There’s a sickness in the way we talk about quarterbacks. Not just the hero worship, but the ritual sacrifice. Him, directed by Justin Tipping and starring Marlon Wayans, doesn’t just dramatize football—it dissects it, bleeds it, and then asks if we’re still entertained. It’s a film that wants to be both sermon and séance, and while it doesn’t always land the pass, it throws hard.
The plot is deceptively simple: Cameron “Cam” Cade (Tyriq Withers), a top draft prospect, is invited to train with his childhood idol, Isaiah White (Wayans), at a desert compound. What begins as mentorship quickly devolves into a psychological crucible. Isaiah, still active in the league despite a long-ago injury, is less coach than cult leader. Cam is drugged, tested, broken down. The drills are brutal. The blood is real. The compound is a fortress of paranoia. There’s no team here, only survival.
As a football drama, Him is claustrophobic. It avoids the stadium, the crowd, the spectacle. It isolates the sport, stripping it of context and turning it into a private obsession. That choice is bold, but it is also limiting. The film’s refusal to engage with the broader football ecosystem—media, fans, league politics—makes its satire feel hermetic. There’s no ESPN ticker, no draft buzz, no outside world: just Cam, Isaiah, and the ghost of greatness.
As horror, Him is more effective. The editing is jagged, the lighting oppressive. The mascot-spirit that assaults Cam early on is never explained, and that ambiguity works. The compound itself feels cursed. Blood rituals, cryptic chants, and Isaiah’s unblinking intensity create a mood of dread. Marlon Wayans, playing against type, is unnerving. His performance is controlled, menacing, and deeply sad. He’s not a villain. He’s a relic. A man who gave everything to the game and now demands others do the same.
The title—Him—echoes throughout. Isaiah is Him. Cam is told he could be Him. The word becomes a mantra, a brand, a prophecy. But it’s also a trap. To be Him is to erase yourself. To become a vessel for glory, pain, and expectation. The film’s most disturbing insight is that Him is not a person, but a role. And once you’re cast, there’s no exit.
Still, the film stumbles. The pacing drags in the middle. The allegory is overworked. Scenes repeat their point without escalation. Julia Fox, as Isaiah’s wife Elsie, is underused. Tim Heidecker’s agent character feels like a sketch dropped into a nightmare. And while the horror elements are strong, they sometimes overwhelm the human story. Cam’s arc is compelling, but it is often obscured by symbolism.
Yet there’s something admirable in the attempt. Him doesn’t flinch. It’s anxious, neurotic, and paranoid—qualities that match its subject. It’s not a touchdown, but it moves the chains. It’s a film that understands the cost of greatness and the madness of chasing it.
Grade: B.
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