The original 1978 I Spit on Your Grave — aka Day of the Woman — is one of those films you either get or you don’t. Those who don’t have an understandable tendency to call it one of the worst films ever made, while those of us who do passionately defend it as a misunderstood masterpiece. It’s a movie that contains what may be the most difficult 32 minutes of screen time I’ve ever sat through, but it also always has me shouting “Fuck yeah!” by the end. It’s a coarse, primal work that touches upon all of the worst human emotions, but I always leave it feeling inspired, rather than debased.

It’s not simply about rape and revenge, but what we must do to survive in a brutal, unfair world that couldn’t care less if we live or die. Jennifer Hills’ solution to this existential dilemma is not the right or moral one, but I understand it. As disturbingly bittersweet as her triumph is at the end, it remains a triumph nonetheless.

And now here is where I’m supposed to tear apart the 2010 remake as a sacrilegious travesty of the original, but I can’t do it. Despite its slickness, its changes, its post-Saw emphasis on ironic carnage, the story still moved me. Jennifer’s tale is one I will always find affecting, no matter how different the packaging. Eschewing the surprisingly vibrant colors of the original, the new version replaces the grueling naked cruelty with more overt violence, which I think actually makes it more palatable to a mainstream audience.

The chief difference is the treatment of its protagonist. In the first film, we saw Jennifer slowly heal and rebuild herself after the attack, and stayed with her as she killed her rapists, while in the remake, she (Sarah Butler) essentially disappears after the attack, only to turn up later as a force of vengeance who seems less human and more like a rampaging spirit (à la High Plains Drifter or The Wraith). It also adds a disturbing — and perhaps unnecessary — touch by suggesting that Jennifer’s revenge possibly has extended beyond the five men who’ve earned it. —Allan Mott

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This is the one about Paul Conroy (Ryan Reynolds), an American civilian truck driver who is captured by Iraqis and buried alive in the desert with an active cell phone, a cigarette lighter and a flask. He awakens in a plain wood coffin with no idea how he got there. He receives a call from the guy who buried him demanding “five million money” by 9 that night — two hours — or he will be left to die. The Iraqi also demands that his victim record a video on the cell phone.

And that’s it for Buried’s 95-minute running time. We never leave the coffin, but director Rodrigo Cortes and screenwriter Chris Sparling find excuses for Paul to call his wife, the FBI, a hostage negotiator, the kidnapper and the HR director of the company he works for.

When I first saw the movie’s trailer, which includes the moment when an asp slithers into the coffin through a crack, I thought the film would be a tough sell — not because it plays so strongly on the common fear of enclosed places, but because its lack of action would bore younger audiences.

As it turns out, the picture recouped only a third of the three million money it cost to make. It’s pretty intense and Reynolds turns in a better performance than you’d ever have given him credit for, but stick it out to the end and you’ll see why it flopped. The question is, how did anyone ever think it wouldn’t? —Doug Bentin

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