Tuesday Too Scared to Watch It Twice: Week Two

After a week's hiatus, the stars have once again aligned, and Missy Yearian of Chickapin Parish and myself are in your face at last with more examples of horror flicks we're too chickenshit to ever sit down and watch again. Gape in amazement at our weak-heartedness this week, as we bemoan how deeply traumatized we were by two of the true standouts of exploitation cinema, past and present...

Inside (2007)

I actually reviewed this bit of French depravity right here in the Vault, not long after it first came out. And if memory served, I described it as a film which "challenges the definition of entertainment." And now, a couple of years later, I stand by that assertion. Yes, Inside is an excellent movie, and yes it deserve recognition as one of the must-see horror flicks of the past decade. Nevertheless, after that first must-see experience, I can honestly say I have no plans of ever putting it in my DVD player again.

Maybe it hits a little too close to home. Maybe being a parent is what makes it difficult to get through. Perhaps it's the brutal realism of all the gore, and how far removed it is from the cartoonishness that usually makes extreme violence in film more palatable. Simply put, Inside packs one hell of a punch and doesn't let up. It's far from what anyone would describe as a fun bit of recreation.

Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury are no doubt to be commending for crafting a superior thriller. In fact, they've done their job so well that I still get chills thinking about the things I saw as their movie washed over me in the dark that night. It took me to places I didn't want to go, and held me there far longer than I was comfortable staying. Yes, this is in some ways the mark of great art, and I'd be hard pressed to say that Inside isn't great art. It probably is. I just can't stomach that much unpleasantness. Call me what you want. I've heard worse.

Ironically, despite my trepidations, I will say that it's a film that should be seen, even if it's only that one time. It's raw, powerful, and never anything less than completely gripping. Just prepare to be disturbed. The subject matter is certainly beyond the pale for anyone who is merely a casual genre viewer. And I'm sure there are plenty of hardcore fanatics more than equipped to sit through repeated viewings of a film about a stalker trying to rip an unborn fetus from a woman's belly. I'm just not one of them.



...And now, I pass the mic to Missy, who shares her aversion to Meir Zarchi's nasty ode to rape revenge...

I Spit on Your Grave (a.k.a. Day of the Woman) (1978)

It took me about twenty-eight years to have the courage to watch this movie. No, really, I thought about it for years before I finally queued it up and had the courage to sit down and watch it. For the first ten or fifteen minutes, I was really okay. I thought, “Gee. This isn’t so bad. I’m sure it can’t get much worse.”

And then there’s that rape scene. Twenty-six minutes of sexual violence and four moments of penetration is more than I can handle and keep my sanity intact. It should be more than anyone can handle. While viewing Jenny Hill’s abuse, I had the though that I must be implicated in the proceedings because I sat there complacently and watched. It’s a very Kitty Genovese situation, no? Of course, this idea of implicating the viewer is nothing new, and in fact, it’s been used to much greater effect by directors from Wes Craven (The Last House on the Left) to Michael Haneke (Funny Games). But the complicity in I Spit on Your Grave is different than the other films that employ this technique. I Spit on Your Grave covers your very skin in its filth. Never before have I felt so compelled to shower after seeing a film.

Ultimately, what makes the difference in Meir Zarchi’s film is that it is filled with hate and misogyny. No matter how hard people try to defend it, you just can’t get away from the fact that it murders its own believability in the service of its own misogynistic impulses. This becomes clear in the two scenes in which Jenny seduces her abusers. There is no excuse for such blatant woman-hating, and I myself find myself sickened just thinking about the scene in which Jenny climbs into a bathtub with Johnny and gives him a handjob—even though that handjob is followed by a castration.

Many people hold this film up as a perfect example of Grindhouse exploitation cinema, and they wouldn’t be wrong to do so. However, that descriptor (I think we can all agree here) certainly doesn’t mean the film is good or that’s it’s worth a moment of your time. And while I fully admit to seeing rape revenge films due to a sadistic revenge fantasy I myself harbor, the justice in this film is not worth the abuses you’ll endure to witness it.

When Jenny stumbles through the woods thinking she’s escaped her rapists, she finds herself once again in their clutches. This happens again and again, and as an audience member, you’ll feel what Jenny feels. You’ll beg for the scene to end. You’ll beg to be set free. And when you are, it’ll be much too late. This film will have gained power over you, and it’s something from which you might never recover.

VAULTCAST: Talking with Meir Zarchi, Steven Monroe & Sarah Butler of I SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE!

One of the privileges I've been afforded since launching The Vault of Horror is being able to interact with those individuals directly involved with the films that have affected me over the years. I had just such an experience earlier this week when, after catching the remake of I Spit on Your Grave at a screening in Manhattan, I was afforded the opportunity to speak about it with the film's director, Steven Monroe; the star, Sarah Butler, who plays Jennifer Hill; and of course, the one and only Meir Zarchi himself--both producer of the remake and director of the still-controversial 1978 original.

It's my distinct pleasure to be able to share this with you, and I'm grateful to all participants for pulling no punches and expecting nothing less in return, especially Mr. Zarchi in our discussion of the much-debated issues of misogyny. Also, thanks to Alexis Hoyt and the rest of the fine people at Falco Ink for reaching out and making these interviews possible. You can listen in on the embedded player below, or proceed to the official Vaultcast page for download...

I Spit on Your Grave, Version 2.0: All the Depravity, with Half the Misogyny!

If you were one of those who were concerned that Cinetel Films' remake of Meir Zarchi's infamous grindhouse "classic" I Spit on Your Grave was going to be a tame, watered-down, "safe" affair--well, allow me to inform you that you need not be concerned. Steven R. Monroe's much-debated new version, I'm here to announce, is not at all afraid to shock, disturb, and thoroughly get inside your head. In a time when horror film seems to be devolving more and more into self-parody, I Spit on Your Grave is a raw, unflinching, grueling experience, lacking even an ounce of post-ironic camp. And dare I say it, a superior film to the original.

Granted, many might point out that this isn't really saying much, considering that the original I Spit on Your Grave isn't exactly Suspiria or The Shining. What it did have going for it, however, was that raw power to deeply disturb, and I can honestly say that, despite a few choices that reflect a different mindset at work than 30 years ago, on the whole the film manages to pack a similar punch to the original, while at the same time giving us a better-made and more engaging motion picture.

One of the biggest problems I always had about the original was the way in which it was angled as some sort of pro-feminist ode to the empowerment of women, when if you come down to it, it is more a shamelessly misogynistic attempt to titillate through the gratuitous depiction of rape and dehumanization of women. This time around, Monroe and company manage to create a work that doesn't cop out, yet chooses to take a higher moral ground, if that makes any sense at all. Don't get me wrong, the film isn't without a certain element of sordid titillation, but one never gets the sense of over-the-top sleaziness one gets from the original.

For those not aware, I Spit on Your Grave (or ISOYG) tells the story of one Jennifer Hill (played here by Sarah Butler), a beautiful young writer who is brutally raped by a gang of backwoods hooligans while staying at a secluded cabin, only to escape and later wreak a bloody vengeance upon all of them. This time around, those same basic elements are still in place, and in fact there is even a certain attempt to duplicate the gritty, washed out look of '70s-era grindhouse cinema, for which kudos go to British cinematographer Neil Lisk. This technical aspect is just another area in which this remake trumps the original.

I would be loathe to say that I "enjoyed" the film more than I "enjoyed" the original, since I can't feel comfortable using that word in relation whatsoever to either version. This is grim, cringe-inducing film-making of the highest order, and rest assured that there were more than a few hoity-toity reviewers at the sneak preview I attended uttering exclamations of disgust and glancing around the room in disbelief that we were all actually witnessing what was happening on screen. Nevertheless, what I will say is that I was able to appreciate the quality of the finished product, and the way it took me back to my younger days, in which my ironic, angsty self would actively push the envelope to seek out the most disturbing cinematic experiences possible. I don't do that so much anymore, and I admit a movie like ISOYG is no longer really my cup of tea. But one cannot help but be impressed with the chances it takes, and the bold manner in which Stuart Morse's script embraces the material head-on.

I'm happy to report that the film-makers did make the decision to somewhat truncate the original's infamous 30-minute rape scene (nearly one third of the entire running time of the movie). Nevertheless, just because it is cut short from the longest rape scene in movie history, doesn't exactly make it a walk in the park, or anything short of thoroughly unsettling. And frankly, if you're the kind of person who's going to find fault with less rapiness in your I Spit on Your Grave, well, I don't feel a really compelling need to know you. Also, Morse's script makes the wise choice of removing all the contemptible nonsense about Jennifer seducing the man who raped her just so she could punish him. That little bit of high-grade woman-hating was thankfully excised, but make no mistake--retribution is still handily meted out.

Which brings me to my next observation, having very much to do with the revenge aspect of the film. In general, I'm all about revenge movies. Give me Death Wish, Braveheart, or any number of cheesy Steven Segal flicks, and I'm instantly and perversely happy. Hell, you're listening to someone who watched Mel Gibson's Payback on his wedding night, while eating from a gigantic bowl of hot wings. There's just something that appeals to me deep inside about watching despicable wrong-doers get what they have coming to them, in gratuitous fashion.

And yet, this movie seemed to taunt me, to toy with the fascination many seem to have with that kind of movie. Because although I may be tarred and feathered for saying it, I couldn't help but feel that in the context of the story, there's no way these guys deserved what she did to them, heinous though their crime was. And that's not to say they didn't deserve death, which they most assuredly did; just not the biblically epic series of elaborate, sadistic tortures visited upon them by Jennifer. It is almost as if the film-makers are glutting us with the notion of vengeance, testing us to see how much we can handle--"Oh yeah, you want to see some payback. Want these guys to get what they have coming to them? OK, well how about this? Can you handle this? What's wrong, too much for you?"

The feeling of grim satisfaction that usually attends these kinds of films here quickly evaporates, due to the simple fact that Jennifer has become a far worse monster than any of her attackers ever were. This is even more the case than in the original; here, Jennifer has several weeks to plot her revenge, and comes up with a series of horrific set-pieces that make much of the Camille Keaton's revenge in the original seem like Elmo's World.

The influence of the torture porn movement, and Saw in particular, is evident in the manner in which Jennifer exacts her cold and calculated vengeance, depicted in far more elaborate and sadistic fashion than in the Camille Keaton original. Aside from one unforgivably bad CGI shot, this stuff is about as rough to sit through as anything witnessed in the heyday of grindhouse horror.

Granted, much of it is far-fetched in its overly choreographed nature, but that's simply one of the feats of suspension of disbelief expected of the viewer, much like the mysterious ability of this waifish girl to physically overpower her attackers. I could've also done without the endless stream of corny one-liners that pour from Sarah Butler's lips during the film's final act. Her character's descent into lame Schwarzenegger-style quips really took me out of it, and felt out of place in a movie like this.

From a dramatic standpoint, matters are salvaged via the efforts of our gang of thugs, led by Jeff Branson in the role of Johnny. Unlike anyone portrayed in the original, Branson takes us on an emotional journey here; we can see the wheels turning in his head, the processes that lead him to such dark places. It's a very strong performance, as is that of Chad Lindberg as the mentally handicapped Matthew, a highly controversial character from the original that was thankfully not sacrificed at the altar of political correctness this time out. Also impressive is Welsh actor Andrew Howard in a downright chilling turn as the morally bankrupt Sheriff Storch.

The addition of this character, in fact, is one of the ways the films actually ups the ante from the original in terms of head games it seeks to play with the viewer. Even those thoroughly familiar with the original will be pretty much caught off guard by this new character, an addition to the which brings along with it quite a bit of baggage. Unlike his young and dumb cohorts, the Sherrif is an authority figure and family man, making his actions all the more unthinkably reprehensible. As a family man myself, there were certain moments in this film that nearly made me physically ill. A dear friend of mine, who had the privilege of being shown the script before filming even began, let me know all about this fresh, warped twist, yet it still did nothing prepare me for it.

I have a lot of respect for the always on-point Anchor Bay Films for having the gumption to theatrically release the unrated cut of this film--the version I witnessed Wednesday night--despite the fact that an R-rated cut does exist. In the age of PG-13 slasher films, and cop-out unrated DVD releases, that truly is a rarity. Much like the Last House on the Left remake, which I also thought was quite good, though not as good as this, this is a movie that bucks the trend of much of modern horror, which is to either go the route of tongue-in-cheek or give us a stylized, "isn't this cool" version of horror violence. I Spit on Your Grave is like a kick to the gut, and impressively derives its shock value without going the easier route of traditional exploitation cinema.