Special issue: "Feminist romance?"
BTG issue no. 41
This pair of think pieces, written by undergraduate philosophy majors Moira Inocencio and Patricia Aguas from De La Salle University in Manila, emerged from BTG’s previous hybrid lecture on feminist critiques of the heterosexual romance genre. Drawing on contemporary texts in feminist aesthetics and the intersection of ethics and art, Inocencio and Aguas interrogate the persistent patterns and assumptions that shape our understanding of romance—both as a literary genre and as a reflection of broader social values.
In her essay, "Bad Romance: A Critique of Rape Culture in Romance Literature," Inocencio argues that literary works promoting or excusing violence against women fail as romances. Using examples from popular novels, she scrutinizes how depictions of abusive relationships, when romanticized, undermine the very idea of the “happy ending.” Meanwhile, Aguas, in "Against the Trope of the Traumatized Heroine," critiques the cultural script that equates female empowerment with suffering. She explores how trauma narratives often demand that heroines be broken before they can become “strong.” She calls for more expansive, responsible, and authentic stories that center agency over victimhood.
Bad Romance: A Critique of Rape Culture in Romance Literature
By Moira Inocencio
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a reader in possession of a romance novel, must be in want of a romantic story. That is, to read its emotional thrill and enjoy the narrative, admire the plot points and charismatic characters, perhaps feel the flutter of a butterfly or two. One would not usually associate romance with violence, abuse, or trauma, unless otherwise warned. However, some works categorized under the romance genre are of particular interest for me, as the themes are not short of moral suspicion if we were to scrutinize these literary works as appropriate for moral judgment.
Oscar Wilde famously said that “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all” (Wilde 2009, vii). I beg to differ. Literary works of art are gravid with morally relevant descriptions and prescriptions although they are expected to be more appreciated in the aesthetic sense. I would go so far as to say that moral evaluations are especially appropriate for the romance genre since it deals with human relationships.
To simplify the extensive history of the genre, romance is typically focused on the amorous relationship between two main characters, their conflicts, and the assurance of a “happy ending.” Its tone also tends to be positive with the goal of emotionally engaging the reader (Wyatt et. al. 2007, 120). We may then ask: Should morally defective works labeled as romance be labeled as romance? Are happy endings in such stories happy indeed?
I argue that literary works fail as romances when they promote rape culture, which is described as follows:
a complex set of beliefs that encourages male sexual aggression and supports violence against women. It is a society where violence is seen as sexy and sexuality as violent. In a rape culture women perceive a continuum of threatened violence that ranges from sexual remarks to sexual touching to rape itself. A rape culture condones physical and emotional terrorism against women as the norm (Buchwald, et al. as cited in Oakley 2012, 6).
Exactly why this characteristic cancels out the intended romance is because it fails in its appropriateness, so to speak. In Aristotle’s Poetics, he prescribes that “one should not seek every pleasure from tragedy, but the one that is characteristic of it,” meaning pity and fear (Heath 1996, 22). This is not to say that romances of this kind are supposed to be tragic, but that their violent promotions are not appropriate for the genre of this kind. There is also the factor of “correctness” of art—that is, that although some objects may be considered for something satisfactorily or commonly, does not mean that they are correct for that attribution (Levinson 1979, 236). In other words, just because an immoral instance written romantically may satisfy the prescribed response, does not make it the correct response appropriate for its category.
Take Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight for example, which supports rape culture by romanticizing abusive behavior by the male hero in the moments he physically intimidates her and is described beautiful, when he breaks into her room and watches her sleep (an instance that only makes her bashful rather than fearful or indignant), and when he admits to his bloodlust, a confession that only elicits her compassion (rather than terror or disgust) (Meyer 2008, 126, 140, 130). In Colleen Hoover’s It Ends With Us, there is a sympathetic portrayal of the abuser. Although the novel attempts to advocate against rape culture, it eventually seems to excuse it. In both works, the narratives distance themselves from the violence executed by the men to instead focus on their physical fortune by portraying them as beautiful during the act of violence, as if the female main character were momentarily blinding themselves to what they are seeing firsthand (Tavallie 2024, 12).
Whether or not the work is successful in attaining the prescribed romantic response from the audience, it does not secure the correct and appropriate response to violence. As Noël Carroll described for moderate moralism, it will “fail in its own terms—terms internal to the practice of tragedy,” in this case, of romance (Carroll 1996, 232).
With works such as these, do they truly have “happy endings”? I contend that the moral defects of this nature render them incompatible with the primary genre. Works of romance need not be morally perfect, in fact, they ought to be nuanced. We should, however, ask ourselves if it is moral to favor immoral works even if they are compatible with our aesthetic desires.
Works cited:
Carroll, Noël. 1996. “Moderate Moralism.” British Journal of Aesthetics 36, no. 3 (July): 223-238. https://doi.org/10.1093/bjaesthetics/36.3.223.
Heath, Malcolm. 1996. “Introduction.” Poetics by Aristotle. London and New York: Penguin Books.
Levinson, Jerrold. 1979. “Defining Art Historically.” The British Journal of Aesthetics 19, no. 3 (July): 232-250. https://doi.org/10.1093/bjaesthetics/19.3.232.
Meyer, Stephenie. 2007. Twilight. N.p.: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers.
Oakley, Samantha. 2012. “‘I Could Kill You Quite Easily, Bella, Simply by Accident’: Violence and Romance in Stephenie Me and Romance in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga,” Master’s thesis, Minnesota State University, Mankato. Cornerstone: A Collection of Scholarly and Creative Works for Minnesota State University, Mankato. https://cornerstone.lib.mnsu.edu/etds.
Tavallaie, Marjan. 2024. “The representation of domestic violence in popular romance novel It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover.” Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences. N.p.: Karlstads University.
Wilde, Oscar. 2009. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Edited by Robert Mighall. N.p.: Penguin Publishing Group.
Wyatt, Neal, Georgine Olson, Kristin Ramsdell, Joyce Saricks, and Lynne Welch. 2007. “Core Collections in Genre Studies: Romance Fiction 101.” Reference & User Services Quarterly 47, no. 2 (Winter): 120-126. https://www.jstor.org/stable/20864838.
Against the Trope of the Traumatized Heroine
By Patricia Aguas
Why is a woman’s suffering still the price of her narrative relevance? In film and television, the formula persists: a girl is faced with trauma, then becomes strong. Not because she wanted to grow, but because pain left her no choice. Whether it’s Pretty Little Liars, Euphoria, or even local productions like Ang Huling El Bimbo, women become powerful only after they’ve been violated. And that transformation is rarely for their own sake. Their pain isn’t private—it’s theatrical all too often, aestheticized for consumption.
Kathleen Murphey calls this the “phoenix moment.” Just as the mythical creature is described, the phoenix moment in film and literature captures the moment after a brutal sexual assault or rape. Once the character has gone through that trauma, she will “snap” and rise like a phoenix from her emotional turmoil and physical ashes to avenge herself—and other victims— against her brutalizers. As a viewer, I started to wonder—why is this the blueprint for female power? Why does resilience have to be earned through humiliation?
This doesn’t just play out in crime dramas or thrillers. Romance narratives—especially those written by men—often hinge on suffering too. A girl is groomed, abandoned, violated, and then she’s deemed strong enough to be loved. But is that romance, or is it cruelty dressed up in catharsis? There’s something deeply ironic about calling these stories “empowering.” What does it say about us that we demand a girl’s breakdown before we believe in her breakthrough? We label her a “badass” when she snaps; but why couldn’t she have been powerful before the snap? And when male characters orbit these plots, they tend to walk away with more depth than the women themselves. In The Last Duel, we remember the duel—not Marguerite. In Pretty Little Liars, Ezra the predator becomes a romantic lead. Even when the woman speaks, her story is filtered through someone else’s script.
Linda Martín Alcoff warns us about this. In Rape and Resistance, she critiques how trauma narratives often follow a “confessional” form—one where pain becomes a performance, serving institutional power rather than challenging it (Alcoff 2018, 276–78). We’re encouraged to listen, but only within pre-approved limits. That isn’t healing. That’s containment.
This is why I argue that narratives about sexual violence and autonomy are not just reflections of reality, but forces that shape how we understand harm, agency, and justice. These stories train us in expectation—how to view a woman, how to believe her, how to dismiss her once her pain has been used up. If we do not take a step back and interrogate these representations, we risk allowing them to reinforce the very systems they claim to expose. Some say art simply mirrors the world, but I say: if you are telling stories about suffering that isn’t yours, you must do so responsibly—or remain open to critique when you fail to.
We need more than trauma-centered stories. In Frances Ha, Frances is chaotic and uncertain, but she isn’t reduced to suffering. She grows through awkwardness, not abuse. Her strength isn’t revenge—it’s agency.
Feminist thought can’t stop at critique. It must demand better, more inclusive storytelling. More responsible representation doesn’t mean avoiding hard truths—it means shifting who holds the pen. As Alcoff writes, feminist storytelling should offer “guide-ropes, but without scripts” (Alcoff 2018, 121). Let women write their stories—not just after they bleed, but before, and beyond.
Work cited:
Alcoff, Linda Martín. 2018. Rape and Resistance. Cambridge: Polity Press.