There is, in the long and occasionally disreputable history of cinema, no more enduring romance than the one between horror and comedy, which is a courtship that, like most great love stories, began as a dare and has since refused, stubbornly, to grow up. If the legend is to be believed (and with Sam Raimi, legend is not only preferable but practically required), it began in the woods with a camera, a few obliging friends, and the creeping realization that terror, like most things, improves when someone slips on a banana peel immediately after being possessed by a demon.
Enter Stephen King, who, in a moment of divine branding, declared The Evil Dead “The Ultimate in Grueling Terror,” a phrase that sounds less like criticism than a lifelong prophecy. Raimi, still young enough to confuse exhaustion with inspiration, had accidentally built a career. He would go on to stretch, bend, and occasionally catapult that sensibility across genres, budgets, and entire cinematic universes, while dragging horror and comedy along with him like two delighted accomplices.
And yet, if Raimi’s films live anywhere permanently, it is not in theaters or even in memory, but on shelves. Sturdy, groaning shelves, where they have been reborn in every conceivable format. To follow Raimi is to become a collector against your will. One day, you own The Evil Dead on VHS, and the next, you are explaining to a loved one why the “limited edition steelbook” is, in fact, different from the “collector’s 4K slipcase,” and why both are essential to your emotional well-being.
So, in anticipation of the home video release of Send Help, a title that feels less like a film and more like a message from Raimi to his audience, we take stock. What, exactly, can one own? The answer, like Raimi’s camera movements, is quite a lot.
The Films, the Myth, the Shelf Space:
The Evil Dead (1981)
The book, the cabin, the boomstick’s distant ancestor. Available in so many editions that choosing one feels like selecting a wine pairing for demonic possession. The current darling is the 4K release or the ceremoniously bulky “Groovy Collection,” which bundles films and television like a haunted family heirloom. This is the cinematic equivalent of discovering your friends made something terrifying in their garage and somehow changed the genre forever—proof that ingenuity, not money, is the real special effect.
Crimewave (1985)
A comedy so elusive it feels theoretical, co-written with the Coen Brothers and whispered about in cinephile circles like a rumor you’re not entirely sure you imagined. The film is still lurking on Blu-ray, with extras that function as archaeological evidence. It’s a chaotic swing that feels like Raimi and the Coen Brothers dared each other to be weirder and then never agreed on when to stop.
Evil Dead II (1987)
A sequel, a remake, and a philosophical argument. Often declared superior, which is the sort of claim that has ended friendships. Available, naturally, in every format known to man and several that probably shouldn’t be. It’s the rare sequel-remake hybrid that improves on itself by doubling the insanity, like if Raimi looked at his original and said, “What if this… but comically possessed?”
Darkman (1990)
Liam Neeson, bandaged and brooding, in a proto-superhero tale that feels like Raimi sketching Spider-Man in the margins. Now comfortably restored in 4K, as though it always knew it would get here. This really was a superhero movie before superheroes were respectable, one where Neeson suffers beautifully and Raimi experiments with comic-book storytelling like a kid with fireworks.
Army of Darkness (1992)
The crown jewel, the cult of cult films, and the reason some people know the word “groovy” unironically. This has been released so many times that it has achieved a kind of physical-media immortality. The recent 4K steelbook is less a purchase than a commitment. My favorite movie of all time is a medieval fever dream powered by one-liners, skeletons, and pure confidence, which is the kind of movie that dares you not to quote it for the rest of your life, like me.
The Hudsucker Proxy (1994, 2nd Unit Director)
Officially a Coen Brothers film, and unofficially part of the Raimi extended universe. This exists in a modest release that feels almost apologetic, as it wandered onto the shelf by accident. Raimi’s fingerprints are light here, but you can feel his kinetic energy sneaking into the machinery of the Coen Brothers’most cartoonishly sincere fable.
The Quick and the Dead (1995)
A Western starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Russell Crowe, Gene Hackman, and Sharon Stone, which sounds like a lie you’d tell at a party. Criminally under-celebrated on disc, as though waiting for someone to notice how fun it is. But yes, it’s a western that shoots like a horror film and is a pretty underrated Western film in the genre.
A Simple Plan (1998)
A quiet, devastating thriller with Bill Paxton, Billy Bob Thornton, and Bridget Fonda, and, bafflingly, now on a collector’s Edition Blu-ray from Arrow. Blu-ray release. Here, Raimi trades splatter for snow and delivers a quiet moral gut punch, proving he can devastate you just as effectively without a single drop of blood.
For Love of the Game (1999)
Kevin Costner pitches a perfect game and remembers his life, which is either deeply moving or deeply baseball, depending on your tolerance for both. Still circulating in older formats, waiting for a revival it may or may not deserve. But, this is a baseball movie that plays like a breakup letter, which is either poetic or peak late-’90s sincerity depending on your mood.
The Gift (2000)
A Southern Gothic with Cate Blanchett, Keanu Reeves, and a screenplay by Billy Bob Thornton, proving Raimi can trade splatter for atmosphere without losing his grip. The Blu-ray exists, but the 4K remains a polite suggestion. If you like watching people carry the weight of dread on their shoulders, this is the film for you.
Spider-Man (2002)
The moment Raimi went from cult hero to cultural architect. Available in pristine 4K, polished to the point where even nostalgia looks high-definition. It launched the superhero genre and is all of the fun, dorkiness, comic book pulp, and action you could want.
Spider-Man 2 (2004)
Frequently cited as the best of the trilogy, featuring a train sequence that has aged better than most of us. Also available in 4K, where its greatness can be re-litigated indefinitely. It’s arguably the gold standard, where spectacle meets soul, and a guy in a tentacle harness becomes weirdly tragic.
Man with the Screaming Brain (2005, story)
A Bruce Campbell-directed oddity with Raimi DNA, existing mostly on DVD like a charmingly deranged footnote. But it feels like a late-night inside joke between Raimi and Campbell that somehow got funded, and we fans got rewarded.
Spider-Man 3 (2007)
The infamous one. You know, the hair, the dance, the excess. Reviled, defended, rewatched in 2026, where people now love it. Now preserved in 4K, as if to say, history will decide. But it’s over-memed, and oddly fascinating, which was a studio tug-of-war that still manages flashes of Raimi’s personality between dance moves.
Drag Me to Hell (2009)
Raimi returns to horror with a PG-13 rating and something to prove. The result is gleefully unhinged, and currently best experienced via a collector’s 4K that begs for a sequel. It’s like Raimi never left, as he gleefully reminds everyone that curses, slime, buttons, and impeccable timing never go out of style.
Oz the Great and Powerful (2013)
A Disney-sized detour into spectacle, filled with Raimi flourishes that peek through the polish. Still lingering in the era of 3D Blu-rays, like a relic of a brief technological ocular nightmare. Raimi sneaks in just enough weirdness to remind you there’s still a madman behind the curtain, and it is still far better than Wicked.
Ash vs. Evil Dead (2015–2018)
A television resurrection that proved some franchises simply refuse to die. This is available in tidy Blu-ray sets and the aforementioned Groovy Collection, which is beginning to sound less like a box set and more like a lifestyle. This 3-season show proves heroes age like fine wine and questionable decisions, who only get better with time and more blood.
Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness (2022)
Raimi invades the Marvel Cinematic Universe and leaves fingerprints everywhere with horror, humor, and Bruce Campbell included. Widely available in glossy 4K editions that feel almost too clean for his sensibilities. It was the first time horror was introduced into the MCU, even if most of the film was ultimately forgettable.
And now, Send Help, is poised to join this increasingly crowded shelf with a new object, a new excuse, and a new variation on the same delightful problem: how many times can one own a Raimi film before it becomes less about ownership and more about devotion?
The answer, of course, is that there is no limit. There are only formats. And Raimi, somewhere, is probably laughing about it, already imagining the next release, the next edition, and the next chance to send us all, willingly, back to the store.
