Trash Cinema by Andrew J. Rausch

Author:Andrew J. Rausch [Rausch, Andrew J. & Riley, R.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BearManor Media
Published: 2015-05-30T04:00:00+00:00

I Spit on Your Grave (1978)

by Allen Richards

Those gams. Boy, oh boy, those gams. That rump, too…

Summer 1985 and I’d just turned twelve but didn’t own a VCR yet. That didn’t stop me from swinging by the video store after my weekly excursion to the dollar movie at New Carrolton Mall — really a strip mall with one enclosed end that housed an AMC multiplex, Sears, a comic shop where I spent the rest of my allowance, and that video store. That video store was always the last stop before the two-mile walk back home. I can’t remember the name, and the mall was razed years ago to make way for urban sprawl, but there was nowhere else where my prepubescent friends and I could get a look at some tit. Sure, the Dawn of the Dead box had some boobage, and the slack-ass working the register didn’t seem to give two spits if we ducked into the Adult aisle for a minute or two, catching our first glimpses of Betamax beaver, but there was just something about that I Spit on Your Grave box art that I couldn’t help but keep coming back to. Oh, yeah, it was those gams. That rump, too.

It would be years before I’d finally get around to watching the actual movie. Two-and-a-half years later my family finally got their first VCR, and sometime around then I’d gotten into reading Fangoria and Gorezone. While my horny little ass should have been all over that rental, I’d built it up to be some sort of exploitation holy grail that I’d have to work my way up to. There were a few movies like that, ones I was too afraid to rent after reading the hype in Fango — The Evil Dead, Faces of Death, Make Them Die Slowly, and Burial Ground come immediately to mind. By the time I was able to muster the sack to pluck down for I Spit in the spring of 1991, I’d been rendered catatonic by Evil Dead the year prior, and spent a night trying to keep down a wave of up-chuck after one of my sister’s freshman, teenybopper gal-pals brought over Burial Ground (for the record, the gore effects didn’t get to me, at least not that much, but that weird hausfrau chowing down with her mouth open still makes me want to wretch twenty years later).

In those days I rented some real garbage. “Safe” horror title — ones that didn’t carry those “Banned In X Number of Countries” warnings. While I don’t remember that exact warning on the I Spit box, I’d finally gotten to the point where everything outside of those gams wasn’t lost on me. Words like “raped,” “burned,” and “mutilated” were my warnings. So was Roger Ebert’s review in his 1990 Movie Guide. What he depicted was something so vile that I was assured to again be rendered a little screaming bitch, just like I was during Evil Dead. Simply put, I just never had the stones to pluck down.

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