An ambitious college football player finds himself drawn into a cult in Justin Tipping’s sports horror.

Justin Tipping’s Him wants to be a lot of things at once: a horror film about ambition; a study of sports hero worship; and a nightmarish meditation on what brain and body trauma does to the self. It doesn’t always manage the balancing act, but when it clicks it’s because of two forces. The first is Marlon Wayans, whose range has been criminally underutilised since Requiem For A Dream, and the second is Kira Kelly’s kinetic cinematography that makes every frame feel like a concussion dream.

We meet Cameron “Cam” Cade (Tyriq Withers) as a promising college quarterback whose future seems assured…until a brutal off-field attack leaves him near death. Just as his lifelong dream is slipping away, his childhood idol Isaiah White (Wayans) swoops in with an invitation to take part in a secretive training retreat at his palatial home. Isaiah promises to rebuild Cam and pass as sporting torch onto this ambitious ingénue. Wayans is an utter riot as the furious and perpetually dialed-up-to-11 aging athlete. Isaiah has the warmth of a mentor one moment and the predatory coldness of a cult leader the next, and it’s instantly clear how a vulnerable young athlete could be seduced and then broken by this man, choosing to ignore the warning signs.

Tipping and cinematographer Kelly further fortify proceedings by creating images that recall early aughts MTV. Training facilities are shot like cathedrals of masculine devotion and Goop style wellness nonsense; locker rooms warp into shadowy temples; candlelight bounces off sweat-slicked skin until you’re not sure if you’re watching a sports montage or soft porn. It’s poptastic, eerie work that suggests Him could have been a masterpiece had the core matched the veneer.

The script wants to say something biting about obsessive sports culture, the brutalisation of bodies for commerce and the exploitation of Black athletes, but pulls its punches, getting lost instead in muddled occult plotting and never saying anything beyond the most blatantly obvious. The woefully dated influencer caricature played by Julia Fox only further dampens the satirical power, while the confusing tone disorientates in a manner that’s distracting rather than exciting. One scene might feature compelling grounded psychological power games; the next veers into ritualistic body horror with little connective tissue, then stops short of true balls to the wall depravity. Him keeps promising a deeper thesis about pain, masculinity and glory but rarely delivers much more than well-curated vibes. By the final act, when the film finally goes for broke with blood-soaked chaos, it’s audacious but crowd pleasing stuff. The slowly built tension gives way to bloody operatic grandeur which is predictable but satisfying. 

Still, there’s something thrilling about watching a mainstream horror film attempt this much. Even when the narrative gets away from him, Tipping’s eye and Wayans’ electric, unpredictable presence keep the film a grand old time. It’s a messy, sometimes frustrating work, but it also shows flashes of greatness and a compelling showcase for an actor long overdue a renaissance. While Him falls far short of being the GOAT it aspires to be and Jordan Peele’s attachment speaks to just how much better and cleverer it could have been, it’s a bold play worth seeing, if only to watch Marlon Wayans get the ball and run.