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R
for strong/bloody violence, language throughout, sexual material, nudity and some drug use.
Starring
Tyriq Withers, Marlon Wayans, Julia Fox, Tim Heidecker, Jim Jefferies
Director
Justin Tipping
Producer
Jordan Peele, Win Rosenfeld, I
Genres
Horror
Released by
Universal Pictures on
9/19/2025
Nationwide
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Trailer
Review
Sitting in the theater watching Him, I had an unpleasant flashback to The Neon Demon. As the movie lurched forward, growing ever more incoherent and alienating, I became convinced that the filmmakers, director Justin Tipping and his credited co-writers Skip Bronkie and Zack Akers, had overdosed on Nicolas Winding Refn's unwatchable 2016 misfire. Him is an exercise in excess, a relentless collage of overwrought imagery - like a magician waving both hands frantically so you won't notice there's nothing up his sleeve: no story, no characters, just noise. I can't argue with Universal's decision to market this as "horror," because horror is exactly what I felt when I glanced at my watch and realized there was still more than an hour left.
What exactly is Tipping doing? God only knows. On the surface, this plays like a thinly veiled jab at the toxicity of hyper-masculinity as filtered through American football. Then he tosses in a supernatural wrinkle - there may or may not be a demon lurking around - and smothers everything in a surreal aesthetic. Could it be that none of this is "real," that the protagonist's early traumatic brain injury has plunged him into delusion? Maybe he's in a coma and we're trapped inside the fever dream of an unhinged mind. Maybe he's already dead. At a certain point, though, these questions stop mattering. The only thing that matters is the slow crawl toward the end credits and the sweet relief of escaping this pretentious excuse for filmmaking.
Early on, it looks as if Tipping wants to satirize the violence simmering beneath America's favorite pastime. Rather than say anything new, Tipping just paraphrases Lombardi's oft-quoted saying about winning being everything, apparently convinced this amounts to profound cultural commentary. Enter the film's anointed GOAT, legendary quarterback Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), who has apparently struck a Faustian bargain. When he insists that winning requires sacrifice, he isn't being metaphorical. Part athlete, part cult leader, he's given carte blanche to "train" his teammates however his twisted heart desires.
Our unlucky tour guide into this milieu of madness is Cameron Cade (Tyriq Withers), a top prospect whose draft stock tanks after he's assaulted just before the combine. Enter Isaiah White, who spots Cam on tape and invites him for a week-long stay at his personal training cult - sorry, "facility." Once inside, Cam is indoctrinated into White's brutal, no-holds-barred regimen. The deeper Cam sinks into White's program, the more his sense of self evaporates. Hovering on the sidelines is White's wife, Elsie (an inert Julia Fox), a social media influencer who exists solely to whisper empty reassurances that everything is going to be okay.
If the film's thesis is ugly, its style is downright hideous. Yes, it aims for style over substance, but what we get is a mishmash of neon lights and muddy earth tones. There's no variation, no evolution - just the same tired aesthetic on an endless loop. Watching Him becomes a slog of monotony, the work of a one-trick pony whose one trick isn't all that impressive in the first place. Tipping clearly wants "psychedelic" and "trippy"; what he delivers is "frustrating" and "off-putting."
As with so many films drunk on their own "vision," Him drowns in its in-your-face flourishes, using visuals as camouflage for a story that collapses under the weight of its own emptiness. Cade is a cipher, Isaiah a stock type, and their intended Shakespearean interaction is characterized by one-dimensional acting, minimal tension, and dialogue so dumb it practically begs for parody. And parody might have worked - at least then the absurdity would've had a point. But like Nicolas Winding Refn with The Neon Demon, Tipping approaches it all with deadly seriousness, convinced he's delivering a profound statement when in reality he's just serving up an overwrought, futile mess.
© 2025 James Berardinelli
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