Evil Dead Rise: Skyscrapers Soaked in Deadite Gore

In the concrete jungle of Los Angeles, the ancient evil burrows up from the depths, turning a family apartment into a slaughterhouse of swinging chainsaws and profane shrieks.

Lee Cronin’s Evil Dead Rise (2023) catapults the iconic franchise into a towering urban nightmare, swapping the remote cabin for a crumbling high-rise where domestic bliss shatters under demonic assault. This entry pulses with fresh blood while honouring the series’ splatter roots, blending relentless gore with emotional family stakes that elevate the horror beyond mere carnage.

  • How the shift from woods to cityscape reinvents Deadite terror, amplifying claustrophobia and societal dread.
  • The evolution of possession mechanics, from slapstick to visceral maternal monstrosity.
  • Cronin’s mastery of practical effects and sound design, cementing the film’s place in the franchise’s bloody lineage.

Unearthing the Book in the Big City

The narrative of Evil Dead Rise pivots on Beth, a nomadic single mother played with raw intensity by Lily Sullivan, who arrives at her estranged sister Ellie’s rundown Los Angeles apartment block amid a brewing storm. Ellie, portrayed by Alyssa Sutherland, juggles three rambunctious children: the sullen teen Danny (Morgan Davies), inventive pre-teen Bridget (Gabrielle Echols), and the wide-eyed toddler Kassie (Nell Fisher). What begins as a tense family reunion spirals when Danny unearths a bizarre vinyl record in the building’s flooded basement during an earthquake. This cursed artefact, straight from the Necronomicon’s playbook, unleashes the Deadites—those grotesque, soul-devouring entities that have haunted the franchise since Sam Raimi’s 1981 original.

The plot hurtles forward with methodical brutality. As the record spins its incantation, Ellie becomes the first victim, her transformation marked by grotesque physical contortions: veins bulging like roots under her skin, eyes rolling back in milky horror, and a voice warping into guttural obscenities. The demon compels her to slaughter a neighbour in the lobby with a glass shard, her maternal facade twisting into something primal and unrecognisable. Beth, thrust into protector mode, barricades the family in their apartment, but the Deadite plague spreads. Neighbours turn feral, the building’s corridors become kill zones, and the children grapple with betrayal as their mother hunts them with improvised weapons—a cheese grater, a piano wire, even her own teeth.

Cronin layers the story with franchise callbacks while forging new ground. The iconic “boomstick” shotgun and chainsaw limb-replacement nod to Ash Williams’ legacy, but here they fall to everyman survivors sans Bruce Campbell’s wisecracking bravado. Danny discovers the Necronomicon itself—bound in human skin, its pages inscribed with Aramaic warnings—hidden in a wall cavity, accelerating the chaos. The film’s centrepiece is the Marauder, a monstrous fusion of possessed bodies tumbling from the high-rise in a whirlwind of limbs and screams, a spectacle that marries practical puppetry with dizzying vertigo shots from the rooftop helipad.

Production lore adds grit to the tale. Shot in New Zealand standing in for LA, the film faced COVID delays, pushing its release from 2022. Cronin’s script, penned during lockdown, draws from personal isolation fears, transforming the high-rise into a vertical prison. Budgeted at a modest $17 million, it grossed over $146 million worldwide, proving the Deadite appeal endures. Legends of the Necronomicon, fictionalised by H.P. Lovecraft and expanded by Raimi, ground the supernatural in cosmic dread, but Cronin relocates it to modern urban decay—a flooded basement symbolising buried societal rot.

From Cabin Fever to Vertical Hell

The franchise’s evolution shines brightest in the setting shift. Raimi’s originals thrived on woodland isolation, where nature itself conspired against intruders. Evil Dead Rise transplants the horror to the Crossed Pines apartments, a decaying Brutalist tower evoking real-world tenement nightmares. Elevators jam, stairwells choke with gore, and laundry rooms host disembowelments—every communal space weaponised. This urban pivot amplifies class tensions: the family scrapes by in a vertical slum, overlooked by gleaming skyscrapers, mirroring how evil festers in forgotten underbellies.

Demonic horror intensifies through maternal inversion. Past films featured zombified lovers or friends; here, Ellie’s possession weaponises motherhood. She dangles Kassie from a railing, whispering taunts in a voice layered with Sutherland’s chilling duality—affection curdled into venom. This echoes The Exorcist‘s Regan but amps the physicality: Ellie’s jaw unhinges for projectile vomiting of blood and bile, a nod to the 2013 remake’s excess while carving maternal specificity. Beth’s arc, from absentee aunt to chainsaw-wielding saviour, subverts final girl tropes, her desperation forged in sibling guilt.

Sound design emerges as a demonic force. The franchise’s signature “swish-pan” whooshes evolve into thunderous booms echoing through vents, while Deadite shrieks—crafted by a team including Hereditary sound designer Fernando Henríquez—blend human screams with industrial grinding. Timpani thuds mimic heartbeats during possessions, heightening paranoia. Composer Stephen McKeon’s score fuses folk banjos with orchestral stabs, evoking the originals’ bluegrass roots amid orchestral doom.

Cinematographer Dave Garbett’s work deserves acclaim. Handheld Steadicam tracks through blood-slicked halls, employing Dutch angles to disorient. Low-angle shots from child perspectives dwarf adults into titans, while rain-lashed exteriors bathe the tower in noir menace. Practical effects dominate: gallons of blood (over 3,000 scripted), silicone appliances for mutilations, and air mortars for limb ejections, all supervised by Pied Piper FX. CGI aids sparingly, like the Marauder’s plummet, ensuring tactile authenticity that outshines digital peers.

Possession’s Bloody Pageant

Thematic depth probes trauma’s inheritance. Danny’s discovery of the record parallels adolescent rebellion, his headphones blasting metal as the incantation plays—a modern twist on the original’s tape deck. The film dissects family fractures: Beth’s estrangement stems from youthful indiscretions, now repaid in blood. Deadites embody repressed rage, spewing profane litanies that Freudianly excoriate parental failures. This psychological layer elevates gore from gratuitous to cathartic, possession as metaphor for generational curses.

Gender dynamics evolve too. Ash’s machismo yields to female-led survival—Beth and Bridget improvise weapons with maternal ferocity. Yet, the film courts controversy with its extremity: a head-crushing via chest vice, inspired by real urban legends of tenement violence. Cronin defends this as franchise fidelity, citing Raimi’s own boundary-pushing. Critics praise the balance; defenders hail it as empowering spectacle.

Influence ripples outward. Evil Dead Rise bridges the 2013 remake’s grimdark reboot with Ash’s comedic romps, priming Sam Raimi’s teased return. It revitalises possession subgenre amid The Conjuring fatigue, proving practical effects’ primacy. Culturally, it taps post-pandemic anxiety—trapped in high-rises, families imploding—resonating in a world of lockdowns and economic strain.

Production hurdles forged resilience. Cronin, a Scottish-Irish filmmaker, battled studio notes to retain R-rating viscera. Raimi and Bruce Campbell executive-produced, blessing the pivot while cameo-ing in end-credits teases. Casting unknowns amplified stakes; Sullivan’s physical commitment—undergoing weeks of fight training—anchors the frenzy.

Splatter Symphony: Effects and Legacy

Special effects warrant a spotlight. The Marauder sequence deploys a 20-foot animatronic, puppeteered live amid green-screen falls, its writhing mass a triumph of ILM collaboration. Blood rigs drench actors repeatedly; Sutherland endured 12-hour makeup sessions for Ellie’s decayed visage. These feats hark to Tom Savini’s work on the original, sustaining the series’ gore legacy amid CGI dominance.

Legacy cements Evil Dead Rise as a high-water mark. Streaming on Max, it spawned merchandise booms and fan recreations. Critiques note pacing lulls pre-climax, but box-office triumph signals franchise vitality. Future entries loom, potentially reuniting Ash in urban sprawl.

Director in the Spotlight

Lee Cronin, born in 1983 in Ballantrae, South Ayrshire, Scotland, emerged as a visceral force in horror cinema with a background steeped in practical effects and genre passion. Raised in rural Scotland, he devoured films like The Evil Dead (1981) and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), fostering a love for low-budget ingenuity. Cronin studied at the National Film and Television School in Beaconsfield, England, where his graduation short Over (2011) showcased tense psychological dread.

His feature debut, The Hole in the Ground (2019), a folk horror tale of maternal doubt starring Séamus Laverty and Kila Lord Cassidy, premiered at Sundance to acclaim, earning a BAFTA Scotland nomination. Produced by the team behind The Babadook, it explored paranoia in Irish peatlands, blending atmospheric tension with subtle body horror. Cronin’s sophomore effort, Evil Dead Rise (2023), marked his Hollywood breakthrough, helmed for Ghost House Pictures under Raimi’s oversight. Grossing $146 million on $17 million, it solidified his splatter credentials.

Cronin’s style fuses handheld intimacy with grand setpieces, influenced by Raimi, Craven, and Carpenter. He champions practical FX, collaborating with New Zealand’s Weta Workshop alumni. Upcoming projects include Altar, a New Line supernatural thriller, and potential Evil Dead sequels. Interviews reveal his ethos: “Horror must hurt to heal,” prioritising emotional cores amid extremity. With awards from Sitges and FrightFest, Cronin embodies horror’s new guard, bridging indie grit and blockbuster scale.

Filmography highlights: Over (2011, short)—psychological descent; Darling (2016, short)—silent vampiric terror starring Robert Pattinson; The Hole in the Ground (2019)—mother’s monstrous doubt; Evil Dead Rise (2023)—Deadite urban apocalypse; Altar (TBA)—demonic ritual thriller.

Actor in the Spotlight

Lily Sullivan, born 23 April 1993 in Brisbane, Australia, rose from theatre roots to horror stardom, her poised intensity illuminating Evil Dead Rise‘s frenzy. Discovered at 18 via short films, she trained at the Queensland University of Technology, debuting in TV’s Collide (2012). Early roles in Mental (2012) opposite Toni Collette honed her dramatic range.

Breakthrough came with Galore (2013), earning an AACTA nomination, followed by Jungle (2017) with Daniel Radcliffe. International notice hit via Picnic at Hanging Rock (2018 miniseries), her ethereal Miranda captivating Amazon audiences. Sullivan’s horror pivot shone in Monsters of Man (2020), but Evil Dead Rise (2023) catapulted her: as Beth, she wields chainsaws with balletic fury, blending vulnerability and rage. Critics lauded her physicality—undergoing rigorous training for gore-soaked fights.

Post-Rise, she joined The Six (2024 BBC crime drama) and voices in Elemental (2023). Awards include Logie nominations; her trajectory mirrors Mia Wasikowska’s—versatile, genre-spanning. Sullivan champions practical effects, citing influences like Sigourney Weaver. Future roles tease action-horror hybrids.

Comprehensive filmography: Mental (2012)—quirky teen; Galore (2013)—rural romance lead; Infini (2015)—sci-fi soldier; Jungle (2017)—survivalist; Swim (2019)—olympic thriller; Monsters of Man (2020)—jungle operative; Evil Dead Rise (2023)—chainsaw heroine; The Six (2024)—detective in ensemble.

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Bibliography

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