People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can’t rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.

-Sarah, “The Crow”

Way back in 1994, Miramax sent a film adaptation of a comic book by James O’Barr to theaters that quickly became a cult classic. Directed by Alex Proyas and starring Brandon Lee, “The Crow” is the darkly satisfying story of a “murdered rock musician who comes back from the dead to take his revenge on the gang that killed him and his girlfriend”¹. 

The cult classic status of the movie is bolstered by the tragic events surrounding its filming. In one of the final scenes during production, Brandon Lee was accidentally--and fatally--shot by a mishandled prop gun. The 28 year old’s untimely death echoed the equally incomprehensible death of his iconic father, Bruce Lee. Brandon Lee’s cause of death is infused with a sad irony because he played a character whose most impressive power was rapid regeneration a la Wolverine (in one scene, Draven plugs the barrel of an enemy’s gun with the palm of his hand, daring the gunman to shoot, and he does. Draven laughs maniacally as the quarter-sized bullet hole closes up almost as quickly as it opened). 

Through a perpetually rainy depiction of Detroit that makes the Motor City look even more decrepit than it does in Eminem’s “8 Mile,” Eric Draven follows a mysteriously powerful crow on a nightlong journey of retribution, picking off homicidal thugs one by one. The fuel for this bloody mission are the one-year-old traumatic memories of not only his death, but the correspondant rape and murder of his bride-to-be on a criminal holiday known as ‘Devil’s Night.’ Charles Cassady Jr. of Common Sense Media provides an apt description of the undead protagonist played by Brandon Lee: “Imagine the gothic Batman crossed with the rocker Alice Cooper crossed with some teen-idol vampire….” He wears black, paints his face a ghostly white, and plays rock n’ roll music on city rooftops at dawn after a long night of beating up bad guys; needless to say, I was quite impressed with this character as a youngster. 

Six years old was definitely not the right age for me to watch such a dark film, but it happened. Much to the chagrin of the rest of my family, I suddenly had a taste for heavy rock music (Korn, Nine Inch Nails, The Cure, etc.), dressing in leather trench coats, and starting never-ending wrestling matches with my brothers to fulfill an insatiable martial arts fantasy that seemed to imbue most of my childhood.

Fast forward to my college years (the term “fast forward” refers to the archaic act of manipulating cassettes tapes with something called a VCR, which happens to be how I watched this movie back in the day). God blessed me with the spiritual sight I needed to see and savor the glory of the gospel. In other words, I became a Christian. I repented of wicked ways, and came to view my formerly favorite movie, “The Crow,” as just another artifact from a Godless past shrouded by darkness, a stain from a time of being sculpted by worldly forces. As a new Christian, I felt ashamed of my affinity for the movies, music, media, and even people that were so intertwined with my old identity.

Years later, my roots have sunk a bit deeper in Christ so that I know his character more fully (admittedly, it’s a marginal increase of knowledge compared to what can be known of the infinite majesties of God Almighty). I revisited the movie recently with a more solid foundation, thinking I would be less swayed by the worldly waves of the proverbial sea. This is not to say that “mature” Christians should abandon prudence and flippantly consume whatever the heck they want; the phenomenon to which I refer is outlined by Paul in Romans 14. This rewatch with regenerated eyes, resulted in a revelation that God was present all along, and that his marvelous light permeates even the darkest pockets of his children’s past. This is not to say that I have always been indwelled by the Spirit, but that a God who works all things together for the good of those who love Him determines to restore broken things and--as the narrator states at the beginning of the film--“put the wrong things right.”

The pervasive presence of Christ in all areas of our lives changes the way we see the world. Once we comprehend the beauty of the gospel story, it’s hard to overlook gospel components from other stories we encounter (yes, even secular ones crafted by secular folks blessed by common grace and made in His image). As our affection for Christ grows, so does our capacity for beauty and our ability to see Him everywhere we look. The most rewarding benefit of rewatching ‘The Crow’ is seeing Eric Draven as an imperfect shadow of the perfect avenger come back to life.

Most obviously, Draven is resurrected from the dead by an alternate power for a purpose that transcends himself. Draven’s purpose is to deliver justice, a sinister vengeance that mirrors the violence he and his fiancée suffered. Like the Risen Christ, Draven’s resurrected body has a glorified quality that makes him, among other things, unkillable.

Draven does not return as a robotic arbiter of justice that does his job matter-of-factly. The business of vengeance is personal to him. Without getting into the gory details, he creatively employs knives, guns, gasoline, and vehicles to execute his ruthless will. He exhibits a kind of twisted pleasure in killing his enemies. I am hesitant to say that Jesus’ impending judgement described in the book of Revelation will involve any kind of pleasure as we understand that word; however, it is clear that Jesus hates sin. The costly grace he purchased in the horrific economy of cavalry is the only reason any of us escape the Lord’s wrath. It does not seem as though Christ will execute his judgement apathetically, devoid of emotion. God does not teach us that vengeance is evil, only that it belongs to Him. Only a God who is omniscient and omnipotent is able to administer the appropriate sentence for the wicked, not too harsh and not too soft. Rescuing his blood-bought bride and delivering justice are good things. Perhaps God has the emotional complexity and capacity to weep for those that refuse the sacrificial lamb, and also take pleasure in putting the wrong things right by punishing that which has gone unpunished. Unless you have been deeply wounded by the sins of others like the protagonists in question, it may be difficult to read the word “pleasure” in the previous sentence without at least some repulsion. 

Having sketched a portrait of a vengeful Christ that I suspect is unpalatable for some modern Christians in the west (he’s always offending the sensibilities of those who know “better”), it’s helpful to ponder his mercy and tenderness. During one scene, Draven approaches one of his slain enemies’ girlfriend, a drug-addicted mother of a child who has essentially become an orphan. Having witnessed Draven kill her boyfriend, the girlfriend is certain that this ghostly figure is after her life next. Instead, Draven grabs her arm in front of a bathroom mirror, squeezing the morphine out of her freshly punctured veins. His restorative moment with her is reminiscent of Christ telling the recipients of his grace to ‘Go and sin no more.’ When he encounters the aforementioned orphan, she grumbles about the fact that it never stops raining in the city, the subtext being that her life feels only hard and sad always. Draven responds with a simple refrain from the movie: “It can’t rain all the time.” He doesn’t say, ‘Suck it up!’ or ‘Rain ain't so bad!’ He acknowledges the rain, but reminds her that dark clouds always pass. His refrain reminds me of the precious words from Psalm 30: “weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

For both Christ and Draven, defeating the final boss involves a paradox whereby one’s gravest wound turns out to be one’s greatest strength. As the movie progresses, we meet some pseudo-spiritual-voodoovian character that discovers how to make Draven vulnerable. If she kills the crow that acts as Draven’s guide, she extinguishes the source of Draven’s power. After the bird is hurt, he takes a gunshot wound that doesn't heal up. Bleeding and emptied of his immortality, he must defeat the final villain with a weapon greater than the blunt objects he’s used thus far. He taps into the volatile pools of trauma inside his head (these are depicted in the film as disturbing flashbacks cut with haunting sounds of suffering), both his own and that experienced by his fiancée in the final hours of her life. He grabs the archenemy by the face, with his thumbs pressed to his eyes and says, “I have something to give you. I don’t want it anymore. Thirty hours of pain all at once, all for you.” The trauma is more than the recipient can bear. The lovely irony here is that his most intense pain turned out to be his source of salvation. There is a reason why we call the most horrific day in history Good Friday. The murder of the only innocent human to ever live was the climax of the horror of sin in the universe; at the same time, it is the most beautiful act of love, devotion, passion, faithfulness, and goodness ever displayed, the reason why any of us have any hope at all. 

The conclusion of “The Crow” mirrors the consummation of history as we know it. When Draven’s justified rampage has concluded, he rests. We see an apparition of his fiancée find him sleeping on her grave. The two are presumably reunited. So too will Christ rest with us after establishing his Kingdom on earth. The wedding supper of the Lamb, the conclusion of all of things, means union with a bride that will never be broken.

We are created to know and worship our creator. This piece is less a suggestion to watch “The Crow,” and more an act of praise for One who is always with us. At its best, art helps us know God better. Of course, these revelations can be subtle. And sometimes, just sometimes, we can find God in a seemingly Godless place.