Erik's thoughts on "Evil Dead"

     Numerous films have featured a character named Grandpa that ultimately winds up passing away, but none quite like this. Evil Dead, an enjoyably manic horror remake from director Fede Alvarez, has arrived to shock, disgust, and rake in the cash this weekend, and I'm sure it will succeed at at least two of the three. A pro-drug movie that proves withdraws can be hell, here is an unsettling graphic freak show that even D.A.R.E. would approve of. Featuring an addict who has legally died before the movie has even begun, Evil Dead is as much about reincarnation and the resurrection of the soul as it is about the resurrection of a franchise (stay after the end credits to be in the presence of our Lord and Savior). One thing's for certain: it surely earns its R rating.

     Having watched and/or rewatched the first two Evil Dead films as well as the remake over five days time, I feel pretty well equipped to note the similarities between this cinematic parent and offspring, granted it proves a worthwhile form of criticism. A recollection of observations is its own form of critique, no? This remake features nods to its predecessors in numerous rewarding ways, by proving that — big breath here —  roads to safety are always blocked at inopportune times (a monsoon here, a destroyed bridge in the others), chainsaws always have a place in well stocked supply shacks (no chalk outlines here, but chainsaw fuel to the rescue!), evil spirits really enjoy embodying the roaming POV shots Sam Raimi and crew cleverly concocted thirty years ago, a possessed arm always has a mind of its own, duct tape can solve anything, sentimental jewelry often saves the day, and female cast members tend to turn evil and subsequently have the most fun; this is just scratching the surface.

     Nonetheless, the film is original in the way it presents the well remembered Evil Dead lore. The aforementioned drug addiction spin proves a clever way for the character of Mia's references to an evil spirit to be brushed off by her friends. Also, horror movies involving narcotics usually demand that at least one character gets violently stabbed with a syringe, and this one delivers. And although the characters here are mindnumbingly gullible (just because the evil demon says she's all better, it's best not to take her at her word), they catch on fairly quickly. Once the iconic Book of the Dead is read, the characters realize that the satanic text is to blame.

     The dark humor on display is also appreciated, and rest assured, it gets pretty twisted in its uncomfortable graphicness. When the possessed Mia starts sniffing around another female's nether regions, she notes that she can "smell her dirty soul." A homage to The Silence of the Lambs, perhaps? There's a lot of female anatomy on display here, and one of the film's head-scratching comic motifs involves vaginal penetration, that is, a demon's entrance into a female surrogate via her sexual organs (this occurs twice, once thanks to the memorably duplicated tree rape sequence, and later in the form of a close-up of a woman's clothed crotch following a bathroom mirror premonition). The evil forces are so nasty, you see, that they also tend to molest and rape their victims.

     When, late in the film, Mia holds a chainsaw while telling a feminine evildoer to "suck on this" before shoving the contraption into the demon's mouth and through her skull, we sense that the whole film has been building up to this phallic symbol of vengeance. Most of the women in Evil Dead are either evil or dead, but The Final Girl, bathed in blood like a newborn emerging from the womb of the Devil (when it rains, it pours), is ultimately independent, and finally, alone.

     You'd be right to expect that twenty years from now, media scholars will surely point to one crucial shot: upon being possessed, a character urinates profusely over her very visible Converse sneakers. It's the most overt stab at media consumerism since Warhol's Brillo Box artwork, or at the very least, since last March's Stoker swore us off pencils from Ticonderoga. 

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