I haven't yet received wise analysis from my revered Jungian analyst. Sadly, our 50 minutes were up before her eyebrows lowered into synthesis of the symbols brought forth by my Katie Trap. I'm guessing she'll have me notice the archetypal representation of, "the separated twins", "the prodigal father and mother", "the wise witch Verbena" or even the omniscient bark of Andromeda insisting that this Susan, returning from Camp Inch, is definitely not the real Susan.
Well, maybe in those eyebrows, I began to notice it myself (damn, she's a good analyst!). What's a Jungian archetype if it's not a symbol of the parts of yourself that you wish could be true, really don't want to be true, or reflects our longings?
It's obvious looking back, that a fatherless daughter, spending much time alone,having only older brothers (otherwise occupied with their own 80s teenage endeavors) grounded on planet nowhere's-ville, with no camping trip planned beyond the grass mound in front of the family duplex, might assign existential perfection in the hopes of a similar outcome, crystallized in the moment when the twins, having collided like suspended magnets and having caused all manner of mischief ...food fights, and honeyed beaver traps... realize that same birthday+look exactly alike+one mom and one dad=can only mean one thing! Oh, and the goose bumps. They must be sisters! Pan to Katie's internal psyche "oh, there must be something I'm missing and one day, at camp perhaps, it will find me and make me complete!"
I'm not gonna let the demystification of this beautiful bubble of sisters found, hi-jinks executed, and coiffed red hair and the studly high-waist western-wear on daddy Mitch dampen my love for camping, the outdoors, or the 1950's aesthetic. I'm gonna keep ordering vintage plaid picnic gear from Etsy and insist my brood stomp up mountain trails clicking sticks to keep bobcats away. But now it's all mine, without the disillusion that Dad is one day coming back ready to charm me into forgiveness for his absence. That's a Disney utopia I'll have to reconcile, no matter how many times I sing Let's Get Together (in Hayley's faux American accent).
If you think The Parent Trap did a number on my head, wait until John Hughes comes along. Hark the herald archetype Samantha Baker, saint of forgotten birthdays.
