Last House on the Left (1972) – Wes Craven (directorial debut!)

the rape revenge genre, at least in its contemporary manifestation, is, in a word, problematic. generic conventions demand that the rape revenge film simultaneously construct and conflate binaries, titillate as it offends, and – if it is to work as anything more than a pornographic version of a snuff film – balance sexual sensitivities with indelicate sensibilities. it straddles more than fences. and unlike other horror genres (where catharsis is deliberately deferred or withheld), or more mundane or unceremonious representations of sexual violence (which are too often merely incidental or spectacular), the success of the rape revenge film is contingent on payoff. the ends must justify the means.

craven’s first crack at the horror whip seems to work, for the most part. however, watching last house on the left outside the context of the 1970s sexploitation thriller is disconcerting on a somewhat metacinematic level; i don’t know if it translates. the scenes of sexual violence are difficult to watch, but not for the reasons they should be. the actual violence of the rape scene is oddly subdued and detached. the viewer, the characters, and even the victim herself are indifferent to what’s happening, which defamiliarizes both the violence and the sex. i’m more disturbed by sadie, the female accomplice who is obviously aroused by her partner’s sexual violation of another woman despite (inexplicably) having command of the vocabulary of a 1970s second wave feminist, than i am by the violence itself. this is no day of the woman; the revenge is familial rather than gendered.

fortunately, the revenge is as well-executed as it is earned, which solidifies last house on the left’s place in this peculiar canon. the father’s nearly psychotic rage at his daughter’s violation satisfies the audience’s thirst for blood, but it is the other parent who exceeds expectation. any mother with the wherewithal to fellate her daughter’s rapist so as to castrate the sick bastard as agonizingly as possible is a mother whose love knows no bounds. kudos, mrs. collingwood. i kinda wish you were my mom.