Gorge is a profoundly personal project, born from my own experiences with trauma, shame, and cycles of self-destruction. Since childhood, my body has been under siege—from society, media, classmates, boys, men, friends, and family—always through criticism disguised as “concern” or outright ridicule. Those voices became internal, driving me into patterns of overeating and guilt. In Grace’s journey, I see my own: the struggle to confront buried pain, the haunting persistence of trauma, and the desperate search for closure.
The reanimation of Aunt Edna’s corpse is not gratuitous horror but metaphor. Trauma refuses to remain in the past; it resurfaces, demands to be fed, and continues to exert control. Feeding the corpse parodies nurture, exposing how cycles of abuse corrupt care into dependency. Yet in this bleakness, Abigail’s unwavering support offers a counterpoint—proof that empathy and solidarity can interrupt cycles of harm.
Cinema has long explored eating disorders, often through stories of anorexia or bulimia, but these depictions frequently glamorize suffering, framed through conventionally thin, fragile protagonists. What remains unseen is a plus-sized protagonist, especially a woman, whose body is not subjected to a makeover, redemption arc, or ridicule, but instead centred in all its complexity. By placing Grace in this role, Gorge challenges cinematic tropes and asserts the need for new narratives that treat body image as more than stereotype or plot device.
My intention is not simply to disturb, but to invite reflection. Horror has always been a powerful genre for exploring taboo subjects—body politics, abuse, grief—and Gorge continues this tradition. By grounding the grotesque in emotional truth, I aim to create a film that is both unsettling and cathartic, while confronting media’s toxic depiction of womanhood.
Visually, the film’s language is built around intimacy and distortion. The morgue mirrors Grace’s fragile mental state, with wide-angle close-ups collapsing the boundaries between hunger, desire, and revulsion. Small details, lips, necks, fingers, the act of feeding, become battlegrounds between vulnerability and survival instinct. Clinical lighting sharpens her cannibalistic urges, while childhood flashbacks, framed from a child’s low vantage point and bathed in warmth, recall a lost innocence.
Drawing inspiration from Raw and Hereditary, Gorge seeks to carve out its own space within feminist and psychological horror. Its imagery is visceral, but its heart is human—it asks not only how trauma terrifies us, but how we might confront it, metabolize it, and ultimately find release.
For me, Gorge is an exorcism, transforming anguish into art and reclaiming narrative from pain. For audiences, I hope it offers recognition—that they are not alone, and that even within grotesque expressions of trauma, there exists the possibility of empathy and renewal.
This is the cinema I aspire to make: unflinching, personal, and transformative. Gorge faces the grotesque with honesty, inviting others into that confrontation—so that together, we might find solace in bearing witness.
