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The Girl With the Pink Star Earring: The Transformational Gaze of ‘Revenge’ [Through Her Eyes]

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In my introductory Through Her Eyes column, I grappled with the rape-revenge genre and looked at how these films can be reclaimed as narratives about feminine power. Now, I want to delve into a specific example of a new kind of rape-revenge film, ones directed by women that work to create narratives about feminine power from the start.

Perhaps the most prominent example is Coralie Fargeat’s 2018 film, Revenge, a movie about power found in a bodily transformation in reverse, while also speaking to the need for a more nuanced portrayal of sexuality. I believe Revenge adopts what I’m calling a transformational gaze— a gaze that actively questions the spectator’s position and makes them an active participant in protagonist Jen’s objectification, rape, attempted murder, and eventual transformation—to convey Fargeat’s goal of changing how the female body is perceived and taking control of an already controlling gaze.

This transformational gaze actively interrogates the viewer’s position and forces them to rethink how they are viewing the female body as Jen’s own body transforms throughout the narrative. Fargeat accomplishes this by taking control of the spectator through the use of the camera and showing them how they are seeing Jen’s body. At times this can seem to be subjecting Jen to the male gaze, but it is in attempts to guide the spectator through a journey that makes them see the body differently. Only by utilizing the typical controlling male gaze of rape-revenge films is Fargeat able to try to take control of this type of narrative. Importantly, these quick cuts and closeups of the body are utilized later in the film when her ruined body is revealed. Fargeat begins with a predatory male gaze to set expectations of how the female body should be viewed and then subverts that expectation as Jen’s body undergoes a violent transformation.

The first stage of Revenge’s transformational gaze aligns the spectator with the sinister and consuming male gaze of Jen’s boyfriend and his friends. This predatory gaze is often seen in rape-revenge films, but it is attributed to strange men who have no relationship with the female protagonist. In Revenge, however, this threat is much closer as the gaze is attributed to her lover and acquaintances, people she presumably trusts, portraying a much more threatening reality unfolding in the vacation home. From its opening scenes, Revenge is aware of its gaze and intentional with its camera movement, utilizing techniques typically associated with the male gaze, such as viewing the female body in parts through closeup, to construct a sinister gaze that views the female body as site/sight of sexual spectacle.

The predatory gaze is first introduced as the film introduces the protagonist Jen (Matilda Lutz). When Jen’s full body is revealed, she is sucking on a lollipop and is clad in a short hot pink skirt that accentuates her long tan legs, to say nothing of how these shades of pink highlight her long blonde hair. In this short sequence, it becomes obvious that Jen is viewed in sections, with the camera focusing on the parts it deems the most sexual; in this case, her legs and lips. Jen is set up as a sexual character, ticking all the boxes of the stereotypical hyper-feminine figure before she has even said a line of dialogue. Fargeat specifically curates the idea of the “to-be-looked-at-ness” of Jen’s body through the quick cutting camera. However, instead of trying to eliminate the artifice of the apparatus and editing techniques, Fargeat makes sure to draw attention to their presence, purposefully drawing attention to how the female body is consumed.

The predatory male gaze then shifts around Jen’s rape, which is barely shown; instead, the camera focuses on the complicit man who allows the rape to occur. Instead of happening on the forest floor like in both versions of I Spit On Your Grave, Jen is assaulted in her bedroom, which constructs a further sense of violation and personal link to her assault as an intimate space is invaded. The camera views the bedroom in a long shot, showing a naked Jen getting dressed. There is no torture and egregious humiliation at the hands of a group of strangers, like what’s seen in I Spit On Your Grave. Rather it is a cold, tense conversation where a friend of Jen’s boyfriend, Stan (Vincent Colombe), demands answers and action from Jen, who is trapped in a corner, both literally and figuratively. As the conversation escalates, both stand up from the bed, and Jen tries to escape. But instead, Stan slams Jen against the glass door and begins to take what he believes is his. As he begins to take off his pants to rape Jen, the camera moves into closeup, focusing on Jen’s crotch. But now, instead of it being a moment of fantasy, it is a moment of perverse action, where the male gaze is now being implemented into violent action. However, the assault, and realization of fantasy, is delayed as another friend Dimitri (Guillaume Bouchède) enters the room.

This is where the sequence shifts from sexualizing Jen’s body to making the male body grotesque. As Dimitri stares at the scene in front of him, the camera moves to a closeup of his mouth, slowly chewing chocolate and marshmallow, a nauseating mash of sugar that grinds underneath his teeth. Aside from the quite literal metaphor about consumption, his body is presented in a similar way to Jen not to sexualize him, but to make his body grotesque. If the spectator is to revel in closeups of perfect legs, stomachs, and breasts, then they must revel in closeups of the grotesque, too. As the camera cuts to a medium-long shot, the spectator is now aligned with Dimitri as he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him, sealing Jen’s fate.

This refusal to show more than a few seconds of her rape is Revenge’s most unique quality. The majority of rape-revenge films, including both versions of I Spit On Your Grave, spend agonizing minutes showing a woman’s torture and rape, reveling in the destruction of her screaming body. In these moments, the male gaze is most prevalent as the spectator is often invited to align their perspectives with the rapists, which can make them active participants in the woman’s rape. However, Fargeat moves away from the violent spectacle and instead has the spectator identify with the complicit man, who witnesses the beginning of the rape then leaves the room. The spectator is denied seeing the violation of Jen’s body and is instead made complicit to the act, rather than active, which changes the usual gaze utilized in these moments. The focus shifts from the sexualized female body to the grotesque male body, openly questioning the need to revel in a woman’s rape and torture to justify her eventual revenge; the spectator does not need to experience 20 or more minutes of rape to understand how violating it is to be raped.

Up until this point in Revenge, the spectator has been implicated in Jen’s objectification and assault. The camera works to align them primarily with the male characters as they take what they want from her. However, the spectator’s gaze is thrown into turmoil after her rape as they are introduced to her ruined body and are more aligned with her perspective; no longer is she the hyper-feminized lolita figure of the film’s beginning, but an abject body oozing blood. This is not to say that her body is ruined when she is raped. Rather, it is ruined when she is pushed off a cliff by Richard. Her body is impaled on a tree, a phallic branch penetrating her perfect stomach, as if she hasn’t been forcibly penetrated enough. She miraculously survives the fall and in attempts to care for her wounds, Jen performs self-surgery. She then brands herself with a beer can to cauterize the wound, leaving her stomach scarred and marked with the image of a giant eagle. Even though her body is in the process of transforming from the image of hypersexuality to the image of trauma, the camera does not let the spectator look away from her injuries, as if to say, “if you wanted to look at her when she was sexualized, you must look at her in this state, too.”

There seems to be a contradiction in my argument here as Jen’s transformed body is still undressed; wouldn’t it seem to be a sexualized body because it is not covered up? Fargeat addressed this in an interview, saying:

From the beginning to the end, she’s in a way the same person; she just inhabits her body in a different way and uses it in a different way. I wanted her body to be the center of the story from the beginning to the end. That’s why it was also important for me that she doesn’t cover up in the second half. I didn’t want to convey the idea that she was going to be strong because she now has clothes on.

Jen may be undressed, but it does not mean she is sexualized; this undressed body that is covered in dirt, and adorned in a tattered bra, shows a form of empowerment in the seemingly eroticized, or at least naked, body. The final reveal of her body solidifies this fact as the camera unapologetically shows every inch of her body, rather than the quick cuts seen in the beginning. It mimics the male gaze seen in the beginning of both versions of I Spit On Your Grave, but in the case of Revenge, her body is presented differently in terms of aesthetics. The camera slowly circles around her body while moving up, fully revealing this new version of her body. The spectator is shown every angle and inch of Jen’s “new” body, which bears no resemblance to her previous body except for her pink star earrings. This small reminder shows us that, even through the transformative rape-revenge process that typically renders the female protagonist into a totally different being, Jen holds onto a part of her past self, which illustrates that there is no need to completely let go of femininity to show power. As she begins to hunt her prey, we see through her eyes as she places binoculars to her face. This perspective, paired with the image of her transformed and quasi-weaponized body, shows that she is now in control. She is on her way to enact her revenge.

Fargeat does not see clothing as an item that connotes sexuality vs non-sexuality. An unclothed woman can still have agency and power without becoming a sex object; Revenge offers a more nuanced portrayal of sexual power that doesn’t just come from seducing men. Jen’s body is exposed, but instead of being beautiful and immaculate, her body is a reminder of her past sexuality and the new ruined body; her wounds are exposed, not hidden which is why this version of the abject body is so different from previous rape-revenge films. Her bright pink earrings serve as a reminder of her femininity; no matter what she experiences, these symbols of her past gleam underneath her blood-soaked hair. Her sexuality should not be viewed as shameful or something that needs to be erased. Instead, sexuality is wielded as a weapon.

While I have used the transformational gaze to discuss how the camera has the spectator view the female body in Revenge, this term could have a dual meaning when applied to the subgenre to describe how both the spectator and female protagonist transform while viewing these more recent rape-revenge films. These stages of Revenge’s transformational gaze exemplify how it is a film that functions within existing conventions to create something that reflects a more current cultural moment. In this era of #MeToo and #TimesUp, Revenge marks a shift in how women-directed horror films depict rape and revenge in a different light.

It is not only about spectacle anymore but also about confronting previous methods of exploitation; and more importantly, rewriting them for a more contemporary context.

Editorials

Because You Were Home: A History of Home Invasion in 10 Movies

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Home invasion has been a part of horror movies practically from the beginning. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), Nosferatu (1922), Dracula, and Frankenstein (1931) all included moments of attackers entering homes uninvited and terrorizing unsuspecting victims.

Home invasion as a sub-genre unto itself came a bit later, as the suburbs sprung up and a false sense of security rose in the United States along with fears of “the other” that have always been a key aspect of horror movies.

These ten movies may not all be the best of this sub-genre, but they all bring something different to the table and pushed it, in large and small ways, in new directions.


The Desperate Hours (1955)

It is practically impossible to pinpoint the exact moment that started any new genre or movement within film but a good candidate for the foundation of the home invasion movie is William Wyler’s The Desperate Hours. The opening scenes look like an episode of Leave It to Beaver with Daniel (Frederic March) and Ellie (Martha Clark) as the heads of the idyllic suburban Hilliard family. While Daniel and their eldest daughter are at work and the young son is at school, three fugitive criminals led by Glenn Griffin (Humphrey Bogart) hold Ellie at gunpoint and force their way into her home where they plan to stay until they are able to make their next move. When Daniel and the children return home, Griffin holds the whole family hostage, making demands of them for their getaway, but the Hilliards each work to outsmart and escape their captors without endangering their family members in the process.

Though it falls in the nebulous “thriller” category that sits at various places on the edges of horror, The Desperate Hours sets much of the template for the home invasion film to come including themes of class and the randomness of fate.


Wait Until Dark (1967)

Home Invasion Horror Wait Until Dark

Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) marked a major shift in horror away from monsters, giant bugs, and space invaders toward psychologically grounded thrillers. One of the best of these is Wait Until Dark, based on the successful Broadway play by Frederick Knott and directed by Terence Young, best known for helming three early James Bond features. Most of the film takes place in a small New York apartment which lends to its sense of confinement and mounting dread. On his way home to New York from Montreal a woman convinces Sam Hendrix (Efrem Zimbalist Jr.), a random man she met on the plane, to take a doll home for her. Now a group of criminals want that doll and, more importantly, the heroin stuffed inside it. While Sam is away, the only thing standing in their way of searching his apartment for the doll is Sam’s wife, Susy (Audrey Hepburn) who happens to be blind. The criminals gain her trust by taking on various personas, but as the story unfolds Susy becomes more and more suspicious and begins working, with the help of her precocious young neighbor Gloria, to foil their plans.

Featuring iconic performances by Hepburn and Alan Arkin as the psychotic Harry Roat, equally excellent turns by Richard Crenna and Jack Weston, a sequence that takes place almost entirely in the dark with only sound effects to indicate the unseen action, and one of the greatest jump scares in film history, Wait Until Dark remains one of the best thrillers of the 1960s.


The Last House on the Left (1972)

For some, including this film may be stretching the definition of home invasion, but I believe it is worthy of discussion in the sub-genre and decisively moves it from the thriller category squarely into horror. After Mari Collingwood (Sandra Peabody) and her friend Phyllis (Lucy Grantham) are tortured, raped, and murdered by a gang of thugs, led by Krug Stillo (David Hess), the gang seeks refuge in a nearby house and are welcomed in by the homeowners. These turn out to be Mari’s parent’s who take matters into their own hands when they discover who Krug and company actually are and what they have done. Though the Collingwoods invite the gang into their home, they recognize the danger and fight against it, as is the case in most home invasion films, but there is also the added dimension of revenge for the brutal death of their daughter.

Where The Virgin Spring (1960), on which the film was based, is largely a meditation on religious belief, morality, and redemption, Last House deals primarily in the limits of morality in polite society and how much that morality can be violated in defense of one’s own territory, in this case the home. It is also an open attempt to depict the ugliness of violence, which had been so sanitized in movies and other media up to that point. The film has its flaws, particularly its wild swings in tone, but there is no denying the visceral punch that Wes Craven’s debut feature still holds. To this day it leaves many still repeating “It’s only a movie…only a movie…only a movie.”


Death Game (1977)

On a rainy night while his wife and kids are away, two young women, Jackson (Sondra Locke) and Donna (Colleen Camp), show up on George Manning’s (Seymour Cassel) doorstep asking to use his phone. They claim to be headed for a party but got lost along the way. He invites them to stay and dry off until a friend of theirs arrives to pick them up, but the girls seduce George and he, reluctantly at first, joins them in a tryst in the Jacuzzi. In the morning, he regrets his actions, but they refuse to leave. It soon becomes clear than Jackson and Donna have drawn Geroge into a trap that could ruin, or even end, his life. Or is it all just a joke?

Death Game is innovative to the genre for several reasons. Perhaps chief among them is that the home invaders are women and, more importantly, they torment George just for the fun of it. They aren’t looking for refuge, money, revenge, or some kind of MacGuffin, they are just in it for kicks. Death Game was little seen for decades, but in 2015 Eli Roth remade the film as Knock Knock partially to draw attention to the original. It worked as the film has been fully restored and is more widely seen now than ever before.


The Hand That Rocks the Cradle (1992)

Few films of the 80s fall squarely under the home invasion umbrella. That said, elements could be found in ghost movies like Poltergeist and The Entity (1982) and certainly many, if not most, slashers, but it was the 90s that saw a new wave of the home invasion sub-genre. Once again, many of these fell under the category of thriller rather than straight horror but that does not mean they are not tense and terrifying. These films trended toward stories of people inviting strangers into their lives that appear trustworthy or innocuous, often because of their occupation or station in life, but turn out to be major threats. Films like Pacific Heights (1990), Unlawful Entry (1992), Single White Female (1992), and The Crush (1993) all exemplify this type of “life invasion” thriller, but perhaps most relevant to this discussion, because it largely centers around a domestic home and family, is The Hand That Rocks the Cradle.

Claire Bartel (Annabella Sciorra) is in need of a nanny for her newborn when she meets a woman, identifying herself as Peyton Flanders (Rebecca De Mornay), who just happens to be looking for a position as a nanny. What Claire does not know, but the audience does, is that Peyton is really Mrs. Mott, the widow of the doctor who killed himself after a group of women, starting with Claire, reported that they had been sexually assaulted by him during medical examinations. As the result of stress from the situation and a fall, Mrs. Mott loses her own baby to miscarriage. “Peyton” works her way into the lives of the members of the Bartel family to poison it from the inside and carry out her revenge. Her goal is not just to kill Claire but take her place as the family matriarch. Directed by Curtis Hanson and with supporting performances by Ernie Hudson and Julianne Moore, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle still packs a punch as a nightmare situation for any family with young children.


Funny Games (1997)

To some Michael Haneke’s Funny Games is a masterpiece. To others it is the epitome of offensive trash. But love it or hate it, it is practically impossible to be ambivalent about it. “I provoke in order to provoke an insight” said Haneke in a 2017 interview, and for those willing to look for it, they will find it. In the film, a couple and their young son have just arrived at their vacation home when two young men enter under the auspices of borrowing some eggs for the neighbors. They soon begin to torment the family by playing a series of what they consider to be funny games. This setup may sound typical, but the film is most assuredly not.

Funny Games specializes in establishing expectations through stereotypes and clichés, then subverting them to make its points. Haneke purposely breaks rules and crosses lines to draw attention to the manipulative power of the medium of film itself. In the same interview mentioned above, Haneke insists that “Funny Games is definitely not a genre film.” He considers it a kind of Trojan Horse that shows an audience “how easily they are manipulated.” The film uses a series of devices, including characters breaking the fourth wall and speaking directly to the audience, to implicate the viewer in the violence and torment they are being shown, practically daring viewers to be entertained by the film. In essence, we are being forced to play the game but only Haneke knows the rules, and he can change them whenever he wants. But then, it’s only a movie…right?


Inside (2007)

The French Extremity movement of the 2000s often played in the home invasion sandbox, but never as viciously as in Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo’s Inside (À l’intérieur). On Christmas Eve, four months after her husband was killed in a car accident, expectant mother Sarah (Alysson Paradis) is spending one last quiet evening at home before being induced the next morning. But her silent night is shattered when a woman (Béatrice Dalle) enters and, armed with a large pair of scissors, tries to steal Sarah’s baby from her womb.

With undercurrents dealing with class and privilege, Inside is a bleak, tightly-paced, and relentless 83 minutes. It also easily places among the bloodiest movies ever made—nothing says Merry Christmas like watching a person give themself a tracheotomy with a knitting needle.


The Strangers (2008)

If you asked people today to name a home invasion movie, chances are they’d say The Strangers. In it, James (Scott Speedman) and Kristen (Liv Tyler) return home from a rough night to try to patch things up. They are interrupted by a knock at their door and a young woman asking, “is Tamara home?” Assuming she is drunk, stoned, or just confused, they politely say no, close the door and move on with their evening. Part of the effectiveness of the film is that it begins as a rather bland relationship drama and slowly builds in intensity to fever pitch as the couple is terrorized by a trio of masked assailants. It all leads up to the most iconic motive of any home invasion movie—“Because you were home.”

Perhaps even more chilling is a line one of the assailants says as they drive off in their truck, “it’ll be easier next time.” With these lines and more, The Strangers deals in nihilism and the randomness of life and death in ways that few modern American movies do. It spawned a sequel, The Strangers: Prey at Night in 2018 and, assuming all goes to plan, a trio of films directed by Renny Harlin that will be released throughout this year beginning with The Strangers: Chapter 1 on May 17, 2024.


The Purge (2013)

Most home invasion movies have political undercurrents, but The Purge places matters of race, class, violence, and governmental manipulation front and center. During the annual Purge, a 12-hour period in which all crime is legal, the well-to-do Sandin family has locked themselves into their fortified home for the night. When the precocious son Charlie (Max Burkholder) takes compassion on a wounded man (Edwin Hodge) and lets him in, a group of masked assailants demanding he be returned to them threaten to break into the home. All hell breaks loose when father and mother, James (Ethan Hawke) and Mary (Lena Headey), and the family choose to fight against the gang rather than give into their demands.

The Purge spawned four more films and a television series which have continued to mine the political elements of the first film and expand upon them. Overtly political media can often be a risky venture in these divided times, but in the case of The Purge it has paid off, making it one of the foundational films for the success of Blumhouse that continues to this day.


Don’t Breathe (2016)

Don't Breathe Review

Fede Álvarez’s follow-up to Evil Dead (2013) left the supernatural behind in favor of the reality-bound home invasion thriller Don’t Breathe, which proved to be no less relentless and disturbing than its predecessor. A trio of young burglars (Jane Levy, Dylan Minnette, and Daniel Zovatto) break into the home of a blind Gulf War veteran (Stephen Lang) expecting to easily get away with one last big score. The Blind Man quickly turns out to be much more than they bargained for and, as his motivations are slowly revealed, they prove to be increasingly sinister.

Like many of the films discussed here, the setup is simple, but Don’t Breathe twists and turns its way to unexpected places, many of which are shocking and disturbing.


Many other films could be discussed including Deadly Games (1989), Panic Room (2002), Hard Candy (2005), Martyrs (2008), Kidnapped (2010), You’re Next (2011), Hush (2016), Hosts (2020), and more. The invasion of the safe spaces in peoples’ lives remains, and likely always will be, a primal fear. I have no doubt that horror and thriller filmmakers will continue to exploit that fear for a long time to come and in increasingly terrifying and innovative ways.

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