Revenge — When the Revenge Thriller Morphs into a Survival Manual for Women (and a Screenwriting Disaster)

Revenge: full review

The first time I saw Revenge in a neighborhood cinema—one of those places where the AC smells like stale popcorn and despair—I swore someone had slipped me a roofie. Not because of the violence, which is par for the course in a revenge thriller, but because of the creeping sensation that I was witnessing a botched social experiment masquerading as a film. Coralie Fargeat, a French debutante with more ambition than budget, decided the world needed a story about a woman who refuses to be a victim, and she did it with the elegance of an elephant in a china shop.

The result is a debut feature that wobbles between the sleaziest rape and revenge schlock and the most pretentious art-house cinema, with a script that feels like it was written between screams and tears of frustration. But, oh, what a pretty picture, some will say. Yes, it is. Like a corpse airbrushed for a fashion shoot. The difference is that here the corpse is real, and the makeup is authentic blood gushing down Matilda Lutz’s legs like a faulty faucet.

European critics hailed it as a brave feminist work. American critics dismissed it as over-the-top and misandrist. I side with the latter, but with a twist: it’s over-the-top because it has to be. Because the real world doesn’t forgive, and Fargeat knows it. What she doesn’t know is how to tell the story without collapsing into absolute absurdity. And yet, amid all the nonsense, there’s a film that hurts to watch but you can’t look away. Like a rush-hour car crash. Or like the moment when Jen (Matilda Lutz) realizes she’s not going to die in the desert—she’s going to have to fight for her life.

And then the film becomes more than just a cruel exercise: it becomes a distorted mirror of our collective cowardice. Because, in the end, Revenge isn’t about vengeance. It’s about fear. The fear of men losing control. And the fear of women never having it. And that, my friends, is far more terrifying than any knife or gunshot. Though, yes, the knives and gunshots sure help sell tickets.

But you know what? Sometimes chaos has its own beauty. And Revenge is chaos incarnate. Dressed in red, knife in hand, and a glare that promises this is only the beginning. Or at least, that’s what they want us to believe. Because, in the end, the film deflates like a punctured balloon, when logic surrenders to spectacle. But who needs logic when you’ve got style? And Revenge has style. Too much style. So much that it drowns the viewer in a sea of subjective shots, close-ups of gaping wounds, and a soundtrack that sounds like it was lifted from an 80s perfume commercial. Yes, you read that right: Robin Coudert’s score sounds like synthwave from an abandoned disco, as if someone decided a film about rape and revenge needed a soundtrack that sounded like a beach party. And no, it’s not a joke. It’s reality. A reality where genre cinema takes itself too seriously but not seriously enough to avoid absolute ridicule.

Or like the moment when Jen realizes she’s not going to die in the desert—she’s going to have to fight for her life. It’s about fear.

But you know what? And Revenge has style. Too much style.

Direction and Staging

Coralie Fargeat arrives at the director’s chair with the arrogance of someone who believes the world needs another revenge film—just with a woman as the protagonist. And boy, does she try. The problem is her staging oscillates between the most conventional thriller and the most gratuitous body horror, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to make The Last House on the Left or Kill Bill. The shots are long, almost hypnotic, as if Fargeat wanted the audience to soak in every drop of blood, every scream, every look of terror. But the issue is that instead of generating tension, it generates discomfort.

And not the necessary discomfort, but the discomfort of someone wondering: “Seriously, was this necessary?” The first act is a nightmare of subjective shots, as if the camera were the knife plunging into Jen’s flesh. Robrecht Heyvaert’s cinematography, with its red and ochre tones, turns the desert into another character, a hostile setting that seems to breathe. But you know what? The desert doesn’t need to be a character. It needs to be a setting. And here, it becomes a cardboard cutout backdrop that reeks of tight budgets and cheap locations.

The scene where Jen is abandoned in the desert is a masterclass in visual cruelty: the sun burning her skin, the thirst parching her throat, the vultures waiting their turn. But where’s the logic? Why doesn’t anyone look for her? Why don’t the men who abandoned her care about her survival? Because, in the end, Revenge isn’t a film about justice. It’s a film about the spectacle of violence. And Fargeat knows it. That’s why, when Jen rises and decides she’s not going to die, the film takes a turn that, in other hands, could have been epic. But here, it becomes a bargain-bin slasher, with Jen hunting down her tormentors like an 80s comic-book heroine. And the problem isn’t that it’s exaggerated. The problem is that it’s ridiculous. Because, in the end, Revenge isn’t a film about vengeance. It’s a film about men’s fear of women ceasing to be victims.

Performances and Script

Matilda Lutz is the only reason Revenge doesn’t sink into absolute absurdity. Her transformation from victim to avenger is as brutal as it is hypnotic, with a credibility that stings. When Jen crawls through the desert, skin burned and lips cracked, Lutz isn’t acting. She’s suffering. And hours later, when she rises with a knife in hand and a glare that promises death, she isn’t performing. She’s alive. And that’s the most terrifying thing about the film: that amid all the excess, there’s something real. The rest of the cast, however, seems plucked from a 90s reality show. Kevin Janssens, as Richard, the man who abandons her to die, has the presence of a mannequin in a store window.

Vincent Colombe, as Stan, the other hunter, is even worse: his performance oscillates between histrionics and indifference, as if he didn’t know whether he was in a horror film or an episode of Baywatch. And the dialogue… dear God, the dialogue. Coralie Fargeat wrote the script as if she thought the audience needed lines like “I’m not prey” or “This isn’t a game” every five minutes. And no, it’s not a joke. It’s reality. A reality where the script feels like it was written between screams of frustration and tears of desperation. Because, in the end, Revenge isn’t a film with a message.

It’s a film with a scream. And that scream, my friends, belongs to someone who doesn’t know how to tell a story without collapsing into absurdity. But you know what? Sometimes absurdity has its own grandeur. And Revenge is absurdity incarnate.

The best

Robrecht Heyvaert’s cinematography: A masterclass in contrasts between the red of blood and the ochre of the desert, as if hell and purgatory had convened in a single frame. The warm tones turn violence into something almost poetic, as if Fargeat wanted the audience not just to see the blood, but to feel* it.
Matilda Lutz’s physical transformation: Going from victim to avenger in under two hours is an achievement even the best rape and revenge actresses haven’t managed. Lutz doesn’t act her pain. She embodies* it. And that hurts more than any knife.

• The film’s first act: The opening 30 minutes are a visual nightmare, with subjective shots, distorted sounds, and tension that, for once, doesn’t rely on cheap jump scares. It’s uncomfortable, it’s brutal, it’s necessary. Until logic surrenders and the film becomes what it always wanted to be: a spectacle of cruelty.

Robin Coudert’s soundtrack: Yes, it sounds like synthwave from an abandoned disco. But you know what? It works. Because Revenge* isn’t a serious film. It’s an exploitation flick with pretensions of art. And the music, with its strident synthesizers and deep bass, is the perfect complement to a story that doesn’t know if it’s a drama or a dark comedy.

The worst

• Coralie Fargeat’s script: A disaster of logical inconsistencies, ridiculous dialogue, and a structure that collapses. Why doesn’t Jen die in the desert? Why don’t the men who abandon her look for her? Why does the film devolve into bargain-bin slasher territory in the third act? Because Fargeat doesn’t know how to tell a story. She only knows how to create spectacle.

The rest of the cast: Kevin Janssens and Vincent Colombe seem plucked from a 90s reality show. Their performances oscillate between histrionics and indifference, as if they didn’t know whether they were in a horror film or an episode of Baywatch*. And the dialogue… dear God, the dialogue. Lines like “I’m not prey” or “This isn’t a game” every five minutes. Seriously?

• The film’s third act: When Jen rises and decides she’s not going to die, the film takes a turn that, in other hands, could have been epic.
• The lack of internal logic: Why doesn’t anyone look for Jen in the desert? Why don’t the men who abandon her care about her survival? And Fargeat knows it. But the audience doesn’t.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

Revenge is the kind of film that splits opinions sharper than an axe through a skull. On one hand, it boasts dazzling cinematography, a lead who steals every frame, and a soundtrack that, while ridiculous, somehow works. On the other, a script that collapses like a house of cards, a supporting cast that seems plucked from a 90s reality show, and a third act that abandons all pretense of coherence for sheer spectacle. It’s a mess, but it’s a stylish mess—a film that hurts to watch but you can’t look away, like a car crash in slow motion or the moment Jen realizes she’s not going to die in the desert. It’s not about vengeance. It’s about fear. 💀

Revenge: frequently asked questions

What is the rating of "Revenge" on Claqueta Ácida?

"Revenge" scored 7.5/10 on Claqueta Ácida in the review by Silvia Mordaz.

Is "Revenge" worth watching?

With reservations. We gave it 7.5/10 (Citric Acid), our rating for uneven films with something worth saving.

Who directed "Revenge"?

"Revenge" was directed by Coralie Fargeat.

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Theater Collateral Damage Report

Psychophysical impact certificate issued by Silvia Mordaz

🛡️ Epic Survival

🥱 Yawn-o-meter

2 amagos en el tramo intermedio; pestañeo pesado en las transiciones más innecesarias.

⏱️ Panic Clock Checks

Alguna consulta furtiva al móvil en el segundo acto. Nada que no se perdone.

😬 Cringe Index 0/10

☕ Caffeine Prescription

2 espressos para no dejarse vencer por la mediocridad cómoda.

💥 Derailment Point

"A mitad del segundo acto cuando la subtrama secundaria empezó a pesar más de lo que aportaba."