Brandon Lee has come and gone

“If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them.”

When Brandon Lee succumbed to internal hemorrhaging caused by the negligent discharging of a hastily manufactured dummy round on March 31, 1993, the corner-cutting producers of the film for which he quite unintentionally gave his life were faced with a dilemma. Could they in good conscience finish and release their comic-book-based action film knowing that their penny-pinching behavior had, to some extent, resulted in the death of their leading man? And not just any leading man. He was the son of Bruce Lee, the globally revered martial arts superstar who died at the age of 32 from a cerebral edema that, so the debunked-but-impossible-to-kill legend goes, might’ve been foul play on the part of Chinese gangsters.

"The Crow," they decided, would fly. And on May 11, 1994, the film alighted on top of the U.S. box office, thus spawning a franchise that would produce nothing of artistic or notable commercial value. Deservedly. Because "The Crow" was Brandon Lee’s stepping stone to stardom, and it needlessly killed him.

The success of "The Crow" was morbidly akin to the posthumous fandom that sprung up around James Dean during the theatrical releases of "Rebel Without a Cause" and "Giant." In terms of cinematic achievement, "The Crow" is nowhere near these bona fide classics, but Lee was every bit as galvanizing and inscrutable as Dean. He was clearly vibing on James O’Barr’s macabre comic book (inspired in part by the author’s fiancée’s death at the hands of a drunken driver) and evidently saw it as a chance to flaunt the thespian chops he’d been developing in acting class. According to Mark Harris’ Entertainment Weekly piece written a few weeks after his death, Lee wanted to be a serious actor. Had he survived his wholly preventable accident, Lee would have been all over the 1998 film version of David Rabe’s "Hurlyburly."

Lee is one of filmdom’s most intriguing question marks. He was determined not to be his father, and yet his finest performance was in Dwight H. Little’s action programmer "Rapid Fire." He was insanely magnetic and handled the fight choreography with an acrobatic ease that recalled Jackie Chan (whose work obviously inspired some of the movie’s best set pieces). He bantered better than his dad (though Bruce never had a sparring partner as adept as Powers Boothe) and possessed a goofball profile reminiscent of Jay Leno. But he didn’t want to be an amiable Bruce Lee. He wanted to be Sean Penn.

Rewriting turned "The Crow" into a moving eulogy for Brandon Lee, but it can’t mask that this project was a means to an end. Lee was playing a long game. He wanted an Oscar, and there’s every reason to believe his willingness to go big would’ve resulted in one. (All great actors give directors more than they need.) Alas, he gave 100 percent on a production that invested considerably less than that in his safety. 

He’s been gone for 26 years, and the 25th anniversary of "The Crow" is occasion to yet again grieve for a gifted young man who was betrayed by money-grubbing dirtbags. Be as water.