The Deadly Nuance Of GOAT Mentality: ‘Him’ Review

HIM is a psychological industry study into the cost of high visibility, especially for the Black body. To be consumed by the public and erased simultaneously is a common occurrence for A-list entertainment, as many understand but few involved will admit. The expectation to adhere to a manicured lifestyle can, and often does encourage hopeful talent to be idolized, commodified, and ultimately dehumanized by their own fame. These risks and rewards are a generally untouched topic in horror history, especially concerning the tight relationship between Black family values and dreams of American football.

Justin Tipping’s (Dear White People, The Chi) sophomore feature, and Monkeypaw debut, is an unconventional draft for the production company, and is certainly not free of judgement and comparison to its production predecessors. Similar to the social implications of pro-athletic lifestyles, there’s a method that followers of “The Paw” have discovered to unwrap the famously rooted messages of Monkeypaw stories. Let me pause to say, you cannot and should not decode this film in the same vein as Peele’s Nope, or DaCosta’s Candyman. Even through its faux pas, fans have no choice but to pick up on the transparent tragedy that HIM puts down, and the style and finesse it’s presented with.

HIM is a single location banger, with most of the story at Isiah White (Marlon Wayans)’s desert-locked private training facility/mansion. Cameron Cade (Tyriq Withers) is an excellent victim to fall over the blurred line between inspiration and vulnerability, misunderstanding a predatory environment as a rare privilege. After a serious dance with a head injury, and draft date on the way, Cameron accepts a week-long invitation to train his mind, body and spirit with the previously GOAT’ed Saviors quarterback. Withers’ performance will make your heart ache; his naivety and pride is familiar to the homes of Black American football families. Honest conversations of risk are worth having over the blind dedication to “God, family, football,” especially when influenced by CTE, financial gaslighting, or worse.

Isaiah and Cameron are illustrations of the grooming progression of idolization to dehumanization, to complete erasure. For now, it’s American football, but the pipeline has a hand in all A-list entertainment. Suspiria (2018) and Opus share these warnings for their respective industries, even art and journalism. It’s important not to be blinded by what we are told is the greatest opportunity.

What I find honest about HIM, is the avoidance to linger on the inflicted violence of Black bodies, without omitting the Black experience from American football. It’s translated into our language through quips and vernacular, but never through targeted violence the cheap-shot way. Isaiah’s inspirational remarks of football evolving through the effects of colonization supports Cam’s grind, and backs Isiah’s manipulation tactics as two Black athletes who understand we all have to be ‘gladiator-level great’ just to be good.

HIM balances “no guts, no glory” on the tip of the nose (for better or for worse) by relating the mental and physical demands athletes endure, to the trials of the second coming of Christ, himself. Yes, there’s sacrifice, but as much as it sucks now, it’ll be worth it when wealth rolls in, and fans roll out the pedestal to worship. Right? As many cult-ish organizations go, there is a time when victims of grooming become abusers themselves, and after that illusion of immunity wears off, the fight against erasure begins, which will ultimately be lost to support the institutional cycle. The not-so-hard to swallow pill? The real breadwinners are the billionaire moguls who profit ten-fold off of damaged performers, and discard them after their success dries up. Is it really such an honor to be the best queen, rook, or bishop on someone else’s bloody chess board?

Wayans’ performance (undoubtedly a career-best) leaves his character with real unhinged conviction to preserve his legacy; a determination that causes much more harm than good. The film’s third act is sequentially messy and overly-literal, but just like reality, the consequences of chasing validation are only felt after the damage has been done. For a pipeline so closely compared to religious pilgrimage, ain’t nothing Christ-like about it.

Tipping is wildly successful with the creation of an experimental, isolated atmosphere that was at one point welcoming. Thanks to the sum of its many parts, HIM might be one of the most visually surreal films this year. The switch from ‘golden opportunity’ to ‘cursed sensory deprivation chamber’ boils down to harmonies between departments. Production designer Jordan Ferrer’s perception of a dystopian, pseudo NFL supported by Dominique Dawson’s character wardrobe invites athletic A-list ensembles and saintly regalia into a seriously uncomfortable conversation on the people and organizations we choose to idolize.

Kira Kelly’s cinematography couldn’t have been a tougher fit to capture each department in their strongest angles, especially backed by gross and uncanny performances from Wayans and his on-screen wife, played by Julia Fox. Kelly’s strengths in framing and tight portraits subconsciously asks viewers if they know exactly who, what, and under what pretenses they will continue to worship.

The score by The Haxan Cloak (Midsommar, Eddington) polishes the edges of each departmental success. Each is strengthened by the soundscapes of all things regal. It’s an intense team effort that turns heads by being as flashy and unsubtle as possible. These aspects meet the criteria of what we know Monkeypaw stories to feel, look, and sound like. Depending on the type of movie-watcher you are, these successes can cut through the confusion of some unforgivable story progression faults.

Pro athletic leagues move with the ultimate efficiency; athletes, coaches, sports medicine specialists, the cash flow of shareholders… anything less than 100% won’t fly. It monopolizes every decision made, and will ever be made. If it ain’t up to par, anything can be replaced. The ironic truth is that HIM’s pacing and plot holes are everything pro leagues are not, and has left viewers lost on the field by its execution. It’s unclear where the stakes are, how much each character knows, and the order of malice. By the time viewers reach the final act, a communal guilty fatigue sets in; its story is lost on us, but the branches outside the writers room have no issue communicating to us. We as fans have been encouraged to lean in to dissect the depth of contemporary Black horror, but HIM forces us to digest from less than a yard away. There is no hidden message; the only way to analyze expressions and warnings is at the surface. Regardless, the message stands unmoveable in the end zone, and I think we should listen. Personally, I’m not willing to sacrifice anything…