David Maguire

There is no denying that Meir Zarchi's I Spit on Your Grave (1978) deserves its title as one of the most controversial films ever made. While many condemn it as misogynistic, others praise it for raising uncomfortable issues about sexual violence. While its reputation as a cult film has undoubtedly been cemented by its unique position in the 1970s/80s exploitation era and the "video nasties" scandal, it has also become mythologized by its own official and unofficial franchises. I examines why the film still continues to provoke fierce debate forty years on, not only investigating the historical, social, and political landscape into which the film was first released—and condemned —but also examining how it is has inadvertently become ground zero for the rape-revenge genre because of its countless imitators. The book explores how academic study has reevaluated the film's importance as a cultural statement on gender, the conflicting readings that it throws up, the timeless appeal of its story as examined through folklore and mythology, and its updating to reflect contemporary issues in a post-9/11 world of vengeance and retaliation.

The representation of animals in film has always been a thorn in the medium’s paw, with humans seemingly incapable of viewing nature without sentimentalising, dramatising or humanising it. While this may be expected in fiction, it creates an unrealistic representation and says more about us as a species and our refusal to see animals for how they really are. The issue becomes further problematic when anthropomorphism is encouraged in wildlife films and documentaries that purport to record reality. The overall result is that the natural world is ‘processed and delivered for consumption as an entertainment’ (Von Mueller 2011, p.150), leading to unworkable expectations of how we believe animals should be and act. The summer blockbuster Free Willy (1993) aims to set itself in the ‘real world’ of marine conservation, but glosses over the reality for killer whales in captivity, while reinforcing pre-existing beliefs that such creatures are effectively giant pets. We seem unable to realise that our overwhelming need to ‘bond’ with animals, even wild, unpredictable ones, actually puts them – and us – at terrible risk, something made abundantly clear in the documentary Blackfish (2013). Blackfish shows that the ‘realisation that animals are not like the characters from the stories to which we are attached bears consequences’ (Anderson and Henderson 2005, p.304): consequences which can be fatal.

Almost as soon as the camera was invented, post-mortem photography began to develop. Yet it was short lived: by the end of the nineteenth century, due primarily to a change in society’s view of death, the practice was dying. The 1970s witnessed a renaissance. This symbiotic relationship between death and photography can be found in the works of Roland Barthes and Christian Boltanski, both of whom believed that the essence – ‘the eidos’ – of photography was death (Barthes 2000, p.15). The unusual nature of post-mortem photography, however, challenges their views; for Barthes, the relationship between the referent (the object photographed) and the ‘realism’ of the photograph was problematic – the photograph could only ever be a copy of the subject’s existence. Every photograph, no matter how ‘natural’, contained a ‘studium’ – the photographer’s intention, which could be understood through cultural and historical connotations (Barthes 2000, passim). It is tempting to assume that a nineteenth-century photograph of a dead relative would be entirely innocent, but the pictures were heavily coded. The deceased were posed as though living – often sleeping – which makes Barthes’ assertion that the photograph records something ‘that-has-been’ all the more problematic. Boltanski was likewise preoccupied with death, but whereas he deliberately blurred the lines between life and death to provoke philosophical debate, post-mortem photographers did so out of industrial, social, cultural and Christian needs.

Estimates on how many selfies are uploaded daily vary – from one million  to 93 million.  One could argue that sharing self-portraits online is entirely harmless and that doing so perfectly illustrates McLuhan’s (1962) notion of a global village where everyone is connected. There is, however, a dark side to selfies, evident in the growing number of sexually explicit self-portraits, often posted by teenagers, and also in the growing number of people who are becoming so obsessed with capturing that ever elusive perfect self-image that they inadvertently die chasing it.

At 91 years of age, Roger Corman has been called everything from the King of the Bs to the Pope of Pop Culture, has had a career spanning seven decades and has made over 400 films. Known primarily for exploitation fare, Corman’s output has been so prolific and diverse that his films are seen as not only alternative to Hollywood, but alternative to other exploitation pictures. There is a real art to his frequently experimental, often surreal, sometimes literary films, which has led many to now regard him as a serious auteur. This series of films will demonstrate not only Corman’s alternative streak as a director, producer and distributor, but also his outstanding contribution to the American film industry.

With the huge resurgence in popularity in the 21st century for the rape-revenge genre, what a number of these films have in common is their physical representation of the female avenger as quite literally monstrous. While this preoccupation with the supernatural and demonic does cater for a gore-hungry modern audience, it is also used to further emphasise the horror of the victim’s ordeal. It also links the rape-revenger with figures from folklore, fairy tales and mythology – and in doing so, reiterates the timeless appeal that these films have.