For the past few months, I’ve been thinking about the kinds of love we are often taught to recognize. The obvious ones are passion, flirtation, and obsession; these are the easiest to dramatize and sell. But there’s another kind of love that I’ve been ruminating on: tragic love. It lacks the cinematic stylings that are most commonly used (i.e., affairs, chasing, jealousy), but it can endure in a way the others can’t. I keep returning to a line from Mike Flanagan’s Haunting of Hill House where the Crain family’s estranged father, Hugh, says of his wife, Olivia, “She used to say she was the kite and I was the line. She was a creature of the clouds, and I was a creature of the Earth.” At first glance, this line can feel very romantic until you realize that a kite cannot fly without a line, and a line cannot soar on its own. It’s devastating and tragic.
In Gothic storytelling, love is rarely depicted in a balanced way. It’s either haunt or be haunted. In The Haunting of Bly Manor, Dani and Jamie’s love becomes a version of this dynamic: one is tasked with anchoring the other in times of struggle. In Midnight Mass, faith and love intertwine in ways that demand sacrifice, placing the characters in positions that tie them to their beliefs at a great cost. Flanagan is known for reusing actors in his projects. But he should also be known for reusing the motif of love persisting not because of safety but because of the impossibility to abandon it.
The Gothic genre exists and thrives on asymmetry. Think of the dark fantasy series Castlevania: Vlad Dracula Tepes and his wife, Lisa, are constantly questioned for their relationship because Dracula is an immortal vampire and Lisa is a human woman. The taboo is what essentially catalyzes their demise. Even Edward Scissorhands emulates this asymmetry, as Edward, being an outsider, will never be with the “all-American girl” Kim Boggs. The kite-and-line metaphor can be applied to this imbalance. One partner becomes the kite, soaring and reaching new heights. The other becomes the line, a steady hand absorbing tension, making sure the kite does not vanish. There is a devotional aspect to that image. Remaining a constant while a partner rises does have a romantic undertone; however, we cannot ignore the exhaustion of the line as it frays over time.
Tragic love often feels inevitable. It’s as if the roles are predetermined. The grounded partner is taught that anchoring is proof of love and support. The soaring partner may not even be aware of what their freedom costs. Endurance is confused for devotion. And staying is viewed as noble. But what if this metaphor is not fixed?
A kite only flies well when the tension is just right. If there’s too much tension, the kite will crash. Too little tension, and it flies away. The beauty of this metaphor is not just in its imbalance but in its dependence on adjustment. One has to feel the environment around them, and one has to know when to pull back. The tragedy in Hugh’s metaphor is not just that Olivia was the kite and he the line, but the fact that they stayed in those roles. A hopeful love gives space for people to alternate. To soar when needed. To anchor when required. In this vision, no one is lost in the clouds, and no one is stuck to the ground.
Tragic love still matters. It teaches what imbalance costs. It shows the light and dark of devotion. But it doesn’t have to be the only model. We can admire the poetry of the kite and line without giving in to the idea of solely being one or the other. Perhaps the most sustaining form of love is not the one that survives because it doesn’t end, but the one that continues because it’s chosen again and again without erasure. A love where both partners hold their own string, where they can both fly and return. I believe there is a quiet hope within tragic love. It is not suffering to prove our love but understanding to fly without vanishing ourselves.