I’ve been thinking quite a lot recently about the state of the modern romantic-comedy. This reflective stance was brought on by what seemed like a brief festival of genre, the major players of this year all releasing themselves onto the market within a month or so of one another. In one corner we had Queen Sandra Bullock, stalwart of the genre with her latest offering The Proposal. In the other we had new contender to the throne Katherine Heigl with The Ugly Truth. In the third corner, or perhaps as the colour commentator, there was also the post-modern indie surprise hit (500) Days of Summer. All came, all saw, yet for my money neither really conquered. Some were better than others. (500) Days of Summer was emotionally interesting and I think I fall in love deeper with Zooey Deschannel the more I watch her, thus a story basically about how awesome and completely unattainable she seems acutely on-the-mark. However, this was diluted by a gratingly pretentious feel as a film that was basically a not very good version of Annie Hall presented itself as the all-knowing, omnipotent voice of a generation of alternatives (Who seem to all be Smith’s fans). The Proposal was so achingly average that it was a chore to watch, yet Bullock’s ability to play leading comedienne in 12A fair seems as fresh and unrivalled as ever: how many other forty-something leading ladies in Hollywood can command our attention without their age being an issue? As for The Ugly Truth? Well. The less said about that nasty little thing the better really.
So some got the com right and some got the rom right and some got neither right. Yet, none were that mix of laugh-out loud freshness and sweeping romanticism that the greats of the genre possess. In fact, I’m now struggling to think of the last romantic-comedy I really thought was any other than fine. I don’t even mean great, I mean above average. Competently executed. Enjoyable and interesting. My quest to find such an example ultimately concluded with Notting Hill, a film made ten years ago. What has happened to make such a genre, historically so rich, so moribund.
Perhaps it is a slight oxymoron to bemoan the lack of artistry in the romantic-comedy genre. After all, its basic premise seems intrinsically commercial. In its creation, the genre saw the merging of popular slapstick and satirical comedy, the comedic style of silent and early sound cinema of Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy and the Marx Brothers, and fuses it with a plot reminiscent of the traditional women’s weepy picture. The basic formula was: Romance for the girls + laughs for the boys = lots of cash for the studios, and essentially that formula remains. Yet, like everything to do with Hollywood, this blatant consumerism is somehow also entrancing and beautiful. This is perhaps because, with many examples of the genre, beneath the light and breezy surface, buried in the simplistic plot and stock characters, is a foundation based on emotional resonance and, perhaps unknowingly in some cases, a really deep philosophical treaty of sex relations through the times.
And I really mean that. The romantic-comedy can be as complex and intellectual engaging as any Oscar-bait feature or art-house cornerstone. Ok, so it communicates its intellectualism through prat-falls, one-liners and a romantic narrative vested in ideals of true love but that doesn’t mean it is necessary shallow. If you require further proof then let me take you through some of my favourites. Bringing Up Baby is a goofy, ridiculous and absurd film that also happens to comment on the rising economic and social importance of women during the 1920s. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, whilst being overtly romantic and stylised, asks questions about the true nature of sexual independence and the consequences of consumerism in the character of Holly Golightly. Annie Hall is a fantastic, witty, nonsensical elegiac soliloquy on the failings of love in the modern world. And then, of course, we get to When Harry Met Sally.
When Harry Met Sally is, in my ever-accurate opinion, the best romantic comedy ever made and probably one of the finest films ever made. It has as much to say on romance than any sonnet by Browning or Keats and is much funnier than both. Why is it so good? Well, let me count the ways. Number One: It is obscenely witty and funny. Number Two: It is touchingly romantic and engaging. Number Three: The performances and chemistry of the two leads are utterly hypnotic. Number Four: It manages to comment on gender relations, sexual politics, the collapse and merge of the private and public spheres without ever loosing sight of its basic purpose to entertain. Number Five: Carrie Fisher. Number Six: THAT scene in Katz’s deli involving a rather excited Meg Ryan (…or is she?). Number Seven: Well, I could go on and on and on.
So when a genre can produce something as good as Nora Ephron’s script amazingly mastered by Rob Reiner, frankly, The Proposal isn’t good enough. Not even close. These days, the genre seems more interested in regurgitating its past recipes with a staleness that is yawn-inducing. It’s seems to have returned to its route principles, throw in an A-lister here, a romantic plot there, that scene where they hate each other, that scene where they don’t, that scene when they hate each other again and that scene when they don’t, again. Where is the magic? Where is the romance I can actually invest in between two leads that seem more than irritating pastiches of other films? Where are the well-produced comedy scenes and characters the warrant more than a passing chuckle? Is it just me or have a few titters and nostalgic storyline become the benchmark for an acceptable rom-com?
And I know the criticisms that could be thrown at me. The first is that I’m a bloke and thus don’t understand rom-coms, which I’ve hope to demonstrate is just not true because I do love a whole lot of them. What I’m complaining about is not that they make romantic comedies but that they make bad ones. Maybe I’m expecting too much, that I should stop expecting every multiplex fare to be thoroughly unique and that all genres have their goods, their bads and their oks. But I’ve watched decent action films this year, I’ve seen decent horror. If these genres, which are as long lasting as the rom-com, can do it, why is it ok that the supposedly female audience get pawned off on mediocrity? Maybe I’m romanticising the old a bit, but then I’m happily to accept that all decades had many, many bad examples to counter the good. But still, the fact remains the 1960s had The Graduate, the 70s, Annie Hall. The eighties, When Harry Met Sally, the 90s While You Were Sleeping and Four Weddings and a Funeral. The noughties? Nope, still can’t think of one.
Love Actually is a sickly pic-n-mic of a rom-com film. Bright Jones’s Diary, a shallow celebration of the Sex and the City aesthetic of handbags and Weightwatchers membership as somehow representing some sort of sexual independence. Legally Blonde? No thanks. The Wedding Planner? Go away. How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? Repugnant. 50 First Dates? Flirts between partially good and partially awful. Where have they gone? The rom-com seems to have hit a vacuous patch and the question remains as to how long audiences will be prepared to accept new products that are simply reminders of how good the old ones were and how far we’ve fallen. For me, rather than spend around £8 to watch something that reminds me how good it once was, I’d rather just re-watch an old DVD. Until something comes along to freshen it up and do something new, the genre appears to be dying a slow and painful death, a fact that’s neither funny nor sweet.
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