The dirty secret of urban hellscape movies drenched in rain and blood is that when it comes down to it, they don’t so much trigger worries about future blight as they do tourism fantasies. (When are theme parks going to figure out that “The Blade Runner Experience” would surely break attendance records?)
Alex Proyas’ 1994 fever dream “The Crow,” adapted from James O’Barr’s graphic novel, understood that appeal implicitly, serving up tactile gothic vengeance in a dashed Detroit with the panache of a circus grotesque. But in our current glut of movie dystopias, we’ve gotten away from that kind of immersive showmanship. Case in point, the dreary, pedestrian and ho-hum retelling of O’Barr’s story, also called “The Crow,” this time directed by Rupert Sanders. It’s like an anti-entertainment protest.
This time around, the wraithlike Bill Skarsgård is our back-from-the-dead avenger. But before he gets to ring his eyes with black paint for a slaydate with crow-powered destiny, he’s given an interminable amount of screen time to be broken, glum Eric, a loner still depressed about the death of his childhood horse (seriously) and whiling away his days in a remote rehab institution where the regulation clothing color is, for some reason, pastel pink. There, he meets musician Shelly (FKA twigs), who’s going through some things herself, namely the fact that some people are trying to kill her. Appealing to his angsty sensitivity, she breaks through his tattooed shell and Eric, smitten and protective, returns the favor by breaking them both out of the facility.
Their holed-up bliss — it’s like some insufferable audition for “Euphoria” — is halted when the henchmen of Shelly’s supernaturally evil benefactor Mr. Roeg (Danny Huston, who else?) catch up to the lovers, killing them both. Eric emerges, though, in an abandoned-rail yard netherworld teeming with crows, a dismal space where a middle-aged guide (Sami Bouajila) informs Eric he can rescue Shelly from Hell if he goes back and gets his fury on. Big plus for our boy: can’t be killed. Big minus for us: zero stakes, plus it’ll be more than an hour before any retaliation begins.
By then, when the flat gray murk of Steve Annis’ cinematography and Robin Brown’s production design have dulled your senses, you’ll be hungry for stunts and what a samurai sword can do. For the carnage queens out there, the film’s opera-house set piece probably won’t disappoint (it won’t transcend, either), but the part where invincible Eric is nonetheless supposed to feel pain — something the late Brandon Lee made so palpably human — is an afterthought.
The love story supposedly generating all this ultraviolence is hardly captivating, and the motive behind Shelly’s killing even less so. For all we know, Eric’s payback may be as much about that horse as Shelly, a thinly realized character who will ultimately neither help nor harm twigs’ brand as an entrancing art polymath. Huston’s ready-made villainy won’t suffer either, although I’m pretty sure a shot of him closing his eyes — ostensibly in monstrous reverie — is really just an attempt to remember better gigs.
The one who should worry is Skarsgård, a talented actor with a commanding physicality and haunted eyes, but who’s still trapped in the star-tryout phase of his post-“It” breakout success. With a weak, unimaginative script by Zach Baylin and William Schneider doing him no favors, Skarsgård looks as lost as the pre-reborn Eric, never mustering enough mythic power. Despite the high body count, consider this a murder of “The Crow.”
