Within the opera of the unseemly-the sublime and the cheap engineering of a fever dream, there is something of a cadence, a cyrcadian rhythm to the whole bit, that the doors of nightmare open for a good peek, then we go back to the contrived story, not just to immediately fling the doors of that nightmare right open and make the entire remainder of the film but a dull but sated afterglow, but to build and sustain tension throughout the piece, with little hopes and anxieties and spikes of turmoil: however we got a proper appetizing shot of the illicit in the beginning, if for no other reasons, just to get the works off on the good foot.
In the one-off scene, we are immediately brought to the point of the uncomfortably erotic, wanting to hide ourselves under pillows or blankets or even a pet cat-whatever is conveniently nearby-to deny that we are enjoying the debasement of another, precious and wretched defilement, precious and wretched at once, putting some element of the victim on a pyre as to destroy it, destroy a piece of them, some element like dignity even while worshipping and exalting in their presence, their discomfort and exposure.
I think of I Spit On Your Grave-that work of dignity and prestige-fake penetration and endless minutes of footage of the rapists disrobing themselves, how we become almost at one with the victim, like we have married her, come through the mess before and even built a relationship at some point during endless feigned rapings in which she lies lethargic-but we are not lethargic, oh no; we have blood going through unfamiliar pathways, hidden caveman things becoming excited through rushing blood and the tingle of innervation.
That it is uncomfortable is that sleepaway moment that beckons so many: wanting and simultaneously not wanting, curious but afraid, as we as viewers are uncomfortable in several bodily spots-I think of the stomach-yet we cannot look away, even if our malaise drives us to vomit all over the living room in front of the still running moviefilm.
Am I coming towards a rapist lurking somewhere within?