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.

Eden Lake (2008) - James Watkins

children are evil. straight up. william golding knew it when he stranded a bunch of british tweens on an island in lord of the flies; yukio mishima knew it when he imagined the "absolute dispassion" of a gang of nihilist japanese middle school students in the sailor who fell from grace with the sea; you knew it when you pretended to be sick so you could stay home from elementary school the day the class bully threatened to kick yr ass.

miscreant youth are ubiquitous in both fantasy and reality, which doesn't make for an especially original premise for a 2008 horror flick. given its already rich cinematic history - from children of the corn in the '80s to as recent as ils/them - kids gone bad seems rather generic fodder for the horror canon. and yet somehow, this film makes it all seem terrifyingly new.

eden lake is relentless. the siege laid by the teenaged fallout of a jilted generation against a plucky young english couple is agonizingly protracted and utterly without reprieve. you hold yr breath waiting for the tension to dissipate so you can return to normal respiratory function, but every moment of peace is snatched away by these sick bastards in children's clothing. and while yr praying for everyone to die just so it can be over, the film withholds even that catharsis. it just. doesn't. stop. children of the corn warns us that the amish believe we don't inherit the land from our ancestors but borrow it from our children, and maybe they wanted it back. eden lake is far more bleak: these kids just want to have friends.

Teeth (2007) - Mitchell Lichtenstein

across most cultures, vaginas tend to get a bad rap. they're unclean, obscene, vulgar, venomous, lecherous, and seductive. cautionary tales abound detailing the specific and general perils that await the men who are forever trying to get in and out of them; they're eaten, castrated, or otherwise dismembered and/or killed upon every attempt. "here be dragons," all the anatomical maps read. as such, the vagina dentata mythos doesn't really have a hallowed place in feminist history. castration anxiety, devouring mothers, and the woman scorn'd were not of woman born, but rather shaped by man, who - poor deer, frozen in headlights - found himself paralised at the sight of female genitalia. he stared into the abyss, and it stared back at him. then it bit his fucking head off.

so while not exactly a feminist narrative, teeth reclaims the vagina dentata myth just as the rape revenge genre reappropriates sexual violence ... which is to say that neither quite gets it right, but both do interesting things with what they have. teeth tells the story of a girl whose nightmarish sexual awakening becomes a will to power, and she wields it mercilessly. the Y chromosome's uppence definitely comes - painfully so. and good on 'er! especially since, like most rape revenge films, the most upsetting thing about teeth is that there isn't a decent dude in the entire movie.*

the film also does a really good job of taking the piss out of those holier-than-thou promise-ring douches we hated in highschool cuz we were breaking curfew to have awkward car sex while the sun shone out of their asses. at least most of them are single parents now.

* with the technical exception of her father, but i have reservations about that.

Gutterballs (2008) - Ryan Nicholson

Gutterballs....Gutterballs....I don't know what to say. When we popped the disc in the first thing we saw was a notice that all actors were 18 or over at the time of filming.
"Uh, did we rent porno?"
Turns out we didn't, but instead were watching a horror movie with a porn aesthetic. Poor sound, poor dialogue, and piss poor performances are the stand-out elements on display here.

Opening with a particularly difficult to watch gang rape scene wherein a girl at one point is fucked with a bowling pin, the movie really has nowhere to go but up. The rapists themselves are stereotypical popped-collar variety douches whose dialogue sounds improvised at best. The audience (Me, as daisy literally willed herself into unconsciousness to avoid the rest of the film) is really looking forward to some bowling pin related rape-revenge head smashing, but Gutterballs throws the typical horror formula right out the window and lets the masked madman kill everyone BUT the rapists until the very end, forcing the audience to put up with line after line of forced 'fucks' for most of the 90-minute runtime. If there was even one likable character that I could get behind I could overlook a lot of garbage, but alas, no dice.

As for the positives, I'm sure if the movie didn't have a 15 minute rape scene as its opening I probably would have enjoyed the admittedly inventive kills a lot more. The 69 kill (seriously, and it's fucking awesome), death by bowling pin fellatio, death by ball waxer...the bowling alley is used to its full kill potential and the gore is fantastic. I've never seen a dick cut in half before and I hope I don't have to again for some time.

Gutterballs doesn't shoot any higher than the title suggests, so if you're looking for a mouthful of sleeze n' cheeze, this one's for you.

Kichiku (1997) - Kazuyoshi Kumakiri

kumakiri was a third-year college student when he set out to make the most violent film in contemporary japanese cinema - a not-unambitious project, given that success would mean producing the most violent film, well, ever. and A+ for effort! kumakiri succeeds magna cum laude. born from a long-established tradition of unrelenting violence in the vein of miike, suzuki, etc, kichiku doesn't so much kick things up a notch as shotgun blast them apart. this is the most fucked-up film i have ever seen.

kichiku is the japanese cannibal holocaust, but perhaps more so. the black-flag characters are about as endearing as the cast of documentary film-makers in CH, and their political project equally admirable. and while i grant that kichiku lacks scenes of actual animal slaughter, there is something deeply nihilistic about this film that CH only irresponsibly gestures towards. it's not just that the cultural narrative to which kichiku belongs is unfamiliar, and thus more upsetting to little white canadian girls (as is the case with most tokyo shock and japanese cult cinema) - there are no fucking rules, dude. so yr left flailing, clawing at yr eyes just waiting for it to be over. but in a good way.

interestingly, kichiku contains the only moment in film my life would be better for having not seen.

Porno Holocaust (1981) - Joe D'Amato

in the early nineteen eighties the sex film industry, still reeling from its explosive 'seventies, was rife with cocaine and body hair. women were muffed, men were moustached, and everyone was balls deep in blow. pornography was in its heyday: black or white, dude or lady, solo or sex party - the "anything goes" attitude made for seemingly endless possibilities in the land of the lewd. all this is true of porno holocaust, but mere sexploitation was not enough for auteurs like joe d'amato. he had a vision, and it was bloody. bloody awful.

unfortunately, the preferred bodily fluid of this film remains true to porn form, leaving it somewhat lacking in the horror department. the "plot" attempting to link its various sexcapades is reminiscent of the creature features of prior decades, but without twists, turns, or even a decent kill scene. with underwhelming orgasms as the film's only attempt to climax, it leaves cult movie fans awkwardly unsatisfied.

bottom line: too much porno, not enough holocaust.