Grace Zabriski, your performances in David Lynch‘s Inland Empire (2006) and Werner Herzog‘s My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done (2009) frightened the shit out of me! The maddening reception of unease I get from any one of your many disturbing facial expressions truly awakens my inner scaredycatness, more so than any faceless girl’s crippling emergence from a well, or any family of chainsaw wielding Texas cannibals.
Perhaps ‘frightened’ is not the most appropriate word to describe this present of unease you give me every time I watch these two films. No, the feeling you give me is closer to how I would feel if ever my grandmother, or mother, were to walk in on me in the bathroom whilst stark naked and mid deuce dropping.
Yet, even more accurate would be if one of these elders were to walk in on me, and rather than close the door, proceed to stand there staring at me; head bobbing slightly from side to side, and face twitching as if it were struggling to free itself from shackled nerve entrapment brought on by decade’s worth of Botox binge injecting. My eyes would widen and my arms would flail frantically in the air as though I were shooing away some flying picnic pest, and my body would double-over in its best attempt to both cover the crotch region and bury my head directly up my asshole so as to hide from the irreversible awkward encounter.
Yes, Grace Zabriskie, at times – specifically in My Son, My Son and Inland Empire – this is exactly how you make me feel, and it is because of this transcendental emergence from movie scene into my waking – and perhaps, dormant – emotional conscious that I adore you.