And the other thing, too: An Oedipal story about fathers and sons doesn't have women in it. It has objects with vaginas, but no women. But properly, a story about this stuff would put the woman at the center of it all. We like to pretend that for every Oedipus there's an Electra, that men and women are absolutely interchangeable and that one day we'll all be gender fluid otherkin in bunny ears having demiromantic cuddle parties on Google+ and calling it feminism, but that's bullshit, too.
The truth is that men are born from women... and so are women. And so while a boy vs. daddy story is a good story -- the only story men seem interested in telling, to this point in history -- the truth is that a me vs. mother story is universal. And anybody who tells you that's untrue or gay is caught in a story about men, not people. But men aren't the only ones telling stories anymore.
It's so dangerous we don't even really go there and when we do it's like this: Insanity, generation-blending, sexual danger, gender-confusion that's so confused it needs itself explanation and yes, postmodern remix of old and new and versions within versions, commenting on versions of versions, presenting all at once in whatever way these particular folks feel will tell the best particular story. Which is all it's called on to do or to be: A story that uses color and style, sex and love, torture and light to tell you 1) a dream that will 2) end in death.
HIS GIRL FRIDAY
Cary Grant: "All she ever wanted was a home."
Ex-GF's New Fiancé: "Well, I'll certainly try to give her one..."
Cary Grant: "Are you gonna live with your mother?"
Fiancé: "Just for the first year!"
Norman wakes up -- after how long? -- and heads out, stumbling, into the hallway. It's only when his momentum slams him face-to-face with his parents' wedding photo that he rouses, gets a terrible feeling and runs through the house. Everything is on pause: The iron's dripping with steam, dinner's boiling over, everything is crazy and silent. Out in the garage the blood's still wet.
Norman runs back down the halls, bashing into doors, and when his mother finally comes to the door she looks tired, interrupted; she fastens her robe and wonders why on Earth he's so upset now. When she follows to find Norman cradling his father's dead body, she searches his face for shame or fear, but there's none. Only misery. She takes him to her, wrapped in her robe and rocks him as he grieves. "I'm so sorry," she says. He was her best thing and he's broken.