There was a hellishly depressing article in The Guardian’s Saturday Magazine a few weeks ago. It was about Chatfishing, and how young people seeking romantic partners increasingly use ChatGPT and equivalents to conduct online conversations with potential soulmates. It’s obvious this sort of deception can only end one way when those who rely on AI for a personality actually meet up in person. Andy described it as being like the modern-day equivalent of Cyrano de Bergerac. If only it were as romantic. It sounds awful, as do some of the terms used in interactions. If I was young and single now, I’d probably remain so forever. My answer to questions such as ‘What is your attachment style?’ would be something like, ‘As I wasn’t built by bots in a factory in Bletchley, I have no idea what you’re on about.’
Reading the article, I couldn’t help but wonder if people are using ChatGPT to basically flirt with itself, then aren’t they removing themselves (humans) from the equation. It isn’t going to be long before ChatGPT cottons on to this, and then where will that leave us?
Half of the most famous couple in literature. Pity visitors can’t keep their hands off Juliet’s breasts.
What is romantic?
A novel I read recently had me wondering if I ever knew the general perception of what was and what wasn’t considered romantic.
‘Is this what some women really think of as romance?’ I asked Andy after reading her this extract.
“‘He looked down at her and she saw desire in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her like this, as if he wanted to devour her, bones and all.”
‘I don’t know,’ Andy replied. ‘It doesn’t do it for me.’
While the novel in question had an interesting subject matter, when it came to affaires de coeur it turned all Mills & Boon. The men were square-jawed with movie-star good looks, the ones who were potential partner material at least – “Dirty-blond hair, grown longer than regulation allowed, blue eyes, square jaw. Anyone would have called him the American boy next door…”
For me, it represented a superficial, unrealistic depiction of romance, one that only exists in cheesy movies and written-by-numbers romantic fiction.
Romantic or cheesy? And does it matter?
‘Doesn’t guff like this set up unrealistic expectations?’ I asked, ‘Ones that can only lead to disappointment?’
‘It’s just escapism,’ Andy replied, frowning, wanting to get back to her own book. ‘Men who read Jack Reacher don’t really believe they could be like Jack Reacher, do they?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t read Jack Reacher.’
‘I don’t read Mills & Boon type novels, so I’m the wrong person to ask.’
As none of my female friends read such novels, there’s nobody I could interrogate to find out if they considered the version of romance depicted in them as being realistic … achievable.
Keep it real
Recently, I’ve read three novels, one critically acclaimed, where the descriptions of relationships left me cold. Their romantic encounters depressed me almost as much as the Chatfish conversations, because they all felt equally false.
I enjoy romance in books and movies. But it must involve situations and people I can believe as being real. Immediately after finishing the book with the square-jawed love interests, I read David Nicholls’ You Are Here. It’s classed as a romance novel. I’d describe it more as a relationship novel. Its characters couldn’t be more different from the gushing, gasping ones of the previous book I’d read. The main female character, Marnie, describes the main male like this. “It was a good, strong face, though a little scuffed, nothing fine or delicate…” Basically, an everyman rather than some plastic Hollywood version.
Most people wouldn’t consider walking in bad weather romantic, and yet…
When she veers close to a sexual encounter with another character, Marnie ponders: “Should she bounce on the bed, instigate a pillow fight?” while thinking “She’s already made a stupid joke about his camouflage hoody (Whoa, where d’you go?)”
Characters are awkward, use humour to mask insecurity, and suffer from self-doubt, and it’s far more romantic than all that heaving bosoms and flushed cheeks nonsense because it feels real.
The strange thing is, readers who gave You Are Here a low rating on Amazon often commented they didn’t like Marnie’s character, finding her irritating. I initially thought these might be men because she’s an independent woman with a strong personality who teases the males in her company. I liked her precisely because of this; she was great fun to hang out with. But no, the reviewers who didn’t like Marnie were mostly women. Which leaves me back where I started – bemused at the idea plastic characters whose bosoms heave and eyes burn with desire can illicit an emotional response which doesn’t involve reaching for a sick bag.
Talking of puking, Dennis Quaid holding back Ellen Barkin’s hair as she vomits into a toilet in The Big Easy is a great example of a romantic gesture which completely breaks with convention, yet works.
Definitely not a romantic poem.
Incidentally, when I first met Andy, to try to impress her I learnt Rudyard Kipling’s Gunga Din because she mentioned she loved the scene of Hawkeye in MASH quoting it while operating. It involved popping into the local bookshop and learning sections at a time (I didn’t have enough money to buy the book). Gunga Din isn’t exactly what you’d call romantic, but one person’s romantic gesture isn’t the same as the next persons, which is why using AI is a complete cop out, even if ChatGPT could reel Gunga Din off in the blink of an eye with no effort at all.
