Meir Zarchi made THE most universally reviled exploitation flick of all time — I Spit On Your Grave — which both launched AND ended his career. Regardless, it’s pure B-genius, while what was excreted 10 years later sure ain’t.
Though keenly packaged with another provocative title and a promising poster featuring a scattergun-toting hero draped by a beautiful blonde, what Mr. Zarchi delivers instead is an apparent bid for respectability. Choosing to tell the story of a junkyard book keeper — attending night-school to get his accounting degree — who happens to make a mistake. He diddles a belly-dancer while his wife dutifully waits at home with their kiddo. This sexual indiscretion leads to a mess of trouble, none of which is the LEAST bit interesting. CineSchlockers will pine for some semblance of Grave’s shattering two-part formula to somehow kick this stinker into gear, but no such luck. Heck, no one even snarls, "DON’T MESS WITH MY SISTER!!!" Meir, why hast thou forsaken us?
No breasts. One corpse. Bottle to the brainpan. Exploding Lincoln. Brief shower scene. Tribal dancing and hooting. Annika the exotic entertainer snaps at Steven the C.P.A., "Owe it to you? You were after me for a f@#% — and you got it!!! Maybe you saved my life, but I also saved yours! I don’t owe you a thing!"