By Angelina Liu

The smell of one family’s comfort soured in our noses. Despite the credits rolling, I can’t seem to leave.

Swaying along the bends and curves of the worn road, I fight off waves of intense nausea and a spinning headache. Warm reds and oranges paint the maple and oak trees that flourish just outside the chilly glass pane, a stark contrast to the salty taste of saliva slowly accumulating in my dehydrated mouth.

Nestled in the backseat, I had begun watching David Lynch’s Blue Velvet at the behest of my best friend. Starting from Jeffrey Beaumont finding a severed ear on the ground, I find myself pulled into the sleepy town of Lumberton for the eight hour drive to the vacation house in West Virginia. I can’t leave even when the credits begin rolling.

I ponder on its credentials — it had won all 18 of the nominations it had received at the Academy Awards. Despite its regard as a masterpiece by film critics, what I watched was a maniacal psychopath Frank Booth huffing poppers while manipulating and torturing the sultry lounge singer Dorothy Vallens. To me, the obscenity and lack of control for female characters felt wholly unnecessary and detracted from its artistic value.

I alternate between periods of sleep and wake, the drive obscuring my perceptions of time.

I awaken to the familiar crunch of tires on gravel. I step out and stretch, allowing the bitter wind to billow underneath my thin shirt and whisk away my warmth. I wonder if I’m still dreaming when I notice the surrounding neighborhood’s striking resemblance to Lumberton. Before another thought forms, my sister shoves a duffel in my hand then nods, beckoning me to follow her into this strange world.

Located just steps away from the front porch rests a plaque. I trace my fingers around the black and white photos, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. The writing, albeit faded, describes the family that previously resided there.

Inside, the home is reminiscent of an era lost to time. Faded wooden cabinets and etchings left by an unruly child on the dining room table prove previous occupation. Silver photo frames with their prints removed line the fireplace mantel. Another family’s presence sticks to every object in the home, lingering and persisting throughout. Dark yellow torchlight casts unsettling shadows of the weathered picture frames and vases, painting images of monstrous beings on the eggshell walls.

My mother immediately begins voicing her concerns on the house. My sister and I join in, commenting on each unnerving aspect. We desperately want to leave; something in this house feels wrong, like missing a step when walking down the stairs. My father instructs us to move our things to the bedrooms.

The bedspreads are a variety of multi-colored quilts and mismatched sheets. The smell of one family’s comfort soured in our noses. The ambiance is dark and ominous, despite nothing obviously being out of place. The grandfather clock to the left of the staircase radiates a silent, foreboding presence. The beginning of Blue Velvet commands the same energy: an introduction into a pristine Americana that later reveals a hidden, dark underbelly.

***

After a night of fitful sleep, light pouring in from dirty window panes gives me strength to awaken. I pull myself out of the suffocating covers to find my family sitting on the porch swing outside. We joke about the unsettling nature of the house and analyze the plaque. The surrounding trees sway peacefully in the wind, casting golden shadows onto my mother’s face. My sister pleads our case to my father, begging to leave. She couldn’t grapple with the secrets that may hide in the dark closet underneath the stairs or the basement door shut with five bolts.

The crunch of gravel cuts our conversation abruptly short. A woman in a Chevrolet Tahoe rolls her window down and squints her eyes. Her brown hair catches the breeze as she scans the scene.

“This was my mother’s house,” she says.

We stare blankly at her. Her lips are pursed. The deafening sound of silence engulfs us all once again; both parties are unsure of what to say next. My father is the first to speak. He motions at the changing trees and says we’re just here for the weekend.

“I didn’t know this is what they were doing with it — figures.”

Before we can ask another question, her tinted window rolls back up and she slowly accelerates back down the street. I look into my parents’ faces and my sister lets out a nervous laugh. Our previous jokes suddenly pale in comparison to the gravity of the situation.

Again, my father is the first to speak. He tells us the interaction meant nothing and that we should forget about it — we have a long day of train rides through fall foliage planned ahead. He doesn’t want to hear any more complaints or questions.

This interaction is one I can’t shake as I ride a train through the West Virginian countryside. I converse with my mother and sister about the woman and the scratches on my bedpost. We section ourselves off from my father, who sits alone on the opposite side of the train. He completely disregards the mystery presented about the house — the complete opposite of what Jeffrey Beaumont, the young Lynchian protagonist, chooses to do.

Despite this difference, Beaumont shares a striking resemblance to my father in  our respective storylines.  Despite being the leaders of their situations, both my father and Jeffrey are easily the most vanilla characters in each storyline. By blatantly ignoring the history behind the home, despite the pleas of my mother, sister, and I to leave or to learn more, my father allowed the unknown to consume and potentially endanger us.

Jeffrey, similarly written as one who commands situations, is easily entranced by Dorothy Vallens. He believes he is in control, the one tasked to save her from Frank Booth. However, Vallens is the one to force Beamont to strip at knifepoint. She is the one who controls her desires, making sexual advances towards an unconsenting Beaumont.  There is a sense of delusion to be shared between Beaumont and my father, one that is difficult for men to discern with the oblivion that they inherently possess. 

Booth sexually assaults Vallens, yet he is the one who crawls back to her feet, worshiping her body and calling her “mommy”. He appears to hold every aspect of control in this situation, yet when he sees Beaumont and Vallens in a forbidden relationship, he spins out of control which allows Beaumont to deliver the final blow to his head. Blue Velvet, despite its disturbing nature, transcends female and male archetypes. It frees the feminine character to be an individual who possesses her own desires and will, and who is capable of manipulating the situation without blatantly possessing the upper hand.

Arriving at the vacation house, I didn’t understand Blue Velvet’s violent and seemingly random nature; I labeled it as blatant pornography of the highest caliber. However, through my experiences in the house and Vallens performance, the film proved that the men that seemingly control the narrative are easily misled as to who truly wields power.

My sister, mother, and I load the car and tell my father we’re leaving — with or without him. We knew this would upset him, but we disliked the idea that he controlled our narrative.

I leave the Lynchian town both physically and mentally, feeling the carsickness grow in each bend and turn on the worn road. ■