There’s one scene in 2004’s Napoleon Dynamite that has haunted me ever since I was a kid. Napoleon, having just finished working at a chicken coop, stands in front of a table featuring an assortment of foodstuffs: a large bowl of eggs (hard-boiled), a smaller bowl of eggs (raw), a tray of what appear to be either sandwiches or just two slices of bread smushed together, and a large jar containing a mysterious orange liquid. As flies buzz about, one of the farmers cracks a fresh egg into this latter concoction and tastes it with an approving nod before telling the assembled crew to “dig in.” They slowly comply, tenuously eating this panoply of chicken byproducts—their soft, wet chewing the only audible sound.
It’s disgusting, but that’s not why the scene has lingered. After all, there’s plenty of gross-outs in popular media these days, and compared to the emetophobia inducing feats of films like last year’s Triangle of Sadness, it barely holds up. No, the scene stuck out because I actually found the opposite to be true: it was irresistibly, uncannily appetizing. In fact, I was hungry throughout the entire film. Those bland eggs, uncle Rico’s bloody steak, the lonely corn dogs and microwaved burritos. I wanted them all.
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