Jordan Peele’s impact on the horror genre over the past decade has far exceeded any expectations one could have envisioned when he suddenly staked his claim in the field less than 10 years ago. The man proved without reservation that he was, as the kids are saying these days, “Him,” to the degree that the Peele cosign—largely by way of his burgeoning Monkeypaw Productions banner—became an instant marker of horror voices worth hearing, even if they weren’t his own.
How much that cosign has come to mean in the intervening years has varied between projects—the biggest get Peele has managed under his banner so far has been in courting established names like Henry Selick and Spike Lee—but what remains certain with “Him” is that Justin Tipping’s reliance on Peele’s brand recognition goes well beyond a mere endorsement. Essentially trading “Get Out” for “Get Off the Field,” Tipping’s second feature doesn’t seem capable of existing without its progenitor’s specific brand of off-kilter comedy-horror commentary on the commodification of Black bodies; what’s more, the film doesn’t seem capable of thriving within this framework, either.
This much is clear from the opening deluge of dime-a-dozen backstory exposition laying the groundwork for Cameron Cade (Tyriq Withers) to be the star of the show. We know he’s the star of the show because “Him” will take every opportunity to bask in the potential of this absolutely perfect specimen of football quarterback, perfected even further by the persistent grind-set instilled by his late father to make whatever sacrifices might be necessary to lead his sport across a field strewn with bloody spittle.
This determination puts Cade in the path of his idol, Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), who enlists the newcomer after a sudden blow to the head to take on a week-long intensive training session on his isolated compound, in preparation for an upcoming scouting event. White’s methods strain even the most hardened limits of dedication, and under the tutelage of this monstrously unhinged mentor, Cade begins to understand that if he wants to become the GOAT, he’ll have to learn to grab life by the horns.
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I’m sorry, was that expression corny and awkward? Well, you’re not going to find much variation in that regard across “Him,” as Tipping—alongside co-writers Skip Bronkie and Zack Akers—lets not a single chance pass by to infuse the film with an empty platitude about success and sacrifice, dipped in current parlance so stilted in its delivery that it already feels dated by the time any of these lines finish escaping from these drooling mouths. Virtually every word spoken here feels as though it’s been uttered in at least five other sports films—save for the flavor Wayans attempts to add with each colorful adjective thrown in front of an n-bomb—to the point where reading off bible quotes about shepherding the weak and “an eye for an eye” would probably wind up giving the film more personality.
Not that Tipping doesn’t make an effort to imbue his sophomore feature with some semblance of idiosyncrasy, primarily in the cultish depiction of White’s secluded desertscape and all the tattered football paraphernalia interspersed among Cade’s CTE- (and/or demon blood?)-induced hallucinations of figures dressed head-to-toe in pom-pom-ified viking gear. Despite these efforts, though, “Him” never escapes the realm of a kitschy Peele knockoff, borrowing all the puzzle pieces without any interest in assembling them into a greater image of its own design.
Perhaps this might be forgivable were “Him” anchored by the very sort of charismatic presences that might foster this fervent fanfare—both in terms of the up-and-comer and his mentor—but Withers and Wayans both prove woefully under-equipped to weaponize any form of charm that can be channeled into a killer spiral. In teasing the potential parallels in their journeys (the come-up vs the fight against waning relevance), Justin Tipping saddles us with such underdeveloped vessels that nothing more persistent than his overworked bromides ever manages to make their way through the huff-and-puff of an endurance test that finds no satisfactory soreness in its grueling workout.
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