The Crow (2024)
Directed by Rupert Sanders
It’s almost inevitable that the tragic story of Brandon Lee, who died on set due to an accident, has strengthened the cult status of The Crow, a film by Alex Proyas that is quite emblematic of its decade—the 1990s—with its postmodern stylizations and gothic influences set in a dark urban fantasy. Thirty years later, James O’Barr’s comic—created in the late 1980s after the death of his fiancée—finds a new adaptation, allowing the film to distance itself from the daunting shadow of a remake.
The production was long and troubled: discussions began in 2008 with Stephen Norrington as director and Mark Wahlberg as the lead (with Nick Cave revising the screenplay). From 2011 to 2022, the project passed through the hands of Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, F. Javier Gutiérrez, and Corin Hardy (and who knows how many others), with names like Bradley Cooper, Channing Tatum, Ryan Gosling, James McAvoy, Tom Hiddleston, Alexander Skarsgård, Luke Evans, Sam Witwer, Jack Huston, Jack O’Connell, Jason Momoa (and even Kristen Stewart, Andrea Riseborough, and Jessica Brown Findlay for the role of Shelly) floated for the role of Eric Draven. Throughout all this, O’Barr himself has never hidden his skepticism: nothing could surpass Proyas’ cult classic with Lee.
In the final version, with Rupert Sanders directing, Zach Baylin and William Schneider on the screenplay, and Bill Skarsgård as the lead, the film finally took shape in the post-COVID era. That sense of suspension—between life and death, past and present, nightmare and reality, lucidity and drugs—is the foundation upon which this new adaptation of the graphic novel is built, with the titular animal’s gaze providing the most obvious perspective.
The view from above the moral ruins of a city rising vertically, filled with skyscrapers that house lonely souls and apartments reflecting individualism (with the owners’ giant portraits as decor), eventually crumbles into the depths, where subway stairs, bridge railings, and the darkest rooms become evident theaters of death. The theater, whether empty and punctuated by the notes of a silent young pianist waiting to be handed over to the ogre, or crowded and home to a performance that contrasts with the story (the pre-finale, striking for its choreography of violence and the facile synchronization between action and fiction), is truly central in a story where the protagonist dons a mask (with tattoo ink makeup) to emphasize not only his aesthetic difference but also his detachment from reality.
Like the 1994 film, The Crow – Il corvo tries to resonate with contemporary audiences, telling the story of a generation mortally wounded, scarred by unhealed traumas, seeking hallucinogenic experiences to escape an unspeakable pain, having witnessed too much without knowing how to hold it all in. Eric and Shelly, after all, meet in a rehab center, from which they escape because she is being hunted by people who want to kill her, leading them to a wandering and marginal existence (a classic American trope, from Gun Crazy to Badlands), amidst synthetic drugs and rivers of alcohol.
Love is recognizing each other, romance borders on self-destructive impulses, and salvation is a hypothesis to be nurtured. When Shelly is killed, Eric decides to take revenge and sacrifice himself. The plot is akin to a B-movie with a budget, the back-and-forth between dimensions is little more than basic, Sanders’ approach appears derivative enough (the colors and moods are reminiscent of The Dark Knight and Joker), the operatic influence remains superficial, Skarsgård does his best in a role caught between iconic persistence and indifference (one can do anything, but can it compete with Lee’s cult?), and the rest of the cast overacts (FKA twigs as the designated victim, Danny Huston and Laura Birn as one-dimensional villains). This doesn’t mean it doesn’t work, but this Crow flies low.
Lorenzo Ciofani
Cinematografo, August 23, 2024
