Therapy by Chainsaw
There are self-help books, and then there’s I Spit on Your Grave III: Vengeance Is Mine, a film that replaces healing crystals with claw hammers and group therapy with homicide. Directed by Richard Schenkman (credited as R.D. Braunstein, possibly to protect his real name from future background checks), this third entry in the I Spit on Your Graveremake trilogy is a revenge fantasy so unapologetically feral that it makes Death Wish look like a meditation retreat.
It’s ugly, brutal, and somehow—against all logic—empowering. If you’ve ever fantasized about setting up a support group that doubles as a vigilante network, Jennifer Hills has you covered.
The Trauma Continues
Jennifer Hills (Sarah Butler, reprising her role from the 2010 remake) is still dealing with the aftermath of her assault and bloody revenge spree. She’s traded her typewriter for a hotline phone, helping other survivors of sexual violence. She’s rebranded herself as “Angela Jitrenka,” because nothing says “new beginnings” like an alias that sounds like a name you’d find in an Eastern European police report.
When we first meet her, Jennifer is a human pressure cooker—simmering rage, PTSD, and a distrust of men so palpable that even the camera flinches. The movie opens with therapy sessions, support groups, and awkward social interactions, all soaked in dread. This isn’t your usual horror opening; it’s trauma as foreplay.
Then she meets Marla (Jennifer Landon), a fellow survivor who’s basically the Thelma to Jennifer’s gun-wielding Louise. They start bonding, joking, and soon decide to deliver “extra-judicial therapy” to some deserving creeps. For a moment, you think this might become a feminist buddy thriller. Then Marla dies mysteriously, and Jennifer’s mental stability dies with her.
Jennifer Hills: Saint of the Scorned
Sarah Butler deserves an award—perhaps a bulletproof one—for carrying the emotional and physical carnage of this movie. She plays Jennifer as both victim and avenger, a woman whose trauma has become her religion. There’s no camp in her performance, no wink to the audience. It’s raw, weary, and disturbingly real.
Butler has mastered the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s seen too much evil to believe in good anymore. When she smiles, it’s not joy—it’s reconnaissance. She’s not healing; she’s recalibrating her aim.
In one scene, Jennifer gazes into a mirror, her expression equal parts despair and calculation. It’s not vanity—it’s inventory. You don’t watch her thinking “She’s going crazy.” You think, “She’s finally adapting to the world’s rules.”
Feminist Catharsis by Fire and Pliers
This series has never been subtle, and Vengeance Is Mine is no exception. Where the first remake was about surviving trauma, this one’s about weaponizing it. Jennifer isn’t just angry—she’s a walking indictment of a justice system that treats women’s pain as a clerical error.
She lures predators, tortures them, and dispatches them with creativity that would make Jigsaw blush. Yes, it’s violent—uncomfortably so—but it’s also cathartic in that uncomfortable way only exploitation cinema can achieve. It’s a revenge movie that knows exactly who it’s for: not the gorehounds, but the survivors who’ve ever screamed into a void and heard nothing back.
And somehow, amid all the brutality, the movie’s message lands: justice denied breeds monsters. And sometimes, those monsters are right.
Oscar, McDylan, and the Men Who Mean Well (But Don’t)
Jennifer’s interactions with men range from awkward to apocalyptic. Matthew, her nice-guy coworker, flirts with all the subtlety of a paper shredder. Detective McDylan (Gabriel Hogan) pretends to be sympathetic but radiates “I’m definitely going to ruin your trust” energy.
Then there’s Oscar (Doug McKeon), the grieving father who joins her support group after his daughter’s suicide. He’s the one genuinely good man in the film, which in I Spit on Your Grave logic means he’s doomed. Their fragile alliance becomes the emotional center of the story—two broken people trying to patch each other up with duct tape and shared vengeance. When Oscar’s story ends in tragedy, it’s not just a loss—it’s Jennifer’s last thread snapping.
Direction: A Symphony of Subtlety and Sledgehammers
Director Richard Schenkman shoots the film with the kind of restraint you wouldn’t expect from a series famous for power tools and revenge porn accusations. The violence is still there—graphic, gut-churning—but there’s an uncomfortable maturity to it. The camera lingers not on the gore but on the emotional aftermath.
Each kill feels less like a triumph and more like a confession. Jennifer’s vengeance isn’t clean—it’s messy, desperate, and deeply sad. This isn’t empowerment by way of bloodshed; it’s a slow descent into the abyss, and Schenkman doesn’t flinch from showing it.
A Morality Play in Blood and Broken Glass
You might think this is just a cheap exploitation sequel, but Vengeance Is Mine hides a surprisingly intelligent core beneath the carnage. It’s a morality play about justice, trauma, and how society punishes women who refuse to stay victims.
Jennifer’s vigilante acts aren’t celebrated—they’re questioned. The film constantly toys with our loyalties. Are we rooting for her because she’s right, or because we’re too tired of seeing the wrong people win? It’s not revenge porn—it’s revenge therapy, and it’s ugly medicine.
And that ending—Jennifer switching her therapist’s sign to read “the rapist”—is both darkly comic and horrifyingly apt. It’s the kind of ending that makes you laugh, then hate yourself for laughing.
The Aesthetic of Anger
Visually, the film feels like Los Angeles seen through a migraine. The lighting is sterile, the spaces claustrophobic. It’s a movie where every room feels like it’s closing in, mirroring Jennifer’s crumbling sanity. The color palette shifts from muted grays to violent reds, reflecting her transition from survivor to predator.
Even the sound design contributes to the unease—soft, eerie hums that remind you that vengeance isn’t silent. It echoes.
Dark Humor: Justice, Served with Sarcasm
There’s something perversely funny about how literal the movie’s metaphors are. Jennifer works a phone hotline for victims—while casually auditioning for her next kill list. Her therapy sessions are less about healing and more about brainstorming future crimes. It’s like watching Dr. Phil hosted by John Wick.
And that final fantasy sequence—Jennifer imagining herself killing her therapist—plays like the franchise’s version of a post-credits scene. She’s not cured. She’s just reloading.
Final Verdict: Bloody, Brilliant, and Surprisingly Honest
I Spit on Your Grave III: Vengeance Is Mine isn’t for everyone. It’s too bleak for mainstream audiences, too self-aware for exploitation purists, and too psychologically heavy for casual horror fans. But for those who appreciate their revenge served cold, raw, and with a side of irony, it’s an unholy feast.
Sarah Butler anchors it with a performance that’s equal parts rage and resignation. The film around her may be soaked in blood, but she gives it soul. It’s rare to find a movie that’s both this savage and this sincere.
So, yes—it’s gory, it’s grim, and it’s probably something you shouldn’t watch before bedtime. But buried beneath all that carnage is a story about a woman who refuses to be defined by her pain, even if that means becoming the monster she fears most.
Rating: ★★★★☆ (4/5)
Justice is blind, but Jennifer Hills sees red—and it looks damn good on her.
