Quality films often possess a sense of integrity, but even those that are less successful can exhibit this trait. "The Crow," which tells the story of a man who is killed alongside his beloved and returns from the grave to seek vengeance, serves as a striking illustration of this concept. The film contains several elements that falter, such as a recurring flashback laden with symbolism that depicts a childhood trauma leading the protagonist, Eric Draven, to a mental institution. Viewers must accept that the central love story is compelling because the narrative demands it, and the performances of the actors contribute to its appeal. The screenplay by Zach Baylin and William Schneider takes its time to establish the horrific event that propels the plot, delaying the moment when the hero transforms into The Crow—a self-painted, somewhat Joker-like angel of death—until the film's final act. Additionally, there are numerous other issues that will be addressed later.
However, the film exudes a subtle confidence in its identity and storytelling techniques, supported by an entire metaphysical framework that becomes surprisingly convincing by the conclusion. This film is not, as reality show participants might claim, here to make friends; rather, it is committed to authenticity, following a righteous path that remains true to its essence, culminating in an ending that resonates with the works of John Keats and Edgar Allan Poe, as well as the original graphic novel by James O’Barr. The violence depicted is shockingly brutal, even by the standards of revenge thrillers—deliberately excessive in a manner reminiscent of art-house or grindhouse films like "Drive" or "Only God Forgives"—as if the film aims to astonish an audience that considers itself immune to shock.
The choice to invest considerable time in depicting the sorrowful, wide-eyed Eric Draven (portrayed by Bill Skarsgård) before his supernatural transformation, as well as to flesh out his partner Shelly (musician FKA Twigs), a woman entangled in the goth subculture with a hidden past, ultimately pays off as the narrative unfolds. Although this development may feel somewhat tedious at the outset, it becomes rewarding later in the story. Following Shelly's tragic demise, the film takes a direction that, without divulging specifics, embodies a profoundly Romantic essence reminiscent of “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” In an era where genuine emotion is often dismissed as “cringe,” the film merits recognition for daring to explore such themes and for committing to its dramatically inevitable conclusion, delivering an ending that resonates, even if it does not leave viewers with smiles.
It is accurate to say that there is no scenario in which this film could be regarded as a great movie, or even as one with significant commercial appeal. While Twigs is charming, her performance lacks depth, and Skarsgård does not perform much better, despite their apparent dedication to the romantic narrative. The characters often appear lethargic, even in scenes where they are not under the influence of drugs. Director Rupert Sanders, known for works such as “Snow White and the Huntsman” and the live-action adaptation of “Ghost in the Shell,” overly relies on clichéd montages of “lovers frolicking,” which seem to strive for deeper significance (for instance, Eric kisses Shelly through a sheer white curtain reminiscent of a burial shroud, and following her death, there is a “Titanic”-like scene of her sinking into the depths of a harbor, despite Eric's desperate reach). These moments could have been more effectively replaced with genuine interactions that reflect how real people behave. Additionally, the film's graphic violence and its somber conclusion likely contribute to Lionsgate's decision to release “The Crow” without press screenings and with minimal advertising or marketing efforts.
However, this still seems like an error, as despite its shortcomings and flaws—including a lack of creative storytelling and some unclear or overly bright nighttime visuals—the film possesses a certain quality, an essence, or perhaps simply a clear sincerity of purpose that should protect it from accusations of being merely a profit-driven remake. No one motivated solely by financial gain would invest in a project like this rendition of “The Crow,” which embodies a 19th-century, somber, and romanticized interpretation of True Love. Furthermore, it has taken the effort to create a comprehensive mythology that contextualizes character motivations, allowing the narrative to evolve into a message that transcends the simplistic premise of “villains kill the hero’s love, hero returns to exact revenge,” which is essentially what Alex Proyas accomplished when he first adapted James O’Barr’s comic three decades ago.
In this iteration, the antagonist, Roeg (likely named after the esteemed director Nicolas Roeg and portrayed by the reliable villain Danny Huston), is not merely an ordinary criminal but a malevolent and formidable entity who claims to have existed for a considerable time and possesses the power to corrupt humans. Unlike earlier cinematic interpretations of The Crow's legends, this version is deeply entrenched in the supernatural, extending beyond the mere resurrection of a deceased protagonist. Similar to horror narratives involving devils, demons, and captured souls, this film depicts evil as a source of power or force that can be harnessed and weaponized, capable of transforming and corrupting others. This approach aligns the story more closely with the myth of Orpheus, who endeavors to rescue his wife Eurydice from the underworld, although this “Crow” primarily unfolds its metaphysical exploration in a liminal, purgatorial space.
Proyas' adaptation was destined to exemplify a film where style overshadowed substance, characterized by flat yet iconic portrayals and a visual aesthetic reminiscent of contemporary music videos, album art, and comic illustrations. The film's stylistic approach became even more pronounced following the tragic death of its star, Brandon Lee, who was fatally injured by a prop gun before completing his scenes. The production team resorted to using silhouetted body doubles and rudimentary compositing techniques to create a version suitable for release. The outcome was a film imbued with themes of death in multiple dimensions. With the passage of time, it can be acknowledged that, despite its limitations, the film garnered additional affection from audiences who were aware of the tragic circumstances surrounding its creation. For the record, I provided a highly positive review of Proyas's "The Crow" upon its release and frequently listened to its soundtrack on cassette.
In contrast, this new iteration lacks the focus, momentum, and agility of the 1994 original. Instead, it presents a somber exploration reminiscent of Northern European horror films and folklore. This neo-noir narrative unfolds in a rain-soaked urban landscape. The muscular Skarsgård does not possess Lee's graceful, dancer-like quality and does not attempt to replicate it; while Lee's portrayal of Eric Draven embodied a mischievous trickster, Skarsgård's character resembles a brooding clay golem, summoned to vanquish evil.
This is perfectly acceptable. It represents a unique perspective, and ultimately, it not only succeeds but also evokes deep emotions almost against its own intentions. This version of "Crow" appears to gain its greatest insight when it depicts Eric's transformation into a lethal force driven by the ideals of redemption and justice. He has opted to embody the very darkness he once witnessed, stripping away the love that had positively influenced him during Shelly's life. The impact on screen echoes a line from Edgar Allan Poe: “Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.” Each scene, particularly in the latter half, seems to be guided by an elusive creative signal that only the filmmakers can perceive, a frequency that no other mainstream film this year seems to tap into. Even in moments when the film may not adhere to traditional standards of effectiveness, there are instances that send chills down my spine.
One notable scene features Eric and Shelly strolling across a bridge, where Shelly, half-jokingly, mentions the idea of jumping. They fantasize about a simultaneous leap leading to their demise, with Shelly envisioning that teenagers would create memorials in their honor. I believe that, over time, young audiences will craft their own tributes to this film in various forms. It’s the type of movie that, if experienced at the age of 14, would compel viewers to return ten or twenty times, inspiring them to explore literature and perhaps even memorize poetry.