Donkey Punch

It seems churlish to chastise a quasi rape-revenge fantasy for misogyny. But unlike, say, Eli Roth, the makers of Brit slasher Donkey Punch have not swotted up on Carol’s Men, Women And Chainsaws or They Call Her One-Eye. My goodness. What can they be teaching children at film school if not these seminal texts?
The rules of the game are quite simple. As the bodies mount up, revenge must be equal to or greater than the original offence. Girls, and indeed boys, will be duly punished for sexual activities, taking drugs and other naughty activities. The Final Girl, meanwhile, who has behaved in a chaste and proper fashion while all around went to seed, shall survive the massacre and waltz off carrying the recently decapitated head of the killer.
Superficially, director Olly Blackburn’s debut, in which three giggling English girls hook up with some Leeds lads in Mallorca for a yacht cruise featuring ecstasy, Russian meth and a five-way orgy, conforms to the morality play template. The cast’s holiday buzz predictably comes to an end when the violent sexual act of the title leaves a girl dead. Shocked, they bicker furiously over the correct course of action, leading to paranoia, then rage, then attacks with marine propellers.   
Somewhere in the low budget murk, there’s a neat little boat thriller – think Adrift or Dead Calm – struggling to be seen. Mr. Blackburn proves himself capable of wringing suspense and nicely icky gory bits from his premise. He may well make a great film someday soon.
Sadly, this dreadful, distasteful yarn is anything but.Yuk.