Let's Stay Together?

The love stories we grew up with were validated by conflict. The prince fights for the princess. He’s never spoken to her, but we can see how much he loves her because of how much he’s willing to endure – enchanted forests! Evil witches! Fire breathing dragons! – to win her hand. Maybe the two lovers come from families that have sworn eternal enmity to one another. Maybe one of them is in a coma. The formula is the same; two people who barely know each other are so convinced that they’re meant to be together that they’re willing to move heaven and earth to make it happen. When they unite (finally, triumphantly) it is understood that their conflict quota is met and they’re life from here on out will be smooth sailing. This implicit understanding is encapsulated in the classic narrative bookend “happily ever after”.

            Modern love, as we’ve hopefully all noticed, is different. Romantic partners are not preternaturally certain of their match (at least not after the initial infatuation wears off) and the obstacles are subtler. The setbacks preventing “happily ever after” have turned inward. Instead of doing battle with a fire breathing dragon, we must confront the past traumas that made it hard to trust people. Instead of a spell cast by an evil witch, we struggle with temptation and fidelity. The star-crossed lovers of lore were uncomplicated archetypes whose only flaw was the fact that by no fault of their own they were in a complicated situation. The lovers in today’s parables have accumulated the burdens of a life lived, and any relationships they embark on are inevitably impacted by that. Today’s romcom characters, like their Haagen Dazs spooning audience, must navigate the internal obstacle course of a fully realized human being.

            Nobody’s perfect. Everyone has faults and baggage that can make it unpleasant to be in a relationship with them. Some couples find ways to overcome those setbacks and forge a happy life together. Other couples cannot In the latter case, the couple eventually comes to terms with the fact it’s not going to work, and break up. They’re sad for a while, but enjoy a higher quality of life as individuals in the long term. It’s a happy ending. Yet, as viewers of romantic movies we tend to attach the same feeling to these modern lovers as we did to their fairytale counterparts. We view all the neuroses and incompatibilities as so many miniature dragons, trying (and ultimately failing) to obstruct the course of true love. In other words, no matter how unhappy we’ve seen them make each other, we still want the crazy kids to work it out.            

            It would seem that modern viewers don’t know when to fold ‘em, and don’t want to know. We prefer to be pelted with parables about how love conquers all. Why is it still so important to see everyone happily matched at the end? If the relationship was not overtly abusive, we want these crazy kids to work it out. Even if they fight constantly, even if their entire courtship was based on a lie.

            This latter situation occurs at a startling rate in romantic movies. We meet a couple whose chemistry is tainted by the fact that one is actively deceiving the other with a massive, elaborate lie. Generally the liar is either misrepresenting his or her own identity or harboring a secret ulterior motive behind the courtship. Does love always shine through, thus negating this ulterior motive? Sure. But the fact remains that you’re sleeping with someone capable of lying to your face for an extended period of time. Never Been Kissed, 10 Things I Hate About You, She’s All That, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Ever After, Maid in Manhatten, Just Go With It, 40 Days and 40 Nights, and many other romcom standards feature such a theme. Generally, the lie is revealed at the three quarters mark (with almost mathematical precision), which leaves about fifteen minutes for the liar to convince the wounded love interest to forgive them. Such behavior should be considered a major liability. But in movies, it’s merely a twist in the third act, gathering momentum for a big dramatic finish.

            Then there’s the matter of two people who simply don’t make each other happy anymore. These are situations that most people have encountered at one time or another, and are ultimately glad to have moved away from. And yet we still Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind handles the problem in a unique way by showing us – via the targeted memories of Jim Carrey’s Joel – a relationship in reverse. The relationship went south, so when viewed backwards it appears to get better and better. The constant fights and bad behavior that summoned the end are the first to go. By the conclusion, with the happy memories fresh in our minds, we hope that the central pair will reunite. Just like Joel and Clementine we’ve already forgotten that the relationship ended for a reason. 

            I don’t think that this desire can simply be attributed to lingering conservatism. Often, the couples in question are childless and unmarried. So this isn’t about the preserving the sanctity of vows made before God, this isn’t about protecting the nuclear family unit. This is about love overcoming all obstacles. Would we like to imagine these couples ten years in the future, happily reproducing in the suburbs? Sure. But in the meantime, we’re happy to see the credits roll on them making out in public. I think the real reason is more personal than social. We see own relationships validated in the ultimate success of these fictional ones. As if our own decisions to stay in tumultuous relationships are less regrettable if the comely denizens of romcom world are able to work it out.

            But the truth is, a relationship doesn’t need to last forever to be worthwhile, even iconic. Anyone who doubts this sentiment need look no further than Annie Hall. Annie Hall is the ancestor to a thousand lesser comedies about two people trying to find a way to make their respective quirks fit together. They break up, they get back together, and ultimately they break up again. Woody Allen announces that the relationship has ended in an open monologue delivered directly to the camera. It’s like a Romeo & Juliet prologue for our times, setting the tone and alerting us from the get-go that although we don’t have a happily ever after waiting for us, we’re still in for a great show. The fact that Annie and Alvy can’t make it last does not detract from the sweetness and poignancy of their earlier scenes together.

            Allen makes use of a mechanism that has since become cliché – the flashback montage. Moments in the relationship, frozen in time, rosily rendered. But in the movies spawned by Allen’s classic the montage is typically used to justify two incompatible people running back into each other’s arms. In Annie Hall it is simply a bittersweet interlude. All relationships have their lovely memories: their first kisses, their lobsters-on-the-loose moments. There was something there that kept it going past the first date. It doesn’t mean that it’s going to take us to the finish line and it doesn’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with two people making a healthy choice to cut their losses and always remember the good times. We need more happy endings like that.