In the concrete tombs of a crumbling high-rise, grief ignites into an inferno that devours family bonds, proving horror’s true terror lies not in gore alone, but in the soul-scorching agony of loss.

 

The Evil Dead Rise (2023) masterfully rekindles the franchise’s demonic fury within the claustrophobic confines of an urban apartment block, where the ancient Deadites feast not just on flesh, but on the raw nerves of familial grief. Directed by Lee Cronin, this entry shifts the cabin-in-the-woods formula to a towering inferno of maternal sacrifice and sibling despair, transforming splatter into a profound meditation on mourning’s corrosive burn.

 

  • Grief as the ultimate Deadite weapon: How loss possesses the living, blurring lines between victim and monster in a cycle of emotional devastation.
  • The symbolism of fire and burning: From ritual incinerations to metaphorical heart-scorching, fire embodies the film’s dual horrors of physical destruction and psychological torment.
  • Emotional horror elevated: Amidst the gore, Cronin crafts intimate character studies that make the supernatural terror resonate on a deeply human level.

 

High-Rise Necronomicon: Unearthing the Curse

The film plunges us into the gritty underbelly of Los Angeles, where single mother Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland) navigates the chaos of raising three children in a rundown high-rise apartment. Her elder daughters, Beth (Lily Sullivan) and her younger siblings Danny (Morgan Davies), Bridget (Gabrielle Echols), and Kassie (Neliese Webber), form a fractious family unit strained by absent fathers and economic hardship. This domestic realism sets the stage for horror’s intrusion when an earthquake cracks open the building’s flooded basement, revealing the infamous Necronomicon Ex-Mortis, the Book of the Dead.

Danny, the awkward teen obsessed with urban exploration and conspiracy theories, deciphers the book’s incantations out of morbid curiosity. What follows is a meticulously detailed descent into pandemonium: blood rains from burst pipes, walls weep crimson, and Ellie becomes the first vessel for the Deadites. Cronin’s screenplay, drawing from Sam Raimi’s original lore, expands the mythos with urban decay as a metaphor for buried traumas. The apartment’s labyrinthine layout—creaking stairwells, shadowed laundry rooms, and the vertigo-inducing rooftop—amplifies the siege mentality, trapping the family in a vertical slaughterhouse.

Key to the narrative’s grip is the in-depth progression of possession. Ellie’s transformation unfolds gradually: initial disorientation gives way to grotesque physical mutations—elongated limbs, jagged teeth erupting from gums—accompanied by profane rants that taunt her children’s deepest insecurities. This isn’t mere jump-scare fodder; it’s a symphony of escalating dread, where every creak of the floorboards signals the Deadites’ inexorable spread. The film’s commitment to practical effects shines here, with gallons of blood cascading in viscous torrents, turning domestic spaces into abattoirs.

Production history adds layers: shot in New Zealand standing in for LA, Evil Dead Rise faced COVID delays but emerged with a $17 million budget that punched far above its weight. Cronin’s vision honoured the franchise’s DIY roots while courting mainstream appeal through Sony’s Ghost House Pictures, blending nostalgia with fresh terror. Legends of the Necronomicon, borrowed from H.P. Lovecraft via Raimi, ground the supernatural in ancient Sumerian evils, but Cronin infuses it with modern familial stakes.

Grief’s Deadite Possession: The Emotional Core

At the heart of Evil Dead Rise throbs the theme of grief, portrayed as a force more insidious than any demon. Beth arrives for a weekend visit, only to witness her family’s annihilation, forcing her to confront unresolved sibling rivalries and the pain of her own nomadic life. Danny’s grief manifests in his fixation on the book, a desperate grasp for control amid his parents’ divorce; Bridget’s in her budding adolescence, masking vulnerability with sarcasm. Ellie’s possession weaponises these fractures, her Deadite form spewing vitriol that exposes raw wounds: accusations of neglect, abandonment, buried resentments.

This “burn grief” motif—explicitly named in fan discourse and echoed in the film’s fiery imagery—captures mourning’s dual nature: a slow smoulder that flares into consuming rage. When Ellie corners her children, her taunts ignite emotional infernos, mirroring the physical burnings later attempted to exorcise possessions. Cronin explained in interviews how personal losses inspired this, drawing from Irish folklore where sorrow binds spirits to the living. The result is emotional horror that lingers: audiences feel the sting of lost innocence alongside the splatter.

Character arcs deepen this exploration. Beth evolves from detached visitor to fierce protector, her grief fuelling improbable heroism—wielding a piano wire cheese slicer and meat tenderiser in iconic kills. Danny’s arc culminates in tragic sacrifice, his body contorting in agony as Deadites claim him, symbolising youth’s vulnerability to inherited pain. These motivations propel the plot, with every kill not just visceral but cathartic, purging grief’s poison only to rebirth it elsewhere.

Performances anchor the theme: Sutherland’s Ellie shifts seamlessly from weary mum to nightmarish hag, her distorted voice cracking with maternal betrayal. Sullivan’s Beth conveys quiet devastation, eyes brimming with unspoken apologies. The ensemble’s chemistry sells the pre-possession normalcy, making the grief’s eruption all the more shattering.

Fire’s Devouring Dance: Symbolism of the Burn

Fire recurs as the film’s primal antagonist and exorcist, embodying grief’s “burn.” Early, Danny burns his hand on a cigarette lighter, foreshadowing the inferno. Possessed bodies resist flames—Ellie’s husk smoulders but regenerates—until gasoline-drenched immolations provide fleeting victories. The rooftop climax sees Deadites doused in fuel, their screams harmonising with the LA skyline’s glow, a pyre for familial ashes.

This symbolism ties to franchise lore: the original’s cabin burned to ash, sealing the evil. Here, urban fire evokes societal collapse—riots glimpsed on TV, the building’s decay—paralleling personal pyres. Grief burns inwardly, scorching psyches; outwardly, it manifests in self-destructive fury. Cronin’s mise-en-scène uses flickering fluorescents and hellish shadows to blur fire’s literal and metaphorical roles.

Sound design amplifies the burn: crackling flesh sizzles in Dolby surround, layered with guttural moans evoking stifled sobs. Composer Stephen McKeon’s score weaves Irish laments into metal riffs, the fiddle’s wail mimicking grief’s keening. These elements forge an auditory inferno, immersing viewers in the theme’s heat.

Motherhood Monstrous: Gender and Trauma

Evil Dead Rise subverts slasher tropes through motherhood’s lens. Ellie’s possession perverts nurture into predation, her elongated tongue probing wounds like a grotesque breastfeeding. This inverts horror’s maternal figures—from Alien‘s Ripley to Rosemary’s Baby—positioning the mother as the monster. Beth’s surrogate role critiques absent patriarchy, her survival affirming female resilience amid systemic failures.

Trauma’s intergenerational chain links to national contexts: Cronin’s Irish heritage infuses Catholic guilt, sins of the father echoing in Deadite possession. Class politics simmer—Ellie’s blue-collar toil contrasts the elite high-rise—grief exacerbated by poverty’s grind. Sexuality flickers subtly: Bridget’s crush amid apocalypse underscores youth’s defiant bloom.

Gore Forge: Special Effects Mastery

The film’s practical effects, helmed by Make Up Effects Group, elevate it to gore opus status. Deadite metamorphoses employ silicone appliances, hydraulic limbs extending metres; the “Marilynn” elevator kill—victim bisected, entrails yanked skyward—required 200 gallons of blood. Cronin shunned CGI for tactile horror, inspired by Raimi’s stop-motion.

Impact resonates: the cheese-grater face peel, teeth-through-tongue impalement. These aren’t gratuitous; they visceralise grief’s mutilation of identity. Legacy-wise, it rivals The Thing, influencing indie horror’s effects renaissance.

Urban Siege: Genre Evolution and Influence

Shifting from woods to high-rise evolves the siege subgenre, akin to Rec or Quarantine, but with Deadite flair. Influence ripples: sequels teased, fan campaigns for crossovers. Culturally, it taps post-pandemic isolation, grief’s isolation amplified by lockdowns.

Production hurdles—Cronin’s pitch-blackouts, cast injuries—mirrored the film’s chaos, birthing legends like the “blood bath” where actors swam in 300 litres of methylcellulose.

Director in the Spotlight

Lee Cronin, born Francis Lee Cronin on 21 March 1983 in Dublin, Ireland, emerged as a formidable force in horror cinema through a blend of formal training and raw indie grit. Growing up in working-class Tallaght, Cronin devoured horror from The Exorcist to Italian gialli, nurturing a fascination with psychological dread. He studied film at the Institute of Art, Design and Technology (IADT) in Dún Laoghaire, graduating in 2005, where he honed skills via short films like T Is for Teacher (2005), a tense thriller about a sadistic educator.

His feature debut, The Hole in the Ground (2019), premiered at Sundance, earning praise for its folk-horror take on maternal doubt, starring Séana Kerslake and produced by Raimi himself. Budgeted at €2.5 million, it grossed over $7 million worldwide, cementing Cronin’s reputation. Influences span Kubrick’s precision to Carpenter’s synth pulses, evident in his meticulous storyboarding.

Cronin’s career trajectory accelerated with Evil Dead Rise (2023), his Hollywood breakout, grossing $147 million on a $17-25 million budget. He navigated franchise pressures by honouring lore while innovating, earning Raimi’s endorsement. Upcoming: Altar, a New Line supernatural thriller starring Melissa Barrera.

Comprehensive filmography: Triple Bill (2010, short omnibus); Eejit (2014, short); Ghost (2014, short, BAFTA-nominated); The Hole in the Ground (2019); Evil Dead Rise (2023). As producer, he backed Irish horrors like Sea Fever (2019). Cronin’s style—claustrophobic framing, sound-driven scares—positions him as horror’s next auteur, with themes of family fracture recurring.

Actor in the Spotlight

Alyssa Sutherland, born 23 September 1982 in Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia, transitioned from modelling to acting with a poise that belies her supermodel origins. Discovered at 15, she graced runways for Chanel, Armani, and Victoria’s Secret, appearing in over 50 campaigns before pivoting to screens. Her breakout came in historical dramas, but horror showcased her range.

Early life in a surfing family instilled resilience; she moved to Sydney for acting studies at the National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA). Notable roles include Aslaug in Vikings (2013-2016), the cunning queen opposite Travis Fimmel. She earned Logie Award nominations for The New Girl miniseries (2009).

In Evil Dead Rise, Sutherland’s dual performance as Ellie—tender mother to cackling Deadite—stole scenes, her physical commitment involving weeks in prosthetics. Career highlights: Mary and Max (2009, voice); Daybreakers (2009); Blue My Mind (2017); Kingdom of the Damned (upcoming).

Filmography: The Marine 2 (2009); Horizon (2013); Vikings (TV, 2013-20); American Crime Story: The People v. O.J. Simpson (2016); Tim Winton’s The Turning (2013); The Commons (TV, 2021); Evil Dead Rise (2023); Stone Reef (2024). Awards include Fashion Week honours; her horror turn cements dramatic depth, blending glamour with grotesquerie.

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