After a recent screening of the I Spit on Your Grave remake, co-hosted by The L, half the audience stuck around for a screening of the 1976 original—and did a terrible MST3K impression throughout. They laughed at the rape victim’s hairy pubis when the assailants stripped off her clothes. They laughed all through the rape sequence, in fact—at the rapists’ funny faces, at the manner in which they raped her, at the speed with which they climaxed. A woman behind me repeatedly exclaimed disbelief that the woman being raped had “no ass”.
I have written before about the way that we, as a culture, turn objects of horror into those of humor as a means of conquering our fears, which was clearly what this crowd was doing. Even so, it was deeply disturbing, like watching the movie along with the rapists, drawing an explicit culpability connection between spectator and on-screen miscreant.
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