Him is one of those films that gets progressively worse as you watch it, and even after reflecting on it post-credits. Its first act draws you in to some extent, in spite of the maladroit dialogue and acting, but the second act confuses and irritates you so much that by the time we get to the cartoonish climax, you’ve long since checked out.
I have no idea what possessed Jordan Peele, or the higher-ups at Monkeypaw Productions, to produce Him, but they should have been exorcised on the spot. For today’s review, we have one of 2025’s most bafflingly hollow films. At best, it’s style over substance in the extreme, and at worst, it’s excruciatingly glib. However noble its intentions, its execution is enough to induce a migraine.
If there’s a concrete thesis to Him, then it’s the corrosive nature of toxic masculinity. The seed of this idea is sprinkled into the film early on, when we meet Cameron “Cam” Cade as a child watching his favourite American Football player, Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans). When White is injured, after scoring the winning touchdown, Cam’s overbearing father notes that men must be willing to sacrifice anything to be the greatest. That harmful philosophy informs Cam’s life. As an adult, Cam (Tyriq Withers) is an up-and-coming football player whose prospects diminish when he suffers a graphic head injury at the hands of a masked assailant.
An unexpected saviour arrives in the form of Isaiah, who is now on the brink of retirement after eight championship title wins. Isaiah offers to train Cam personally via a one-week stay at his desert resort. Cam, thrilled at the chance to work with his hero, accepts, despite the risks to his career and health, should something else go wrong. It is not long into Cam’s training that the horror elements of the film emerge, as what starts as a seemingly too intense work regime descends into realms of supernatural barbaricness. It’s just a pity that the supposed horror is more likely to induce puzzlement or, worse, snorts of disbelief.
Tyriq Withers is Cam in HIM, directed by Justin Tipping.
On paper, there’s a decent concept to Him. The toxic ideal of sacrificing anything and everything, especially your physical and mental health, to be the greatest (or the GOAT, as the characters say here) is a compelling topic for exploration. Other media titles have done it before – The Novice, Whiplash and Black Swan immediately spring to mind – but it’s still a sturdy thematic crux. Him uses this as a springboard to explore the dark side of fame, the pressures of peak athleticism and, as noted, toxic masculinity. However, rather than streamlining these rich ideas into a cohesive whole, the presentation is erratic – akin to throwing things at the wall in the hopes that one of them will stick.
Writer-director Justin Tipper and co-writers Skip Bronkie and Zack Akers certainly don’t lack ambition. The problem is that the ideas in their script, as numerous as they are, aren’t given any real weight; their depth remains unexplored in favour of superficial characters, cheap scares, and painfully unconvincing performances. Body horror moments are portrayed either through whiplash editing and sound design, leaving us struggling to get a complete picture of what’s happening, or through a bizarre use of X-ray visuals. These sequences highlight the internal effects of Cam’s intensive training and the potential consequences of overexertion, but they’re less scary and more odd in presentation. If anything, it tones down the horror factor.
The visuals are certainly stylish, courtesy of cinematographer Kira Kelly’s keen eye, but the imagery is overwhelmingly in-your-face, robbing the picture of all suspense while simultaneously being both confusing and glaringly unsubtle. Cam’s scar is stapled in a pattern identical to the stitches on an American football, making for a blindingly obvious bit of symbolism regarding what’s at stake for him. Scenes of foreshadowing, such as the secret injections Isaiah’s team give Cam, fail to deliver, as these strange moments are spliced together messily, lacking the agency to make us feel unnerved by them. All the while, the imagery is strung together so haphazardly that it’s not always clear what scenes are genuine and what is just happening inside Cam’s mind, making the film endlessly annoying to navigate.
Some of its visuals are simply ridiculous, especially once supernatural components are introduced. This includes avid fans of Isaiah, who camp near his private property while dressing up like the War Boys from Mad Max: Fury Road. The hammy acting and farcical costuming are better suited to spoof pictures, and their appearances are far too brief to leave any impression beyond incredulous scoffs.
The third act becomes especially unengaging once the convoluted truth is revealed, transforming the picture from a diluted Whiplash into a feeble Get Out knockoff. Chief among them is the inclusion of a white antagonistic group that opposes the protagonist. If this is supposed to be an observation on how people sell their souls to elitist, and usually white, conformities for a shot at greatness, then it’s rendered moot by the sheer absurdity of its climax, which comes so far out of left field that it feels more like an ending that’s been substituted in rather than predetermined.
Good performances can carry the most loaded script a considerable distance. Sadly, they are not to be found here. The corny dialogue, consisting of trite “who’s the man” and “you gotta be the best” pontifications, doesn’t give the cast much to work with, but there’s a distinct lack of organicness to boot. Withers’ acting is stilted and awkward, undermining the anxiety and discomfort his character should be feeling, particularly when the gorier scenes unfold.
Julia Fox plays Isaiah’s wife, Elsie, with her blatant, hyperactive mannerisms and flamboyant fashion sense, making pantomimes look subdued. But they’re small chips compared to the woefully miscast Marlon Wayans, who is not only far too old to be playing a recently retired athlete at fifty-three, but simply does not have the self-restraint to make his role menacing. The characters are about as deep as the degree to which the themes are explored – in other words, shallower than a puddle – but these performances drag the film down from vapid and mind-numbing to outright exhausting.
Him is one of those films that gets progressively worse as you watch it, and even after reflecting on it post-credits. Its first act draws you in to some extent, in spite of the maladroit dialogue and acting, but the second act confuses and irritates you so much that by the time we get to the cartoonish climax, you’ve long since checked out. Slapdash, ludicrous, and ultimately too underdeveloped to tackle its otherwise interesting themes, Him is godawful; about as far from a touchdown as one can get.
Him is showing in cinemas nationwide from October 3.
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