There are bad movies. There are offensive movies. And then there’s I Spit on Your Grave 2, a cinematic grease fire so tone-deaf and mean-spirited it makes Human Centipede look like a UNICEF ad.
Directed by Steven R. Monroe — the same man who remade the original I Spit on Your Grave in 2010 and apparently learned nothing from it — this film isn’t so much a story as it is a sadistic endurance test for both its lead actress and the audience. It’s like someone took the words “rape-revenge thriller” and thought, “But what if we remove the ‘revenge’ part for an hour and just film human misery in fluorescent lighting?”
Let’s just say: if you ever wanted to see a Taken sequel directed by Satan’s least creative nephew, congratulations — your movie has arrived.
Welcome to Bulgaria: Population, Trauma
We begin with Katie Carter (Jemma Dallender), an aspiring model in New York City who takes a “free” photoshoot that turns out to be less of a career move and more of a kidnapping opportunity. It’s the cinematic equivalent of replying to a spam email from a Nigerian prince.
Her photographers — a trio of Bulgarian brothers named Ivan, Nikolay, and Georgy — lure her into what can only be described as a Eurotrash snuff fantasy. Within 20 minutes, she’s abducted, drugged, shipped to Sofia, and tortured in what looks like a set left over from a Saw fan film shot in someone’s unfinished basement.
The first half of the movie is 70 minutes of graphic sexual violence, shot with the enthusiasm of a director who confused “shock value” with “narrative.” Monroe treats Katie’s suffering not as a character’s trauma but as a special-effects showcase. It’s filmed like an audition tape for Hell — and not even the good circles.
If I Spit on Your Grave (1978) was a controversial statement about misogyny and empowerment, this sequel is just misogyny in a leather jacket, holding a camcorder.
From Model to Sewer Goblin
After Katie’s umpteenth torture session — electroshock included, because subtlety is for cowards — her captors bury her alive. Luckily, the ground collapses, dropping her into the sewers. She crawls out, naked, bruised, and understandably upset, like the world’s angriest Ninja Turtle.
It’s here that I Spit on Your Grave 2 accidentally stumbles into dark comedy. Watching Katie stagger through Bulgarian catacombs, covered in blood and rage, you start rooting for her not because the movie earned it, but because anything that gets you closer to the credits feels like salvation.
Eventually, she finds refuge in a church, where a kindly priest (the only non-terrible man in Bulgaria, apparently) tends to her wounds and quotes scripture. When he reaches “Vengeance is mine,” Katie takes it personally — as in, “Mine, actually.” She arms herself with knives, pliers, and an attitude that screams, “I’ve had enough of men and fluorescent lighting.”
From there, the film turns into a Balkan revenge fantasy where every torturer gets a death so grotesque it makes Hostellook like a spa weekend.
Death by Toilet, Electricity, and Sheer Audience Fatigue
Let’s talk about the kills. Because the only way to get through this cinematic misery parade is to admire its commitment to excess.
Katie’s revenge spree includes:
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Hanging Georgy in the sewers and rubbing feces into his wounds. Because apparently stabbing wasn’t gross enough.
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Drowning Nikolay in a toilet. You can almost hear the screenwriter giggle at his own brilliance: “Get it? He treated women like crap—so now he dies in crap!”
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Electrocuting Valko’s genitals while shoving a plumber’s snake down his throat. If you’re wondering whether the filmmakers are making a statement about justice or anatomy, the answer is neither.
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Crushing Ivan’s testicles until they pop like bubble wrap. Because nothing says empowerment like a prolonged close-up of gore under a flickering bulb.
Every act of vengeance feels less like catharsis and more like punishment for the audience. You’re not cheering; you’re just wondering when you can legally call it quits without feeling guilty.
And yet, despite all the mutilation, the movie is oddly joyless. Monroe directs the revenge scenes with the same flat detachment as the rape scenes. It’s not empowerment — it’s repetition with bloodier lighting.
Bulgaria: The Land That Logic Forgot
One of the more baffling creative decisions here is the relocation to Bulgaria. Monroe seems to believe this exotic setting adds atmosphere, but it mostly adds confusion. Why Bulgaria? Did the film’s budget only stretch to “Eastern European discount warehouse”?
Everyone speaks in accents ranging from “vaguely Eastern European” to “vampire from Hotel Transylvania.” The police are corrupt, the crisis center is evil, and apparently, the U.S. Embassy is just there for set dressing. It’s like watching a propaganda film commissioned by the Bulgarian Tourism Board’s greatest enemies.
Even the geography makes no sense. Katie is kidnapped in New York, wakes up in Sofia, escapes through the sewers, and immediately stumbles upon a church that looks like a postcard from Transylvania. The logistics of her journey make less sense than a toddler’s dream sequence.
Acting: Everyone Deserves Therapy After This
Jemma Dallender, bless her, gives 100% in a role that gives her nothing back. She screams, sobs, crawls, stabs, and smears feces with Oscar-level commitment. Unfortunately, the movie doesn’t care about her character beyond her suffering. Katie isn’t written as a person; she’s a punching bag with nice cheekbones.
The villains, meanwhile, are cartoonishly evil — like a Balkan Home Alone gang, but with torture tools instead of paint cans. They leer, grunt, and deliver lines that sound like they were translated from Google Bulgarian to English and back again.
At one point, Ivan growls something about “purity” and “sins of women,” which might’ve been profound if it weren’t coming from a man who looks like he lost a fight with a gym bench.
Even the priest — the movie’s moral compass — feels like he wandered in from another film, possibly a Sunday school play. When he reads “Vengeance is mine,” you half expect him to look at the camera and whisper, “Please, for the love of God, go watch The Exorcist instead.”
A Franchise That Needs Holy Water
By the time the credits roll, you feel less like you’ve watched a film and more like you’ve survived a war crime. The original I Spit on Your Grave (1978) was raw and uncomfortable, but it meant something. It was about rage, gender, and reclaiming power.
I Spit on Your Grave 2 means nothing. It’s just cruelty dressed up as catharsis, directed with all the nuance of a sledgehammer hitting a piñata full of trauma. The camera lingers on suffering like it’s proud of itself. The revenge is hollow. The message, if there ever was one, drowns in sewage.
When the movie ends — mercifully — with Katie limping into the U.S. Embassy, you don’t feel triumph. You feel relief. Relief that she’s safe. Relief that it’s over. Relief that you’ll never have to look at another Bulgarian basement again.
Final Thoughts: Revenge Fatigue
If I Spit on Your Grave 2 were a person, it’d be that guy who insists “I’m just being honest” before saying something unforgivable. It confuses brutality for depth and trauma for tension.
Even its title feels ironic — because the only thing this movie spits on is taste, pacing, and basic human decency.
Final Verdict: ★☆☆☆☆
A grim, pointless slog through pain and sewage. I Spit on Your Grave 2 doesn’t shock — it just exhausts. If you want to watch a movie about survival and vengeance, go revisit Kill Bill. If you want to watch something that hates both its heroine and audience equally… well, this one’s waiting for you in the sewer.
