Met a man outside the Father of the Bride house in South Pasadena a few minutes ago. Rough neck sort, toughness, strong, early Sunday morning with his wife to take pictures. He dutifully explains through a hint of bashfulness “Oh, I just love this house.” He takes a picture, and having shared the moment with me, he takes a selfie too. I naturally offer to take a picture of him for a better photo for him. “Your wife thinks you’re crazy, doesn’t she.” “Oh, she thinks I’m nuts.” “Egh, yeah, well, movies make our lives.” “They do.” I snap a few live photos and he sits for a long time in his minivan with her for a long time until he finally drives off.
A simple exchange.
I can’t help feeling what this all means to him. The Father of the Bride, the archetypal sweetheart film of a father finally accepting his certainly good enough son in law as played out through the drama of his neuroses projected through his daughter. The father accepting his son in law. The father of the being your admire more than anyone in the world accepting you, and as his own and family. The healing for the supposed archetype of the shamed, disgraced father to be defended by the son of this article.
The woman, the wife, his wife, can’t relate, won’t relate, won’t even see he’s crazy for her, only seeing his nuts. Funny, isn’t it? She can’t see him for who he is being because she doesn’t want her man to be reminding her of her father. Which she finds so distasteful to her partner, her sexual partner that she casts him out to fulfill his desires on his own and alone, thus repeating the primordial process of the masculine and the feminine. Freud is wrong.
Made sure to get him a photo to remember though.