My 6th essay on Supernatural, on the episode ‘Weekend at Bobby’s’, is up on The Female Gaze. A taster:
It’s rare we see a place of masculine stability in Supernatural. I’ve spoken already of the countless motel rooms, the hideouts in power-cut semi-ruins. The architecture of blue collar young men on the run, living below the line of respectability. In contrast, Bobby Singer’s down-at-heel but welcoming home (and scrap dealership) in Sioux Falls South Dakota, stands like a fixed lamp-lit star in a chaotic universe.
Inside, Bobby, in his beard and cap, a small God, taking calls of query and of aid from myriad hunters who expect his instant, tithe-free intercession. Sam and Dean often drop in unexpectedly bringing their woes, flicking through his books of lore, and drinking up all the whiskey – though I’m sure they drop off the odd six-pack in meagre return. We don’t get to see much of what goes on when the house is not acting as a bolt hole or place to crash. This episode changes that.