I watched Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left (1972) the day before yesterday, knowing full well that it was going to be difficult for me to stomach. Horror films aren’t exactly my thing to begin with, and this particular film deals with a truly horrific ordeal for two young women. I could shrug it off as a movie, but rape and murder aren’t fiction, only this particular instance is fiction.
Like The Virgin Spring, there is a “bad” girl (Phyllis) and a “good” girl (Mari). Although, Craven more explicitly demonstrated the way that the innocent girl is not so in the black and white sense. She drinks, she talks about sex, she doesn’t wear a bra, she says, “tits” to her parents when talking about bras, and she’s more than willing to “score some grass” before the concert. This may be in part the bad girl’s influence, but the good girl is nonetheless intrigued.
Mari: The leaves are really beautiful.
Phyllis: Yup, they’re really starting to change. I guess winter’s comin’ on!
Mari: Yup, Hey! I changed this winter!
Phyllis: What do you mean you changed?
Mari: I mean my breasts filled out!
Mari: I mean they were nothing last summer!
Phyllis: I didn’t know you last summer!
Mari: Well, they have!
Phyllis: Well, congratulations!
And an even “uglier”, “animal-like” woman (Sadie) was in on the rapes and murders. Ironically, she refused to have sex with Krug earlier in the movie because of her newfound female independence. She reminds me of women who decide to be “one of the boys” because it’s better than being one of the girls. Safer, anyway.
Takes one to know one, I suppose.
It’s not really a good movie. I was watching the whole time for special moments or stills to take, but nothing much struck me as interesting. Beyond the implications of being really sickening.