You Brought Me Home To This Happy House
More re: Ryan Murphy. Previously I talked about him here and here: I consider him to be the Errol Flynn of modern tv who also happens to suffer from creative ADD which, we should all be so fucking lucky.
He has an Irving Penn portrait of Faye Dunaway in his bathroom, his favorite movie is Rosemary’s Baby, and what else do you need to know, really.
I planned to blog extensively about American Horror Story but now that the first season’s no longer on it’s better to truncate the point and move on: with said season of said show Murphy built a shrine to relationships ruined by cheating.
If the haunted house was always an easy metaphor for the more domestic paranoias, how come Murphy’s the first to so ruthlessly exploit it? Conjecture? Experience? I know nothing about his personal life, thank Google. But plottily and otherwise, American Horror Story’s murder house was built on sex with a third party. Blame it on the black star.
