Him – Film Review

On paper, Him had all the makings of an exciting, genre-bending project. Directed by Justin Tipping and co-written by Skip Bronkie, Zack Akers, and Tipping, the film comes from Monkeypaw Productions, the company founded by Jordan Peele that has made a name for itself with high-concept, socially charged horror. The premise of Him alone is enticing: a young football prodigy, Cameron Cade (Tyriq Withers), sees his career nearly derailed by violence, only to be offered a lifeline by his idol, Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), a fading quarterback with secrets buried deep in his private training compound.

The blend of sports drama, psychological horror, and supernatural dread has potential for originality. Unfortunately, potential is all Him ever manages. What emerges instead is a muddled, inconsistent film that stumbles in tone, undercuts its suspense, and fails to deliver either as a horror movie or as an emotionally gripping story. The final product is a confused film that feels like three different projects stitched together without rhythm, focus, or identity.

The screenplay is Him’s most glaring issue. For a story that sets itself up around questions of ambition, obsession, and the price of greatness, the dialogue is clunky and on-the-nose, robbing scenes of any naturalism. Characters frequently deliver lines that sound more like mission statements than conversation, leaving viewers painfully aware of the script’s heavy hand.

The plot, meanwhile, fails to capitalize on its central mystery. The film toys with supernatural elements—a shadowy figure watching over Cam’s training, strange injuries that defy logic, Isaiah’s cryptic sermons about sacrifice—but rarely commits to them. The result is a film that gestures at cosmic horror without ever clarifying the rules of its world. Is the evil at work a manifestation of Isaiah’s ego, a literal demonic force, or something psychological in Cam’s mind? By the end, the ambiguity feels less like intentional complexity and more like indecision.

Even worse, Him structures itself like a slow-burning psychological thriller but lacks the precision and restraint that such pacing demands. Scenes drag on without purpose, cutting to repetitive montages of Cam running drills or Isaiah whispering vague threats about “the game.” Instead of building tension, the film repeats itself into exhaustion.

Casting Marlon Wayans as Isaiah White could have been a masterstroke. Wayans, known mostly for comedy, has shown glimpses of dramatic range in the past. Here, however, his performance is uneven. At times he taps into Isaiah’s charisma and simmering menace, suggesting a man who has lived too long in the spotlight. But the script demands that he switch erratically from mentor to tyrant to unhinged cult leader, and Wayans never finds the connective tissue between these facets. His attempts at gravitas too often collapse into melodrama.

Tyriq Withers, as Cameron, struggles in the lead role. While earnest, his performance is hampered by a lack of development for his character. Cam is written less as a three-dimensional person and more as a blank canvas onto which themes are projected. Withers gives physicality to the role, particularly in the football sequences, but he cannot overcome the absence of a convincing psychological arc. His transformation from ambitious athlete to haunted victim is abrupt and unconvincing.

Julia Fox, as Elsie White, Isaiah’s influencer wife, is perhaps the film’s most wasted asset. The script teases that Elsie might hold the key to Isaiah’s secrets, but she is reduced to delivering Instagram-ready quips and hollow warnings. Her subplot could have offered a meaningful counterpoint to Cam’s struggle, but it is abandoned before it develops.

Supporting turns from Tim Heidecker as Cam’s opportunistic manager and Jim Jefferies in a brief role as a sports commentator provide little more than comic relief, which clashes tonally with the film’s supposed darkness.

Monkeypaw’s involvement sets high expectations for atmosphere and originality, but Him fails to deliver either. Tipping’s direction relies heavily on visual clichés. And it’s just so mind-boggling as to what Peele and the rest of the Monkeypaw folks saw in this project.

The compound setting—a sprawling mansion with a private field—could have been mined for claustrophobic unease. Instead, it is underutilized. Scenes meant to convey dread are often flatly lit and unimaginatively staged, more like a television drama than a theatrical horror release. The editing compounds the problem, stretching moments of silence into tedium rather than suspense. Also, the soundtrack might be the worst in a horror film in an exceptionally long time.

Even the football action, which could have grounded the film in visceral physicality, is blandly choreographed. The drills, scrimmages, and hits lack intensity, leaving viewers with no sense of the brutality or stakes inherent to the sport. When the supernatural finally intersects with the game, the effects look cheap and unconvincing, undercutting the intended horror.

Him wants to grapple with the dangers of hero worship, the commodification of athletes, and the blurred line between ambition and self-destruction. These are fertile thematic grounds, particularly in today’s culture of sports celebrity. But the film approaches them with such a lack of subtlety that they feel more like afterthoughts than insights.

Isaiah’s philosophy about sacrifice is hammered into the script so frequently that it loses any impact. Cam’s arc, meant to symbolize the struggle between independence and indoctrination, collapses under the weight of clichés. Instead of exploring how obsession with legacy corrodes the self, Him reduces the idea to Isaiah growling monologues about “greatness” while Cam looks increasingly bewildered.

The supernatural element, which could have elevated these themes into metaphor, is barely sketched. Viewers are left with hints of a demonic presence or cursed ritual, but no clarity on what it represents. The final act attempts to pull everything together in a shocking climax, but the ending lands with confusion rather than revelation.

Monkeypaw Productions has earned its reputation for innovative horror that blends genre thrills with sharp social commentary. Him is a rare misfire for the studio. Instead of sharpening its premise into something bold and resonant, the film meanders in circles, unsure of whether it wants to be a chilling sports allegory, a haunted-house story in shoulder pads, or a psychological duel between mentor and protégé.

The result is a film that pleases neither horror fans nor sports enthusiasts. Viewers seeking scares will find recycled imagery and shallow shocks. Those invested in the football drama will find little insight into the pressures of the game. And anyone hoping for Monkeypaw’s signature cultural sharpness will be disappointed by its absence.

Him is a frustrating experience precisely because its premise holds such promise. A supernatural sports horror could have carved out a unique niche, offering both genre thrills and commentary on the cult of athletic stardom. Instead, the film settles for a messy script, underwhelming performances, and half-hearted horror.

Despite it being only ninety-six minutes, Him overstays its welcome, dragging viewers through endless repetition without ever rewarding their patience. By the time the credits roll, what lingers is not fear, awe, or reflection—but disappointment.

Him drops the ball spectacularly, proving that even with an intriguing concept and a talented production team, sloppy execution can sink the game.