HIM

If you had told me twenty years ago that the man who once vacuumed a floor with his tongue in Scary Movie would eventually become one of the most unsettling screen presences in modern psychological horror, I’d have asked for whatever you were smoking. Yet, here we are, looking back at Marlon Wayans in HIM, a film that feels like it was whispered into existence by a very stressed-out sports agent. It’s a strange, jagged little pill of a movie that somehow slipped through the cracks of the mid-2020s, despite having the legendary Monkeypaw Productions seal of approval.

I watched this on a Tuesday night while eating a lukewarm protein bar that tasted like chalky disappointment, which, honestly, put me in the perfect headspace for a movie about the grueling, soul-crushing cost of athletic "greatness."

The Wayans Pivot

The setup is classic "be careful what you wish for" territory. Tyriq Withers plays Cam Cade, a young quarterback whose dreams are hanging by a thread after a brutal head injury. When his idol, the legendary Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), invites him to an isolated compound to train, it’s framed as a religious experience. White isn't just a player; he’s a brand, a deity, and—as it turns out—a total sociopath.

Marlon Wayans is the reason to seek this out. He plays Isaiah with a terrifying, wide-eyed intensity that never quite blinks when you want it to. He’s replaced his comedy chops with a vibrating, quiet menace. It’s a performance that reminds me a bit of what Jordan Peele did for Daniel Kaluuya in Get Out, stripping away the familiar and leaving something raw and unrecognizable. Wayans plays this quarterback like a man who has replaced his soul with high-fructose Gatorade. There’s a scene where he describes the "geometry of a perfect spiral" that made me want to lock my doors and never look at a football again.

The Architecture of Ambition

Director Justin Tipping (who did the excellent Lowriders) treats the isolated compound like a high-tech purgatory. The cinematography by Kira Kelly (known for 13th and Queen Sugar) is sterile and cold, making the lush training grounds look more like a surgical suite than a home. It captures that very specific 2020s aesthetic: "expensive but empty."

Then there’s Julia Fox as Elsie, Isaiah’s influencer wife. She’s essentially playing a heightened, funhouse-mirror version of her own public persona, and it works surprisingly well. She moves through the background of scenes like a ghost trapped in a Skims ad, providing a weird, detached commentary on the vapidity of fame that contrasts sharply with the sweaty, physical horror Cam is enduring. The film leans heavily into the "influencer" culture of the era, showing how Isaiah’s public image is a carefully curated lie maintained by a small army of hangers-on, including a brief, cynical turn by Jim Jefferies.

Why It Fumbled the Bag

So, why aren't we talking about HIM as a modern classic? For starters, the box office was a wash. Earning $27.8 million on a $27 million budget is the theatrical equivalent of a scoreless tie. It was released during a crowded window where audiences were starting to feel a bit of "prestige horror fatigue." People wanted easy scares, and HIM is anything but easy. It’s a slow-burn mystery that takes a hard, surreal left turn into folk-horror territory in the final act, involving a "Horned Fanatic" played by Olympic sprinter Maurice Greene.

The tonal shift is jarring. One minute you’re watching a grounded drama about a kid trying to fix his career, and the next, Tim Heidecker shows up as a bizarre character named Tom, and things get very The Menu-meets-The Wicker Man. I actually respect the swing, but I can see why general audiences in 2025 felt like they’d been sold a different movie. It’s also worth noting that the film’s score by Bobby Krlic (the genius behind Midsommar) is so oppressive and droning that I felt like I had a mild concussion by the time the credits rolled.

Stuff You Didn't Notice

One of the more fascinating bits of trivia is that Maurice Greene, a legitimate world-record sprinter, did all his own stunts as the "Horned Fanatic." There is a sequence where he chases Tyriq Withers across a dark field, and the speed is genuinely frightening because it’s not CGI—it’s just a world-class athlete running like a predator. Apparently, the production had to use a specialized camera car usually reserved for filming high-speed chases just to keep him in the frame.

Also, look closely at the background in Isaiah’s trophy room. Most of the "Eight-Time Championship" memorabilia was custom-made by the same artisans who create actual NFL rings, but with tiny, unsettling modifications—like the diamonds being arranged in the shape of teeth. It’s a subtle touch that adds to the feeling that Isaiah’s success isn't just earned; it’s harvested.

HIM is a fascinating failure, the kind of movie I’d much rather watch than a polished, boring success. It’s a snapshot of our obsession with "The GOAT" culture and the terrifying lengths we go to for a seat at the table. While it doesn’t always stick the landing, and the third act feels like it belongs to a different screenplay entirely, the central performance is a career-best for a man we all spent the 90s underestimating. Seek it out if you want to see a comedy legend go full-tilt into the heart of darkness, but maybe skip the protein bar before you do.