They Finally Made The Crow for Goth Incompetents

Bill Skarsgård and FKA Twigs star in the tragic love story between a Soundcloud scarecrow and a rebellious cheerleader. Photo: Lionsgate

I can’t say for sure that the doomed lovers in the new The Crow were modeled after Machine Gun Kelly and Megan Fox. But once it occurred to me, the comparison became impossible to shake, because the only better way to sum up the film’s sweaty approach to contemporize its story is the fact that its villain is trying to avoid being canceled. Its hero, Eric Draven, as played by Bill Skarsgård, has the silhouette of a Soundcloud scarecrow, crowned with a Bushwick mullet and inked with tattoos — including a cursive “Lullaby� over an eyebrow — that scream “poor decision-making� as much as they do “emotional rebellion.� Meanwhile, Shelly (FKA Twigs) is pitched as a princess with a dark streak, all elf locks, slip dresses, and sheer layers, a girl who was raised in wealth and trained as a pianist but turned to partying thanks to toxic parenting. The Eric of James O’Barr’s 1989 comic was modeled after Iggy Pop and Bauhaus’s Peter Murphy. An emo-rap update feels right for a movie adamantly branded as not a remake or reboot but a reimagining of the original source material.

The Crow isn’t untouchable — it’s spawned way too many sequels, not to mention a short-lived TV show, for that. But O’Barr’s work and Alex Proyas’s 1994 film adaptation were accompanied by real tragedies — the death of O’Barr’s fiancée in an accident involving a drunk driver and the death of star Brandon Lee in an on-set accident — that gave added ballast to their tormented depictions of a grief-stricken man rising from the grave to seek closure in violent retribution. This new Crow, messily directed by Ghost in the Shell’s Rupert Sanders, with a screenplay by Zach Baylin and William Schneider, feels so lightweight in comparison that it’s almost endearing. Its two beautiful dummies meet in rehab, where they endure the indignity of being made to wear pink sweatsuits and fall in love during group-therapy exercises. Eric imagines Shelly topless in the sketches he pins to his wall, while Shelly is irresistibly drawn to the way Eric sits by himself, declaring him “quite brilliantly broken.� Skarsgård and Twigs have a total absence of chemistry, and while she’s adequate in what’s still basically a dead-wife role, he’s shockingly inert for someone with a career built almost entirely on characters at the intersection of creepy and hottie.

The film may insist that Eric and Shelly’s is a grand romance of soul mates, but what it actually gives us is a burnout-detention boyfriend/rebellious-cheerleader girlfriend dynamic that doesn’t feel like it would last a long weekend. Fittingly, when Eric rises from the grave after he and Shelly are murdered by henchmen on the orders of evil bigwig Vincent Roeg (Danny Huston), he proves pretty inept at undead vengeance. It’s not just that he’s not much of a fighter — that doesn’t matter when your body regenerates thanks to powers granted by a mystical crow from the afterlife. He’s also exasperatingly slow to accept what’s happened to him, he untangles the bad business Shelly was involved in only really by accident, and he doesn’t even put on a trench coat until the final act. The way that Eric fumbles his way toward retribution is right on the verge of funny — at one point, he gets run over by a truck — but The Crow can’t bring itself to display a sense of humor. Instead, it makes up for its hero’s initial bumbling by raising its gore quotient later on.

It’s a lot to ask, following in the footsteps of a subculture mainstay. If there were any sense of intentionality behind this new Crow, I’d say it’s trying to provide representation for the Incompetent Goths out there — the IncompeGoths who get an illegible stick-and-poke on their cheekbone, who are indifferent to how goofy their single dangly earring looks, and who keep getting sent back to mystical purgatory to be lectured by a supernatural mentor that IMDb assures me has a name, Kronos (Sami Bouajila). But this film isn’t coherent enough for that. Its baddie, Vincent, is an immortal arts patron of sorts who made a deal with the devil but spends the movie trying to track down a cell-phone video he’s worried will get him in trouble. It takes place in an apparently American city where almost every resident has a different international accent. Shelly is desperately on the run from a man with enormous power, reach, and demonic connections, and the first thing she and Eric do when they escape from rehab is go back to her luxury apartment, with its chubby furniture, and get trashed together.

Look, deep thoughts and deeply held emotions aren’t for everyone, and there’s something blissfully empty-headed about the scene in which Shelly, posing with a book at an Instagram-ready picnic with some random friends, informs Eric that she’s reading Rimbaud. If only The Crow were a little more self-aware, it could be a cult classic in its own right — though probably not the kind its makers were hoping for.