thought the costumes were beautifully done, apart from that unforgivable mustard suit, which gives us our first impression of the hapless Mr. de Winter.

Now that that’s done, all that remains is the ridiculous long-drawn-out ending, which was about as entertaining (and painful) as shaving my legs. The big reveal where we finally realize what a cruel, manipulative bitch Rebecca really was and that Maxim never loved her, hated her guts, in fact, is a HUGE moment in the book, for us as well as Mrs. de Winter herself. Along with her, we are relieved to learn that all along Maxim has been haunted and tortured by the memory of Rebecca, which is why he has been acting like a dick all this time, not because he is a dick in general. Now that he is “free” of her memory and the guilt of it all (wait, what?), he is free to love his new little wife in the way she truly deserves. We shed a collective tear of happiness and go “awwwww” (that he killed his supposedly pregnant wife and then buried her at sea is merely a plot point of minor inconvenience we love to forget as hastily as the new Mrs. de Winter).

This is, in my opinion, one of the most momentous reveals in classic literature, not just because of what is revealed, but rather more because of how it makes us feel as readers and in turn what that makes us, as humans – are we truly so blinded by the glamour of a pretty romance that we are willing to forgive our protagonist of murder? Where is our moral code? (And shockingly, where is Mrs. de Winters’?). Du Maurier forces us to look inwards, to ask ourselves these deeply disturbing questions, even as we rejoice at Maxim and his wife riding off into the sunset. The book, mercilessly, leaves us with zero closure – Maxim’s beloved Manderley, the pride of his heart, is burned to ashes, Mrs. Danvers is nowhere to be found and all we are left with are the haunting words of the Mrs. de Winter the Second, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." We have no idea where the de Winters go from here, only that they can never go home.

The climactic scene in the movie, however, is about as flat as week-old Coke and, rather than the disturbing anti-heroic killer Maxim reveals himself to be, Armie Hammer comes off as a whiny wimp, which is a considerable feat given that he has just confessed to have murdered his wife and what he thinks is her unborn baby. 

As if suddenly realizing its viewers could care less about anything by this point, the movie then decides to go off on a tangent to compensate for all this lack of. What follows is a bewildering and ultimately pointless chase scene in which Lily James mysteriously transmorphs into Nancy Drew. To add to it, she and Mrs. Danvers have a seaside face-off, culminating in Mrs. Danvers' graceful descent into the sea, a scene worthy of giving Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon a run for its money. 

In the closing scene, we are treated to a glimpse into the life of the happy, loving couple presumably enjoying their travels around the world, now that Manderley is no more. A pretty little ending tied up with a pretty little bow, yet the sadist in me somehow longed for the richly textured ambiguity of du Maurier's book, that makes it probably one of the most haunting and disturbing reads of all time.