She struck me as being a bit bride-like, even though almost everything about the word "bride" seems contrary to what's going on. A bride usually wears enough cloth to cover half an acre, where Eli is wearing barely enough to cover half a pint-sized body. There's no father around to give the daughter away, and no minister, priest or pastor to officiate, and the table in the middle of the living room is nobody's idea of an altar. [deleted], most brides are actual women, and even if Eli had been a real girl, she's not even fully that yet, just a vaguely girl-shaped stick figure.
The oversized shirt she's sorta wearing like a dress and sorta just swimming in is the color of blood, but surely not in this context meant to imply any kind of passion. It just struck me as "truth in advertising"; if you are what you eat, what she's wearing is the colour of what she is. Death wears a red shirt, maybe so the stains it accumulates while Death dines won't be so obvious.
But under that shirt, hidden from Oskar's view, is a pair of whitish panties, a colour we usually associate with innocence - or maybe just naivete and vulnerability.
Here is the inverted bride. The usual bride wears white on the outside, openly proclaiming virginal "innocence" and "purity" while concealing goodness-knows-what underneath (but probably something meant to provoke passion). Eli is hiding hers, but not necessarily denying it. She's indirectly wearing war paint consonant with the truth of what she's claiming to be, and maybe hiding her more sensitive self away.
She's not offering herself to Oskar for nights and decades of hot wild monkey [CENSORED], and may in fact outright reject the very idea of it, but everything that Eli has admitted so far, and everything that she stands still ready to admit to Oskar is very definitely prologue to the commitment she already has to offer him, commitment similar to what a more normal bride formalises in a more normal ceremony. Eli's slow, stately march to the table to join him, also unlike a more normal bride, isn't to the expectation eight-room houses filled with the patter of tiny feet and the smell of cinnamon toast fresh out of the toaster, but to the fear of rejection you'd expect in any rational, self-respecting messenger of death and disease.
This is just how it strikes me, and I believe I've cheerfully enough admitted before I could just need my medications adjusted.
Edit: 5 Novembre 2011, replaced a "bad word" with [deleted] to comply with renewed restrictions on language.



