31 Days of Halloween: Violent Summer

I Spit On Your Grave (1978)
***** (5 out of 10 stars)
Director: Meir Zarchi
Producer: Joseph Zbeda
Starring: Camille Keaton, Eron Tabor, Richard Pace, Anthony Nichols

“You’ll never understand how much I hurt.” – Jennifer Hills

Review:

Now I realize that this Halloween, I have taken a few liberties with flourish and have gilded my words—but this review I offer with no beautiful nor bloviated language. There is no poetry here, no gothic grandeur, no flickering candlelight to soften the edges. This was a tribute to depravity, an uncomfortable nod to the basest of human possibilities. There was nothing beautiful here. It is a nihilistic tale of cruelty, mortal indifference, and inhuman violence and abuse. There was nothing beautiful here—only suffering, and the abandonment of moral responsibility.

I am, of course, discussing the infamous grindhouse film I Spit On Your Grave. This film was suggested to me for this year’s 31 Days of Halloween. I could tell by the look on my friend’s face that it was going to pose a challenge. And I, not one to duck a challenge, accepted. The only thing I knew of this film was its reputation—its place on the dusty shelf of the video rental store, nestled between Gator Bait and Faces of Death. That alone should have been warning enough.

But you are here for a review, and so I will set aside, for a moment, how much I personally loathed this film and speak to its filmmaking qualities.

The film begins with a young woman, Jennifer Hills, who retreats to a secluded rental house for the summer to write her novel. What follows is a descent into the grotesque, as she is stalked, brutalized, and left for dead by a group of local men. The remainder of the film is her revenge—delivered not with the cold precision of justice, but with the savage fury of a soul shattered.

The pacing is slow—agonizingly so. The early scenes linger with long, uneventful shots, and I found myself wondering how long I could stare at nothing through a long lens. The answer, it seems, is quite a while. But this, I came to realize, was not accidental. The film relies on an unflinching camera, one that refuses to look away, forcing the viewer into a complicit proximity with the violence. It is not suspenseful. It is not thrilling. It is simply punishing. This movie is disturbing on different levels.

The most noteworthy item—a small, clever subversion. A handgun, discovered early in the film, is never used. In defiance of Chekhov’s rule, the weapon remains untouched, and the revenge is carried out by other, more brutal means. A gunshot would have been mercifully quick. This choice, while narratively interesting, only serves to underscore the film’s commitment to cruelty over catharsis.

Camille Keaton, in the lead role, gives a performance that is difficult to judge. She is silent for much of the film, her trauma internalized, her vengeance wordless. Whether this is a triumph of restraint or a failure of direction is debatable. The rest of the cast, if one can call them that, are little more than caricatures of depravity—men without depth, without motive, without humanity.

This movie is so violent, so relentlessly grim, so completely bleak, that it becomes difficult to think outside of its bloodthirsty paradigm. It offers no insight, no redemption, no commentary beyond the obvious. It is not horror in the traditional sense—it is horror in a primal-existential sense. And not the kind that chills the spine, but the kind that leaves one feeling hollow.

I do not recommend this film—not to anyone, and not for any reason. I am truly amazed that there have been so many sequels to this movie. Like any film, this has its own audience. But for those of us who seek meaning in our monsters, who find beauty in the macabre, and who believe that horror can be both terrifying and transcendent—this is not it.

Do yourself a favor, dear reader, and pass this one by. There are better ghosts to chase.