When you are a mother and a wife, you frequently have to go
along for the ride. So when my teenage
daughter started reading a collection of vampire love-stories, I naturally had
to see what the fuss was all about. I
got caught up in the Twilight series as much to understand where it was leading
as for my parental efforts to understand the dark moodiness that descended over
my sweet daughter. Through Bella and
Edward, I began to understand her approach to relationships: her ability to withstand mental anguish, her relentless
commitment to impossible matches, and her willingness to endure something that
brings more pain than joy.
I realized that this affliction was not unique to our
household. All over town, young girls
were meandering around in a semi-zombie state, exuding teenage pathos in
excessive measure. It was clear that Team
Edward reigned supreme, despite the more classically handsome (and healthy)
appeal of his nemesis, Jacob. I suppose there was a similar phenomenon when
Harry Potter was published. Children
drew lightning bolts on their foreheads and pointed their cutlery-invoking mock-Latin
spells with uber-enthusiasm, trying to overcome their Muggle origins with a
healthy dose of polyjuice and butterbeer.
I should be pleased that all this emulation has its origins in a series
of books. But this Twilight phenomenon
is a mixed bag to parents. Teens are naturally
moody; they do not need encouragement.
What parent wants their hormonally-charged daughter dwelling on
death-in-the-name-of-love—even if that death is an immortal one?
If only this momentary bubble had squeaked by the marketing
radar undetected! No such luck. Before I knew it, vampires were everywhere, each
offering a slight variant on the undead folklore. The Vampire Diaries were the first to capitalize
on every young girl’s fixation with Edward Cullen, turning vampire tales into a
weekly television series. Too be truly
successful, however, vampires could not exist solely in the realm of teenage
girls. To really exploit the product,
you need macho adult appeal. That’s when
Alan Ball’s True Blood hit the air waves, carrying my husband with
it. In this HBO hit, we all but forget
about skinny teen heartthrob Rob Pattinson when six-foot-four Swedish hunk
Alexander Skarsgaard graces the screen.
Here, vampires are raw creatures of indeterminate morals, swigging bottles
of “True Blood” and dancing on poles at Fangtasia. The vampire men (and werewolves alike) make
women swoon. I guess I’ll have what she’s having.
What is our fascination with vampires? It is disgusting to see characters that cry
blood. It is creepy to see humans
addicted to illicit hits of vampire blood, compromising everything for the
tiniest trace. I cringe at the
smoldering burn of silver as it makes contact with vampire skin. Even the just end to a ravenous beast—a wooden
stake through the heart—is made overly repulsive by its residual pool of un-protoplasm. When my generation of friends was teenagers,
we could not have imagined a more fitting provocation for our mantra, “Gag me
with a spoon!”
As fascinated as I was with the Twilight phenomenon, I am
caught in the spell of True Blood. I do
not find it entertaining or appealing in the least, yet I cannot bear to miss
an episode. I do not care about the fate
of the characters; I think I am waiting to see how far it dares to push the
plotlines—and me. Television, after all,
is a feast to be enjoyed in the privacy of one’s home. Sequestered in the safety of my living room,
I allow greater suspension of my disbelief than I would in any other setting. I know
it is not real, and yet I encourage it to push the boundaries. My boundaries.
In the final analysis, I have no real answers to the vampire
conundrum. Perhaps it is simply this: that
I prefer the stupid things that vampires do over many of the real things that
people do.
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