I’ve decided to start writing one capsule review a month--a few hundred words--focused on something I watched in a theater. There are not many options for repertory or art house movies in Rhode Island, which leaves my selection to multiplex fare most of the time. This creates a dilemma, in that I told myself I would try to stop writing negative reviews, focusing on things that are enjoyable instead. After trashing Waterworld last year, I imagined Kevin Costner, alone in his cavernous house, crying with his head in his hands, my substack on a screen before him. But maybe that needs to happen. Unfortunately, current Hollywood cinema has not been delivering that much great work lately, so we will see how this goes.
Which brings us to The Crow, directed by Rupert Sanders. Before it even began, I knew I would rather watch the original 1994 version again instead. As a twelve year old, I didn’t see the original in theaters, but was jealous of my brother who did. Soon after seeing it on VHS, I was dedicated to the melancholy coolness of Brandon Lee as Eric Draven. His death on the set is now legendary--how can anything top that? And why do people keep trying? There is money to be made, obviously.
The new Crow feels like an empty exercise. But instead of attacking it, I want to try to think of it in context to the younger generation it was made for. The style and substance of the first one seemed so easily identifiable, aided very much by the soundtrack that came with it. It was a dark, alternative rock movie. The vibe of the new one does not seem to fit into any specific genre of contemporary music, but maybe that is because I am so far removed from youth culture that I can’t identify it. Different genres of music and cinema aimed at young people feel so ill defined, or “safe” to the point of boring. Or has it all just been flattened and commodified into pop? The best part of The Crow (2024) is FKA Twigs, so maybe she adds a direction for understanding. Her music is a fusion of different styles that tend to avoid categorization, so perhaps looking at the movie this way is a positive thing?
Either way, Bill Skarsgård is not an effective Eric Draven, signifying nothing, much like his face tattoos. His bloody battles are excessive specifically because we know that he can’t die. [Oh wait, but can he now, if he doubts The Power of Love?] We don’t need to watch him get shot and stabbed a thousand times. The movie would have gone further if they brought Twigs’ Shelly back from the murky depths more quickly. If there is a sequel that is just FKA Twigs being photogenic, I’ll be there.