How to cook up a ‘perfect’ heroine
IF, a thousand years from now, archeologists unearth a print of “Monster-in-Law” from the rubble and the non-biodegradable diapers of our civilization, they’ll have on their hands a near-perfect encapsulation of Hollywood’s idea of a lovable, marriageable woman circa 2005. Charlie Cantilini (the scampering woman-child played by Jennifer Lopez) is not just the emblematic comedic female protagonist of our time. She’s the King Tut’s tomb of contemporary rom-com cliches.
How did she happen? What mysterious and fearsome forces created her?
I don’t know the particular facts of the case, but I have a decent idea. Charlie feels like the very methodical, by-the-book creation of highly intelligent alien life forms who don’t quite grasp how human life actually works. Which she is, sort of. Screenwriters may have internalized them, graduate schools may have assimilated them, but contemporary romantic comedy heroines are pure corporate product, a desperately pandering and clueless assemblage of received notions, sexual anxiety and recycled focus-group-think handed down over the years like Grandma’s cheesecake recipe.
In case you missed her, or in case she washed over you gently like a wave of diazepam, here’s a refresher on what Charlie is like: Quirky but impeccably soignee, Charlie (the boy’s name implies you can trust her) works a series of sporadic, menial jobs but is not poor. In fact, she lives in a lovely apartment with a bottomless wardrobe and never complains about money. She has failed to enter her chosen profession (fashion design, presumably), but she’s not bitter or anxious. She’s orphaned, but not lost or needy. She’s played by a pampered 35-year-old actress but tries to convey the untarnished hopefulness of a 22-year-old. She’s also motionally mature enough for marriage but young, very young. She’s insanely attractive, yet she’s humble. And functionally celibate. Above all, she’s nice. She’s so nice that when her future mother-in-law launches a campaign of psychological torture against her, she reluctantly fights back, and eventually forgives her.
What kind of creature is she? Charlie is so unlike any human being on the planet that had she wriggled out of her skin at the end of the movie and swallowed a passing basset hound, it would have seemed the most natural thing in the world. She has a counterpart in the gorgeous-but-dour “strong female leads” that populate action movies and political thrillers, heroines whose lives resemble those of very violent monks. Contemporary romantic comedies allow their heroines to have personal and emotional lives, but only to a point. They take the realities of being young, female and single -- the low-paying jobs, the horrors of dating, the miasmas of anxiety and doubt (all sources of humor and empathy if they were portrayed in a fashion that was in any way honest or true) -- and turn them into accessories.
In “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Kate Hudson plays a dating columnist who longs to be a “serious journalist” reporting on Balkan affairs. The dream is supposed to lend her gravitas without bogging her down with boring politics and bad shoes. None of these things are used as the source of comedy, just as a way to make the heroine more “likable,” more “sympathetic,” more “vulnerable,” so that the hero may easily fall in love without having to deal with any prickly issues.
The main character in “Monster-in-Law,” looked at from a social standpoint, would seem to have it pretty hard even without the evil mother-in-law. But the movie glides over her problems to give us a fantasy of contemporary young-womanhood. What would have happened if Charlie, with her low-paying jobs and sad career prospects, lived in a depressing studio with creepy neighbors? What if the incredibly attractive surgeon she fell in love with liked her but wasn’t sure he wanted to commit because he didn’t really understand her lack of ambition and direction? What if he was worried about taking her on as a potential life partner and winding up having to assume her student loans or credit card debt? (You never see Charlie purchase a single item, but judging from her wardrobe, she is clearly a shopaholic.) Would he worry about what his friends thought of her? Would he marry her just to get back at his controlling harpy of a mother?
All of this could have been explored without compromising a happy ending. If the movie didn’t run from every complicated issue it brings up, then the happy ending might have felt earned, possibly even rousing. That’s what the screwball comedies of the ‘30s and ‘40s did, they flirted with all the terrifying possibilities and worst-possible outcomes and laughed at them. The code-baiting sex comedies of the ‘50s and the anxious, neurotic romantic comedies of the ‘70s, Woody Allen’s specifically, didn’t just touch on social issues regarding gender politics, they unpacked them with the glee of a 4-year-old at birthday time. Even in 1989, “When Harry Met Sally
But after “Pretty Woman,” it’s been basically some variation on the Cinderella story, with some lip service to feminism thrown in.
ROMANTIC COMEDY heroines aren’t characters anymore, they’re tranquilizers. They provide exactly what love does not, in a way it wouldn’t if it did. They’re designed to fan the fantasies, soothe the disappointment and calm the frayed nerves that come later. And to do that, they must be built to specifications.
How? After watching “Monster-in-Law,” I canvassed a few writers -- who won’t be named, so that they may continue to write and happily incorporate notes -- to share directives they’d received while creating their romantic heroines. There is no such thing, it appears, as a romantic comedy heroine who couldn’t benefit from being just a little more “likable” than she already is (Rule No. 1). “Likable” of course, can mean many things in the real world;
but for a studio it tends to mean that she does some kind of work involving animals or the elderly. Perhaps she’s a veterinarian, or a zookeeper. If she works in business, she has a boss who doesn’t appreciate her, or steals her ideas. Whatever it is, she has it tough. Sometimes she’s a single mother, “trying to hold it all together in this tough, dog-eat-dog world,” one writer offers. “Also, likable often means clumsy,” she adds. “She falls down a lot, but in an adorable fashion. Likable also means pretty. As we all know, the fat are unlikable.”
Once she’s been established as almost unbelievably likable, a heroine must be “sympathetic” (Rule No. 2) because, what if she got so likable people actually started to hate her? She must be punished for her smug likability -- dumped, cheated on, left at the altar. (When a male character leaves a girl at the altar, he’s an irredeemably evil cad. When a female character does the same, she’s Julia Roberts.) Also, it’s not a bad idea to smite her progenitors in some way. Dead mother and lonely father are a good way to go. The exchange, according to another writer, might go something like this:
Exec: That’s a cool story, but could you kill off one of the parents?
Me: In the course of the film?
Exec: No, before, in the back story.
Me: Mom or Dad?
Exec: We don’t care, but as a rule we prefer families with one dead parent.
“ ‘We need to see the character’s vulnerability’ is a note you get a lot,” another writer says. A girl who is left at the altar does not walk away unscathed. There are emotional repercussions of a very real nature. “This means to add moments where the heroine stares out a window as it’s raining, or we see her in her pajamas eating Haagen-Dazs out of the carton.”
While it’s OK to spend some time with Ben & Jerry, heartbreak does not call, under any circumstances, for excessive, depressive or erratic behavior of any kind (Rule No. 3). The jilted heroine will not indulge in unflattering self-destructive action such as drinking too much or indulging in a sordid rebound. Ice cream is fine, but there are limits. “I was once given the following note by a producer,” another writer says. “ ‘Can you not have the character eating so much? It makes her feel a little piggish.’ The character was eating in three scenes.”
Essential story elements can and should be jettisoned if they risk making one of the female leads less attractive than she otherwise might be (Rule No. 4). “I wrote a romantic comedy about three couples all dealing with pregnancy,” a writer says. “The film wasn’t really about being pregnant but about how their pregnancies affected each of their relationships. The note from the exec: ‘Why don’t you make it so they aren’t pregnant, because pregnant women aren’t very sexy.’ ”
Sexiness is good, but having sex is problematic (Rule No. 5). How much is too much? As one writer I spoke to puts it, “Sexuality is a no-no for romantic heroines. They can be sexy, adorable and even seductive but we don’t want to think they’re kinky or overtly sexual in any way. When it looks like they’re about to really get it on, suddenly they’ll innocently pass out because they drank too much, like in ‘Working Girl,’ ‘Two Weeks Notice.’ ”
Of course, this applies only if the hero is, in fact, a woman or a girl. In the case of a male protagonist, one can’t go wrong inserting supermodels wherever humanly possible (Rule No. 6). “I wrote about a male character who was still in love with his high school sweetheart and pursues her again when he’s an adult. The note from the studio after they bought it was change ‘high school sweetheart’ to ‘supermodel’ because, ‘Everybody obsesses about supermodels.’ ” Strippers and porn stars work too.
If a character’s age is ever mentioned, best to make it 29 -- 29 being the universal sell-by date after which point singleness, klutzy adorability, etc., cross the line from “sympathetic” to simply “pathetic.” Otherwise, the question of age should be avoided (Rule No. 7). “I wrote a romantic comedy about a couple who finally find each other after years of dating, after they have both become disillusioned with the dating world. The studio wanted to cast teenagers. They didn’t see the problem with hiring teenagers to play parts about people beaten down by love.”
If, however, you are pitching to a female executive, “you can’t really go wrong pitching a female protagonist who is a powerful executive who doesn’t have time for a boyfriend” (“Sweet Home Alabama,” “Fever Pitch,” etc.), says another writer. “In this case, most of the time, the male protagonist is less successful but more ‘real.’ In real life, studies have shown that this sort of relationship is the most likely to result in divorce, by the way.”
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Carina Chocano can be contacted at carina.chocano@latimes.com.