Cringe-inducing moments feature heavily in much millennial romantic comedy. These stories tend to centre women diminishing themselves in relationships with men and, rather than trying to make audiences swoon, they often include scenes that inspire repulsion, disapproval or distaste.
Think of Hannah Horvath’s boyfriend Adam peeing on her in the shower in Girls. Or the way the title character of Fleabag inspires men to incongruous, often hammy, romanticism by letting them use her sexually. Such scenes had me watching through the gaps between my fingers.
More recently, a strain of comedies show female characters cringing as a way of highlighting undesirable male actions.
You can see this in the French film I Am Not an Easy Man in which the character Alexandra rolls her eyes and turns away, even before chauvinist Damien can finish his tired chat-up line objectifying her at a work function. And in the black comedy series Such Brave Girls, we watch as the secretly queer Josie winces at her lovesick husband’s soppy attempts to take care of her.
Cringing laughter embodies Freud’s description of the humorous response as a grimace that pushes back threats by making them the butt of jokes. On-screen cringing is therefore a powerful emotive tool for delegitimising social norms.
We are living in an age where there is an increasing lack of hope around in finding a good heterosexual relationship. This phenomenon has been dubbed “heteropessimistim”, “heterofatalistism” or even “heteronihilistism”. Call it what you will, evidence points to a relationship recession for straight couples. Within this emerges the related trope found in contemporary romcoms known as “the ick”, which is a feeling of disgust in response to a love interest’s behaviour.
The dark romcom The Drama is an especially interesting case of this phenomenon. The whole film chronicles a kind of giant ick experienced by Charlie when he finds out a secret about his seemingly sweet fiancée Emma’s past. The revelation – which is a massive spoiler so I won’t ruin it – sends him reeling as he questions whether he knows Emma at all.
The Drama might seem at first glance to align us mainly with Charlie’s point of view and his sense of ick. However, the tables turn as he comes apart at the seams, acting in increasingly cringe-worthy ways. Cue one of the worst weddings in cinema – and this is a crowded field in romcom.
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Meanwhile, relationships that avoid the usual power imbalances are taking on a magical charge. Only in such circumstances can sex become a vehicle for mutual give-and-take rather than ownership, and characters fully surrender to being swept off their feet.
Against the backdrop of hetero-cringe, queer love in particular seems better placed than straight romance to provide the conditions of equality-based trust which are essential to good erotic relationships. In cinema, the BDSM (bondage, discipline, dominance and submission) romance Pillion offers a case in point. Nerdy Colin is lonely until the eye of the godlike biker Ray lights on his potential as a submissive partner. There ensues a joyous, intensely physical relationship based on roles that are, crucially, mutually agreed.
The trend is even more apparent in the sports romance series Heated Rivalry. In this show ice hockey stars Ilya and his professional rival Shane are brought together in a secret union whose romantic inevitability and specialness is guaranteed by the obstacles besetting it.
Shane is closeted, if not in denial about his sexuality, while Russian Ilya hails from a homophobic family and country. They play on opposing teams, in a hyper-macho environment, where the press pits the pair against each other. Nothing but raw attraction brings these two together – and that is precisely what makes their interaction so touching.
There’s something exceptionally egalitarian about their relationship. This can be seen even in the positioning of the actors’ bodies, in both sports and sex scenes, which emphasises symmetry (rather than sameness). Such symmetry is harder to achieve with heterosexual relations, due to the disparity of physical strength that typically separates men and women.
This contrast was commented upon in a Saturday Night Live sketch riffing on the series in which a heterosexual couple argues bitterly as the actors playing Shane and Ilya ice-skate behind them, carefree. Here, Heated Rivalry comes, by virtue of contrast, to point directly to the contemporary “heteropessimistic” climate.
Heated Rivalry has engendered a rapturous female fan following. Women liking gay male romance has a long history and gay porn especially has been seen as able to avoid the misogynistic exploitation many view as inherent in its straight equivalent. But the mainstreaming of queer sex on screen today also speaks to its function as a canvas on which to project the very possibility of true intimacy.
As our faith in the possibility of heterosexual romance is squeezed further and further, so our romantic imaginations seek inspiration in the margins and recesses – straight or queer. Only here, it seems, can amorous overtures, by men in particular, cut through as smoothly as Shane and Ilya’s skates, instead of grating until we recoil in an attitude closer to horror than romantic glee.
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Mary Harrod has received funding from the British Academy.