Him

Jordan Peele continues to build his brand with Him, a sports-related horror movie he produced for director Justin Tipping. In true Spielbergian media empire fashion, Peele’s name-above-the-title status will likely draw moviegoers to this messy flick about an ambitious quarterback who faces an evil conspiracy while pursuing his dream of becoming the GOAT. The alternate title might be American Horror Story: Football—the material even plays out with a similarly heightened tonality reminiscent of a Ryan Murphy affair, complete with over-the-top performances and zany visuals that punctuate its examination of American identity. Sure enough, Him asks the question: What would you do to be successful? It’s an old Faustian question in horror cinema, found in The Devil and Daniel Webster (1941) and The Devil’s Advocate (1997). And while there’s an inspired performance by Marlon Wayans at the movie’s center, Tipping’s hyperactive, darkly surreal visuals and overactive montages prove less scary than chaotic, and ultimately annoying. 

As a child, Cameron Cade, compelled by his late father’s lifelong mentorship, aspired to be like his idol: quarterback Isaiah White (Wayans), who plays for the Saviors. “Who are you?” his father would ask. “I’m him!” the boy Cade would reply. Played by Tyriq Withers, Cade worked his entire life to dominate college football and now considers his options for the big leagues. That’s when he’s attacked by a ghoulish figure, leaving him with a cracked skull and a brain injury. Despite warnings from his doctor, Cade refuses to stop playing, determined to live up to his father’s expectations. His bloodsucking agent (Tim Heidecker) certainly doesn’t complain. Cade soon agrees to undergo a week-long assessment at White’s home to determine if he meets the Saviors’ standards. Upon his arrival at White’s desert compound, Cade glimpses the player’s freakshow fanbase of warboys, masked goliaths, and a spitting woman who looks like Lady Gaga in Joker: Folie à Deux (2024). Inside the underground lair, Cade sees all manner of bizarre sights, from White’s vampire-looking influencer wife (Julia Fox) to the culty decorative motifs throughout the place. 

The warning signs grow ever more conspicuous, but Cade, who has the personality of a cardboard standee, barely flinches. The sleep deprivation tanks, 200-degree saunas, and hyperbaric chambers might be standard enough. However, White’s daily blood transfusions and disturbing intensity (“This ain’t no fucking game. This is everything!”)? Not so much. And consider the training regimen that requires Cade to complete a pass in two seconds, otherwise a throwing machine tosses a football at 70 miles an hour into a willing volunteer’s increasingly shattered face. That would be enough to dissuade any rational human being, but not Cade. There’s also the depressed doctor (Jim Jefferies) who gives Cade random shots of something-or-other and eventually tells him to “run.” Does Cade heed this advice? Not until it’s too late. The scenario reaches its twisted apex when Cade meets the team’s owners, an inner circle of rich white men in ritualistic garb and animal furs (never good). 

As for the filmmaking, when someone asks what it means to over-direct a movie, let Him be the example. The presentation is so hectic and stylized that no emotion breaks through. With the energy of a sports drink commercial, Tipping and editor Taylor Joy Mason create a visual treatment reminiscent of Tony Scott’s most frenetic work on Man on Fire (2004) and Domino (2005). They fill the 96-minute runtime with incessant montages: news broadcast montages, training montages, and dream montages. When the movie isn’t in montage mode, the edits feel choppy. Cinematographer Kira Kelly employs erratic movements and body-mounted cameras, along with several neat-looking X-ray vision sequences when one would have been enough. Tipping’s amped-up approach also includes a chapter structure with titles in a devilish font (Fun, Poise, Leadership, etc.), one for each day of Cade’s stay at White’s retreat. And let’s not forget the press junket table arranged around Cade like the Last Supper. 

Beneath Tipping’s excess lies a critique of how parents, mentors, and the entire football enterprise groom athletes, preparing them for purchase by grotesque executives, much like show horses. Him also cuts into the cult-like devotion to teams and players, treating them like gods in what is ultimately a hollow commercial enterprise. Players sell their souls to become part of sports history and earn ridiculous salaries. The message isn’t subtle. Tipping, who co-wrote the script with Skip Bronkie and Zack Akers, shows no restraint, and his brand of excess isn’t particularly pleasant—especially not the gory finale, which might’ve been admirably outrageous if the material had been more engaging. At least Wayans is enjoyable to watch, alternating between funny, demonic, and scary. The rest is mostly rubbish, sacrificing its narrative involvement and thematic punch for an extreme aesthetic.