Gone With The Wind, Margaret Mitchell

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."





Oh Rhett. You had me at "Goddamnit, Scarlett you tramp-faced skank!"
And the so the book continues. At over one thousand pages, you'd better start likin' Miz Scarlett pretty darn quickly, because it's not as if she's a character who improves upon closer acquaintance.

An interesting question to ask about Gone With The Wind (which will henceforth be known as GWTW) is whether or not Scarlett O'Hara is a feminist. Does a frothed-up-trollop maketh a feminist?

The story goes thusly: Scarlett O'Hara is sixteen living in the deep South pre-civil war, and already The Grand Manipulator. She spends the first five or so chapters shaking her bosom in every direction and pouting like a constipated fish. She's only got the whole freakin' county trying to get in her corset for a little bit of jiggy jiggy, but she wants more, More, MORE! She decides, because a mere mortal man isn't enough, to deify her neighbour Ashley. (This book has ruined the name "Ashley" for me. Anyone named Ashley, male or female, whenever i meet them I just hear Scarlett's voice - Ok, so Vivien Leigh's voice- in my head shrieking over and over and over "ASHLEY! DON'T LEAVE ME!"). So Ashley becomes some kind of demi god, but upon realising Scarlett's *cough cough* "high spirited nature", decides instead to get hitched to his cousin, Melanie. Even marrying a blood relation would be better then being stuck with Scarlett for eternity, never able to escape that high pitched bimbo shriek- or so we are lead to believe. AND SO CREATETH THE TRIANGLE OF LOVE.
The story then goes on for another 900 pages or so, all about Scarlett's various schemes to steal Ashley away from Mellie Hamilton (if you ever wanted to know what a human doormat looked like, I would suggest Melanie Hamilton, bristles and all). Schemes including marrying various men and general prostituting about the town. Because nothing says "I Love You Ashley" like having another man's baby. Oh! I almost forgot, there's a war on by the way and a bunch of people die- but that of course is inconsequential compared to Oh-the-torment-Ashley-doesn't-love-me.
Although I haven't covered it yet, I feel that I should mention a certain Rhett Butler (with a name like that, how could you go wrong?) who is this dude who rocks up and is revealed to be basically Scarlett with a cock. However we all like him more, probably because he spends less time throwing The Tantrum To End All Tantrums. In the 1939 movie adaptation of GWTW, Rhett is played by Clark Gable- who, I'm sorry, does not fit the role of Rhett at all. Sure, he spends appropriate amounts of time throwing Scarlett down stairs (who wouldn't!) and hurling pottery at her head, but he's just not....Rhettish enough for me.

The verdict: GWTW reads like a soap opera. Just when you think everything's dandy, you suddenly realise that Scarlett's pool keeper is actually her illegitimate brother who in fact is now sleeping with her sister. That never happens. But I spent the over-a-thousand-pages hoping that it would. Personally, I enjoy soap operas. The book also reads in parts something like a whispery gossip conversation. It does feel on occasion that Margaret Mitchell is sharing some massive secretly gossip- another quality I do enjoy. In addition, the historical aspect is fascinating- though that of course plays a minor role to Ashley (who is, by the way, a rather insipid individual) and his various, ahem, charms.

Gone With The Wind, by Margaret Mitchell, Scribner (1st September, 1936)

Faro's Daughter, Georgette Heyer

Oh! To be a feisty young woman in a regency world, straining against the confines of lace and champagne, playing all manner of audacious pranks upon a stern, older gentleman, yet knowing all the while that Mr. Stern Older Gentleman will one day tame you, you naughty little shrew, making you his wife and teaching all us cheeky young women this valuable lesson : There is no point fighting it, you will succumb to me in the end.

I should really point out about now that I really didn't mind this book so much. True, my feminist sensitivities died a little inside- choking delightfully on a oesophagus of their own vomit, but laying that aside, it wasn't that bad. And I could, perhaps rant in a similar feminist vein about Austen.

The story is basically this: Dirty Commoner works in gaming house serving members of the ton (upper class), spending her nights drinking, giggling, dealing cards and generally sitting upon the mantelpiece as a trophy for all to admire. Dirty Commoner manages to sneakily sneak up upon noble, yet naive young man of wealth and fortune, ensnaring him with her feminine wiles. Naive Noble proposes and Dirty Commoner, who doesn't love him, or (for some bizarre feminist reason) doesn't actually want to marry at all (I know, right? What the hell is wrong with her!), decides to string him along regardless because clearly, it's no fun wiggling your rump about if no one's there to watch it. However, dun dun dunnnn - Naive Noble happens to procure himself an irascible uncle/cousin/father/thing and Stern Gentleman struggles to contain his bile at the idea of Dirty Commoner marrying Naive Noble. Will someone please think of the children!

What Stern Gentleman didn't realise, however, is that his interference would only transform Dirty Commoner from lace-on-legs (I would say tits-on-a-stick, however this is a Regency World, and as we're all aware, sex is a relatively new invention, having only been developed in the 1960's) to some kind of Sarah-Palin-in-a-corset. Nobody puts Dirty Commoner in a corner!

So naturally Stern Gentleman and Dirty Commoner engage in thinly veiled pranking war (thinly veiled because we all know they just want to get down and do the nasty) and somethingsomethingsomething everyone marries happily in the end. Oh! Was that a spoiler? This is a Georgette Heyer novel, did you really need to be told it was happily-ever-after? Pssh.

And for the grand finale? Although the book follows pretty much exactly the same pattern for every single other Georgette Heyer novel i.e. Man + Money + Woman + Extreme Loathing = Happy Marriage, the book itself has its moments. The dialogue in most Heyer novels is particularly witty, reminiscent of Austen, one could say (blasphemy?). And historically, Heyer, as always is infallibly correct. The storyline itself however, remains predictable. On saying that, however, you should probably ask yourself, does anyone ever read a Georgette Heyer looking to be shocked out of their socks? Probably not. The vast majority of Heyer fans read knowing that there will be no surprises, and therefore no possible reason to think whilst reading.

Faro's Daughter, by Georgette Heyer. Sourcebooks Casablanca; Reprint Edition (1st July, 2008)