Like the legend of the eponymous hero, The Crow movie franchise has again risen from the dead. This time to brutally fight for love, revenge, chic leather jackets, and maintaining IP rights. This latest effort is helmed by Rupert Sanders, who resurrects Eric (Bill Skarsgård), a lanky ex-addict with enough shoddy body ink that looks like a finger painting gone wrong, set on a bloody path of vengeance against Vincent Roeg for the murder of his one, true love, Shelly. Sanders sets the movie in a dark, nameless city where it always rains and the sky rolls in hues of flat grays and deep blacks. These murky visuals also seep their way into a most confusing screenplay. Whereas The Crow is filmed with a stylish edge, the plot is a conflicting, perplexing mess that uses brutal, on screen violence to mask the nonsensical worthlessness of the story.

​

The Crow comic was first published in 1989 by creator James O’Barr and tells the tale of Eric Draven who was beaten and killed only to be resurrected by a crow in order to seek vengeance on those who murdered his fiancée, Shelly. The story has been adapted into (counting this one) five movies, a single-season television series, and numerous comic books. Most notably was the 1994 film adaptation by Alex Proyas tragically starring Brandon Lee.

​

Fast forward 30 years and the cinematic Crow flies again. This time around, though, the crow is more of a turkey. Screenwriters Zach Baylin and William Josef Schneider adapt the names of Eric and Shelly but not much else. The doomed lovers meet in a weirdly low-security detox facility that allows free intermingling of the sexes and an easy escape hatch in the laundry room. Reveling in their newfound freedom, the two get drunk, high, and dance through a beach party. Sounds like true love, indeed. Shelly (FKA twigs), however, is being hunted by Roeg, portrayed with villainous glee by the always-wonderful Danny Huston. Other than being somehow affiliated with a drug trade, Roeg’s ultimate intentions are never made clear, other than his predilection for young piano prodigies, who can seemingly name his tune.  

​

Roeg has Shelly murdered for holding a (what else?) damning and criminally-indicting video. Roeg and associates (including Laura Birn of Foundation) have Eric beaten and strangled for simply being there. Lying near-death, he is transported to … a crow-infested, and equally wet, underworld. There he meets the enigmatic Kronos (Sami Bouajila) who appears as somewhat of a mentor. Kronos pulls a Mister Miyagi, telling Eric how to wax-on and wax-off while giving him the chance for, hold your breath now, revenge. There is no explanation or reason for Kronos or this magical underworld other than for clunky exposition of a plot that anyone seeing the movie is already numbingly aware of.

​

The Crow is not the only supernatural being present. Roeg has a lethal ability, too, with whispers that are powerful enough to send his victims into a suicidal frenzy. This power is neither explored nor explained. Is he a vampire? A mutant? Huston has played both in his career. Maybe he’s just sharing the full plot of the movie.

​

Skarsgård, admittedly, looks great in the role. He is all abs and tats and wears the blood-streaked face paint well. Bill’s presence certainly deserves a better movie. Shelly is equally well-played with joy and bounce. Their doomed romance, however, is more forced than eternal.

​

The Crow fights and claws and drags his way to a cliché-ridden showdown with Roeg. He pauses, laments, and cries along the way. Sanders scores some of the motion with New Wave hits from Joy Division and Gary Numan, but even this seems out of place. Instead of moody and angst-ridden, the tracks all possess a bop more akin to a John Hughes movie. This is walking-in-mall or running-from-Principal-Vernon music, not I’m-coming-to-kill-you-with-a-samurai-sword overtures.

​

Sanders (who directed the pilot to the aforementioned Foundation, so he knows a thing or two about genre-heavy styles), creates a moody look but the stumbling pace makes the 115-minute runtime seem like an unnecessary slog. For instance, in O’Barr’s initial comic, the Crow character appears in issue one, page one, panel one. In Sanders’ movie? Skarsgård finally gets his game on one hour and fifteen minutes after the opening credits. That inexcusable feat alone cries out for comic book justice.

​

Sure, The Crow can be seen as dark, moody, and savage, with intense promises of eternal love. But mostly it is a rain-soaked mess of stupid action and lazy screenwriting. Perhaps it is time for the Crow to fly far, far away from any more Hollywood resurrections.