So Fell the Angels, by Thomas G. Belden and Marva R. Belden
Suddenly, and for no reason that makes any real sense, the pursuit of father by women who should know better has become almost a fad. Father is everywhere. In South Pacific and The Most Happy Fella, father’s gray hairs win the heart (the expression is a little old-fashioned, like father) of the ingenue. Big Daddy in Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof defies cancer and sixty-odd years to draw his daughter-in-law from his son, whose unresolved Oedipus conflict has him hors de combat. In Baby Doll, according to Dean Pike, there is “infantilism and father fixation” and in The Middle of the Night, a more than middle-aged Edward G. Robinson wins out over a much younger rival who has, of all things, sex on his mind. Francoise Sagan has managed to parlay father into a novel-winning streak in the bestseller sweepstakes. Pamela Moore could have achieved the same happy result if she had shown only the rudiments of writing skill in her novel, Chocolates Before Breakfast, which is mainly about girls with too little father or the wrong kind of father. That father was not born yesterday was brought home to me the other night when I heard a calloused Lady Macbeth proclaim over the footlights that she would have killed King Duncan herself if, as he slept, he had not reminded her of her father.
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