Him, directed by Justin Tipping, is in cinemas now.
It probably sounded like a potentially excoriating indictment of the cult of American football, the altar at which many African-American young men kneel for fame, fortune and debilitating head injuries. Or possibly a story about the commoditisation of black bodies, and the goal to become the best player of them all.
Little wonder the premise of this psychological horror-satire caught the early attention of filmmaker Jordan Peele, one of the foremost commentators on race in US cinema, lauded for the likes of Get Out, Us and Nope. Peele’s name is the loudest calling card on Him, but only as producer, a Hollywood ruse used as shorthand for “This must be good”.
Alas, the sole cautionary tale from this dreadful movie is the one which warns audiences to ignore the bold font of a producer credit. It looks pretty, but Him is hyperbolic, boring, underwritten and over-styled nonsense which should never have made it from pitch to picture.
On the rise to hallowed status of Goat (“greatest of all time”) humbly handsome quarterback Cameron Cade (Tyriq Withers) suffers a mysterious assault (by a masked, horned figure), causing a brain injury which risks his career.
With his dead father’s cliches – “No guts, no glory!” and “real men make sacrifices!” – echoing in his head, and an offer from team the San Antonio Saviors, Cameron accepts an offer to train at the Texas desert compound of his idol, former Savior star quarterback Isaiah White (an unfathomably terrible Marlon Wayans).
White’s brutally violent training regime prompt Cade to question his dream, as this unsubtle critique of pain vs gain begins to wear on the viewer even worse than it does Cade’s body.
Director and co-writer Tipping employs all the styles, all the camera shots, and all the soundtrack in this relentlessly overwhelming visual and aural racket. Mozart’s Lacrimosa heralds catastrophic injury, while N-word-this, MF-that hip-hop accompanies Cade’s repetitive workouts and dull parties. There’s not one fleshed-out character, no meaningful relationship, and just a hint of light relief in the form of Australian comedian Jim Jefferies as White’s obnoxious personal physician.
It would seem that American audiences who are objecting to Him may be less concerned with the poor writing and over-the-top direction than the groaning religious allusions. The poster shows a bloodied Cade in crucifixion stance, there’s a fleeting shot of a Last Supper-esque tableau, there’s that team name a Hail Mary-branded football launcher is used at close range as cruel punishment.
Cade eventually exacts his own retribution, but it’s less than divine. Just the end of a godawful film.
Rating out of five: ½ a star
