The so-called “only thing that still works in America” (per Saturday Night Live’s assessment) is also one of the many “things” people love to hate: Tom Brady. Not just for his quintessential douchebag vibes, but also for being a “longtime friend” of Donald Trump’s who has had to hide his support “in the closet” over the past five years in large part due to Gisele Bündchen telling him to keep a lid on it (she has an edge to uphold, after all).
Upon joining the Tampa Bay Buccaneers last year, some were skeptical of Brady’s continuation of a career at an age deemed decidedly over the hill by sports standards. And yet if Michael Jordan taught the world of sports anything, it’s that it’s nearly impossible to walk away when you’re still good at something. In any case, Brady is no Jordan. He has far more American Psycho implications than that. Even his name smacks of one that would’ve been right at home on a Pierce & Pierce business card.
And, speaking of, who better to emphasize the serial killer element of life in America at this year’s Halftime Show than The Weeknd? After all, his persona of late has been that of a possessive, excess-mongering monster (all while managing to get away with something we only thought cartoon characters could: constantly wearing the same outfit). Who also kills, if the “In Your Eyes” video directed by Anton Tammi is any indication. Which it is. The fact that he runs around town bedecked in blood without anyone noticing is an additional parallel to how Patrick Bateman is proof that we’re all shapeless and invisible to one another in our comfortable coma of self-consumption.
This is a theme The Weeknd further expounded upon, whether he meant to or not, while singing both “Can’t Feel My Face” and “Blinding Lights” at the Super Bowl, during which multiple “doubles” of himself appeared–an entire army of them in the latter performance (à la “The Real Slim Shady”). In a politically timely fashion, The Weeknd brings Blackness to the Patrick Bateman trope, proving that everybody just wants the opportunity to not stand out in a crowd. To benefit from the “everyone is everyone” phenomenon. After all, anonymity is one of the most prized treasures a person can have in this hyper-monitored epoch–and, plus, it lets you get away with literal murder. A woman screams in the club and no one notices–or if they do, they don’t care.
The Weeknd is accordingly given his free rein to pursue her with a knife. It’s the same thing with Bateman’s victims. It’s the same thing with all women who are ignored and silenced for “getting out of line,” “talking out of turn.” The dangers they face are simply ignored (or muzzled by a conservatorship).
One supposes this is the only way in which The Weeknd subverts the expectation in “In Your Eyes,” with the girl finally triumphant in decapitating his head instead of the other way around. And yet, she out-Batemans Bateman by swaying with the head in her hands on the dance floor, in front of everyone. Even so, no one seems to register anything out of the ordinary.
What’s more, the fact that The Weeknd flips the script this way is somewhat negated by the notion that she’s attracted to this psycho killer, in a land called Every Male Fantasy. That you can treat a girl like shit to the point of threatening her life, and she’ll still be enamored of you. One knows that both The Weeknd and Tom Brady have this view of themselves in common (even if the former presents his with more self-deprecation).
