A couple of weeks ago, I went to see the movie Catfish–an interesting documentary being deceptively marketed as a thriller, which it definitely is not–and one of the trailers was for the remake of I Spit on Your Grave (which the world needs like another BP oil spill). The trailer displayed all the elements one expects of a typical post-Saw slasher flick. Everything looked filthy, spattered with blood yet devoid of color. There were lots of sharp-edged and pointy things being brandished menacingly. It was all interspersed with black-and-white graphics and flashes of red typography, particularly the word “revenge” in big block letters. The trailer concluded with the typical three-part tag: (1) the title, (2) one final snippet of film, in this case both literally and figuratively, as we see our avenging angel brandish a nasty-looking pair of garden shears, and (3) a final card with the release date, official URL, and phrase “October 8th is Day of the Woman.”
So, in the brief silence between the end of this trailer and the beginning of the next, a middle-aged woman sitting a couple of rows behind me apparently picked up on the female empowerment vibe of the production and said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to do that.” The audience laughed loudly. It strikes me now that the laughter was because this was an art-house crowd, the sort of people who seem more open to the unusual, thought-provoking sort of cinema usually proffered there. The woman sounded like she had absolutely no intention of seeing this gore-fest, and the laughter was recognition that many others shared her sentiment.
Unfortunately, the film critic’s burden is to occasionally be forced to endure such garbage in its full length rather than just a two-minute trailer. So consider me a martyr, dear reader, for I have lost two hours of my life to what is quite possibly the most despicably loathsome movie ever made. I Spit on Your Grave is a completely unnecessary remake of a 1978 drive-in movie that was terrible and disgusting to begin with, but, in the age of women’s liberation and the ERA, it rode the wave of blood-drenched grrl power championed earlier by Carrie and later by Jamie Lee Curtis and other scream queens. This remake attempts to play the feminist angle as though such a noble cause justifies horrendously graphic means. Actually, it’s just a very thinly veiled excuse to depict the most vile atrocities imaginable in the filthiest of conditions.
I Spit on Your Grave proudly trumpets itself as unrated, which is why this trash ended up on the art-house circuit rather than the mainstream theater chains. Art houses have a long history of screening unrated, uncensored, underground cinema. Thirty years ago, I saw John Waters’ Pink Flamingos at a midnight art-house screening in St. Louis (on a double date!!), and it was by far the most shockingly disgusting movie I had ever seen. However, I laughed at it, too, as it had wit and cheeky bravado woven within its parade of filth. Three decades later, it’s still shocking and gross, but it seems charming and downright quaint in comparison to this latest celluloid atrocity.
What’s it about, you ask? City girl goes to a secluded cabin in the country, and the local leftover extras from Deliverance rape her and torture her and rape her and torture her until she gets the chance to turn the tables and brutalize her attackers. I’ll spare you any further details; I don’t even want to mention the names of anyone from the cast or crew, lest I contribute to their infamy and egos any more than I have to. I will point a finger at one name: Tracey Walter. Why are you associated in any way with this dreck? You’re better than this, sir. You were in The Silence of the Lambs, itself a movie of brutality and terror, but done with intelligence and true craftsmanship.
I guess it comes down to one’s personal definition of art. There are defenders of movies like this who welcome the unrated splatterfest as a true expression of artistic vision. To cut anything out for the sake of a rating is to compromise one’s art. Don’t take it so seriously, some argue, it’s only a movie. But I see no art in this. I was hard-pressed to find any artistic merit in Lars Von Trier’s family mutilation drama Antichrist last year, and I see much less merit in this. Heck, earlier this year I saw the coprophagic gross-out The Human Centipede and, appalling as it was both in concept and execution, I would rather watch that again than this worthless crap.
I Spit on Your Grave is misogynistic, misanthropic, and miserable. It’s all blood lust, both on screen and in the audience, making the viewer identify with the victimized protagonist first in order to revel in and even encourage her heinous vengeance later. It felt no different than had I been attending a dogfight or bullfight. Do I really want to associate with these cheering, bloodthirsty enthusiasts? Nope.
Working at a video store many years ago, I remember customers occasionally asking if we had the Faces of Death videos, the ones with supposedly real death footage included. We carried a few, but they often ended up stolen or damaged, and we stopped ordering replacements. When informed of this, those who didn’t argue with me or rave about them would skulk away. I was always glad such people weren’t my friends or relations. This putrid movie will be my new litmus test.