Ever since Sam Raimi first unleashed ‘The Evil Dead’ in 1981, the franchise has thrived on a precarious balancing act between outrageous gore and gleeful black comedy. Limbs fly, blood sprays across the walls, yet somehow the films remain exhilarating rather than oppressive because they’re fuelled by a manic sense of fun. ‘Evil Dead Burn’, directed by Sébastien Vaniček, understands the mechanics of the series perfectly, but not always its spirit. This is arguably the bleakest entry yet, replacing Raimi’s anarchic energy with a grim exploration of domestic abuse, grief and familial toxicity.

The story centres on Alice, played with real conviction by Souheila Yacoub, whose abusive husband dies in mysterious circumstances before the opening credits have barely settled. If she expects sympathy at his funeral, she finds anything but. Her late husband’s family regard her with suspicion and barely concealed contempt, gathering in an isolated, decaying country house where old resentments simmer beneath the surface. Matters become considerably worse when the younger brother, Joseph, inadvertently awakens the Deadites while investigating his grandfather’s research into the Book of the Dead and a mystical dagger capable of destroying them. Soon the family members begin falling, one by one, to demonic possession.

It’s an intriguing premise because Vaniček attempts to fuse supernatural horror with a drama about coercive control and the way abusive behaviour can be enabled across generations. Horror has always been capable of tackling serious social issues, but there’s an uneasy feeling that ‘The Evil Dead’ may not be the ideal vehicle for such material. The series has traditionally revelled in inventive mayhem rather than psychological realism, and here the emotional weight sometimes sits awkwardly alongside the fountains of blood.

That said, there is no denying Vaniček’s technical flair. Several of the set pieces are superbly choreographed. A sustained attack inside a car turns almost every feature of the vehicle -seatbelts, airbags, headrests and even the sunroof – into instruments of destruction, while an elaborate single take through the family home demonstrates remarkable precision. The violence itself is certainly imaginative, if not for the faint-hearted. Faces are smashed into dishwasher doors, pens are driven into ears, and almost every domestic object becomes a potential weapon. If you can imagine it causing injury, chances are Vaniček has already beaten you to it.

Curiously, the film’s humour feels less indebted to Raimi than to Jacques Tati. Where Raimi found slapstick amid the carnage, Vaniček often stages the action with an almost deadpan absurdity. Critics have commented on how Alice lurches through the house like Monsieur Hulot trapped inside a nightmare, every innocent household object transformed into something grotesquely lethal. It’s an unusual comic register, and while it occasionally lands, the relentless misery surrounding it means the laughs rarely provide the release the audience desperately needs.

Visually, however, the film is less successful. An aggressively desaturated palette leaves everything coated in greys and ash, flattening rather than heightening the atmosphere. Combined with some unconvincing visual effects in the final act, the film never becomes as visceral as it ought to.

Ultimately, ‘Evil Dead Burn’ is a technically accomplished but emotionally exhausting addition to the franchise. Souheila Yacoub gives the story genuine dramatic weight, and Vaniček proves himself an inventive director of action and horror choreography. Yet by leaning so heavily into trauma and brutality, the film forgets that ‘The Evil Dead’ has always been at its best when its cruelty is offset by mischievous wit. There are moments here of undeniable brilliance, but this is a gruelling rather than exhilarating experience, and one likely to satisfy committed fans more than newcomers, and one that occasionally mistakes relentless suffering for genuine depth.