The Line Blurs Between ‘Chick’ And ‘Guy’ Genres
When I announced that that I was going to see “The English Patient,” a friend expressed astonishment.
“Why would you want to see that?” he asked.
“That’s my dad,” chimed in my daughter. “He likes chick movies.”
OK, maybe I do. You have a problem with that, Mr. Schwarzenegger Action Hero Man? You want to make something out of it, Mr. Van Bloody Damme, because if you do, Mr. Big Bad Willis Guy, I’ll kick your sorry little …
I’m sorry. I’m overreacting. But this whole “chick movie” and “guy movie” thing is ridiculous. Since when was the world divided into things that women like and things that men like? Since the beginning of recorded history, of course. But I mean, when did it get so blatant?
Honestly, I think it’s absurd, this whole notion that any movie involving romance or family-drama is automatically a “chick flick.” By that criteria, everything ever written by Charles Dickens would be a “chick book,” with the possible exception of “A Tale of Two Cities,” which at least had action scenes courtesy of the French Revolution.
And what about the Bible?
“What’re you reading there, Zebediah? The Book of Ruth? Chick book! You ought to be reading Kings. It’s full of smiting.”
Or take Shakespeare. Forget the three traditional Shakespearean categories (comedies, tragedies and history plays). This is the way Shakespeare would be divided:
“Richard III”: Guy play (wars, hunchbacks).
“Midsummer Night’s Dream”: Chick play (love stuff, fairy named Puck).
“Romeo and Juliet”: Chick play (love stuff, fabulous costumes).
Today, people talk not only about chick movies and guy movies, but also about “women’s books” and “men’s books.” Maybe there’s a kernel of truth in that. Women tend to be more fond of Maeve Binchy and Ursula Hegi, who explore the delicate interweaving of human relationships. Men tend to be more fond of books by Tom Clancy, who explores the delicate interweaving of laser-guided tracer fire.
Yet as a member of a mixed book group (representing both major genders) I can testify that these stereotypes do not hold up. Our group recently read a book called “Corelli’s Mandolin” by Louis de Berniere, which frankly, looked like a chick book. It had a painting of an Italian mandolin on the cover, and it had words like “shimmering” and “lyrical” in the blurbs. (The word “lyrical” is forbidden on guy book covers.)
Yet, as it turned out, many of the men in the group loved this book as much, or more, than the women. I, personally, found it to be one of the most romantic books I have ever read. It was a shimmering, lyrical, magical love story and I actually mean that as a compliment. Plus, there’s this excellent passage where a guy is decapitated by a mine explosion.
No, seriously, the romance is the part I liked best. Anyway, in our book group we don’t distinguish between guy books and chick books. The men don’t mind reading books about weird female stuff, like families, and the women don’t mind reading about weird male stuff, like combat (although the women rightly draw the line at those paperbacks starring Dirk Pitt, Underwater Adventurer). We truly transcend these superficial categories.
I have always had the same open policy toward movies. One of my favorite movies of the last two or three years is Jane Austen’s “Sense and Sensibility,” which is not considered the studliest movie ever made. Yet great art is great art, defying all artificial boundaries. The best movies speak to our essential humanness, not merely to our male-ishness or female-osity.
With that said, and so eloquently, I must admit that I didn’t care for “The English Patient” quite as much as my wife, Carol, did. Something about this movie was just slightly too - what’s the word? - lyrical.
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