Red, White & Royal Blue or Why You Shouldn't Feel Guilty about so-called "Guilty Pleasures"

Something my friends and I keep coming back to during this pandemic is the sentiment that “maturity means realizing pop music is actually good.” The basis of this is that, for as long as we can remember, we’ve been indoctrinated into this belief that only the dark and serious can be quote-unquote “good” art, that there’s this (false) dichotomy between that and the campy, feminine, and fun, between Quentin Tarantino and Britney Spears. The former is considered classic while the other is a “guilty pleasure.”

The deeply-ingrained cultural sentiment tells us that to like Britney Spears or Taylor Swift or The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City is on some level shameful consumption, while watching a Scorsese movie or listening to Tame Impala is praiseworthy. This isn’t to bash any of those things. I’ve enjoyed watching most Scorsese movies I’ve encountered and The Sopranos, another emblem of this, is among my favorite shows, but I can enjoy both and others should be able to as well without any feelings of guilt involved.

Enter Red, White and Royal Blue, by Casey McQuiston, my favorite book I’ve read this year so far. It’s the supremely unrealistic romcom tale of the son of the first female President, Alex Claremont-Diaz, falling in love with a British prince, Henry Wales. The book, with its pink-themed cover and its subject matter, would immediately turn off anyone look for so-called “serious literature.” The plot isn’t anything revolutionary. It’s themes and tropes are well-worn in the annals of the romantic novel. RW&RB has a fairly conventional enemies-to-lovers plot, followed by a reason for the protagonists to split up and then reunite at the end. There’s a happy ending not just for the principal couple but for all “good” characters in the book. In addition to Alex and Henry’s happy ending, several romances are sparked, Alex’s mother wins reelection, and families are reunited.

McQuiston’s work shows that art in any genre, when done well, can be great art. The reader develops a real emotional attachment to the characters and its LGBTQ themes and protagonists subvert the romance novel’s traditional patriarchal tropes, while also honoring its better elements. At the root of the romance novel’s frequent low regard is that it is a genre that’s principally the domain of women, as authors and audience.

The horror genre, like the romcom or romance novel, is often seen as fundamentally unworthy of serious criticism for its perceived lowbrow nature, even with recent examples such as Get Out and Hereditary showing the foolishness of this. Kathryn Bigelow’s Near Dark is a less-contemporary installment in this tradition of horror done well. Like RW&RB, Near Dark shows artistic excellence is not contained simply to certain preordained genres, but instead can come from anywhere and, more importantly, anyone. The dead old white men of the western cannon don’t have a monopoly on talent.

It’s easy for audiences, even when hailing from marginalized backgrounds, to disregard genres because of inherited cultural sentiments that draw arbitrary and inflexible demarcations between “good” and “bad” art, but once you get past this type of gatekeeping, a wider real of possibilities and opportunities for enjoyment and entertainment abound.