This next scene is fun. It definitely takes part in all that hick-humor condescension and generally unbelievable dialogue I was just complaining about, but A) the tone is right and B) it's so gorgeously constructed I can't complain. Hoyt has a future in speechwriting, the rhetoric is so right on. I'll show you what I mean. He circles around from the personal to the things closest to his mother, back around to the things closest to him, and only then does he clinch the deal. Even Maxine has to give in at that point, watch:
Maxine takes a grilled cheese sandwich out of the toaster oven. American slices on both sides, white bread. And the whole time she's bitching -- "My Hoyt would never have run off to Dallas without a word, with murders all over the place. My Hoyt would never have left me worried sick thinking he was dead. Or worse, with a vampire..." -- she's putting potato chips on the sandwich, putting it together, smashing the whole thing down with her hand, and then she takes a knife and cuts it in half because that's both classy and infantilizing at once. He tells her she's nuts and she's like, "You have become a different person! What do you think your daddy would say?"
Hoyt sits down, because that's the puzzle piece missing that will sew it all up together, same as with Eric. It's the Apollonian piece that puts things together: "I have no idea, because the only time you ever mention him is when you're trying to make me do something I don't want to do. So while we're at it, let's talk about that." I love it because Jason has dealt with his father's death in the opposite way, which is to actually deal with it, because he had a strong mother figure and not Maxine. She puts down the sandwich, begging for her "sweet child" back. If he'd had a brother, his name would have been Adam. Hoyt's not a virgin anymore; he's broken his mother's heart. That thing that grows back is just a thing. "What are you doing with vampires anyway? They are wrong, wrong, wrong. They are devils."
"Why do you have so much hate in you?" She's offended: She thinks of herself as a kind and charitable person. She just made him a sandwich. She's really hurt: "I don't. That's a flat lie. Who do you think you're talking to?" Um, his momma. "Who hates Methodists." I got my reasons. "And Catholics." Just priests. And nuns. Having taken her through her religious hypocrisy, he moves on: "African-Americans?" That's true, but she knows enough to know it's a shame: Hush, that's a secret! "People who don't take care of their gardens, and people who park their trucks up on their lawn, and ladies who wear red shoes." Into the sublimely irrelevant, where our greatest rage and hates usually reside. It looks cheap! "Families with lots of kids. And checkered curtains. And cats and dogs, and bait," he says, moving into emasculation: all the ways she tried to check his masculinity, to cast aspersions on him. To draw him away from the Dionysian. "Every girl that I ever liked. And the more that I like them, the more that you hate them."I simply object to a girlfriend who will kill you and eat you. I think that's reasonable..." It's not unreasonable, but she's scrambling. He wraps it all up with a bow: "You don't even know her. Full of hate. I see you now."