From Gridiron to Gothic: ‘Him’ Serves Psychological Horror with Impeccable Cinematic Couture
In a landscape where sports films typically serve us saccharine narratives wrapped in American flag bunting, director Justin Tipping’s sophomore feature “Him” arrives like a perfectly tailored Balenciaga blazer—sharp, unexpected, and impossibly chic in its darkness. This Jordan Peele-produced psychological thriller doesn’t just tackle football; it dissects it with the precision of a Savile Row tailor, revealing the brutal machinery beneath America’s most beloved pastime.
The film centers on Cameron “Cam” Cade, portrayed with magnetic vulnerability by Tyriq Withers, a generational quarterback whose destiny appears written in gold until a devastating head injury threatens to unravel everything. Enter Marlon Wayans as Isaiah “Zay” White, the Tom Brady of this dystopian football universe—eight championships deep and ruling from a desert compound that screams both luxury and menace. When Cam agrees to train under Isaiah’s watchful eye, what unfolds is less sports rehabilitation and more psychological warfare, served with the kind of visual poetry that would make Terrence Malick weep.
Tipping’s directorial vision is nothing short of revolutionary. Gone are the feel-good montages and triumphant underdog narratives we’ve been spoon-fed since Charlie Chaplin first stepped into the ring in “The Champion.” Instead, we’re treated to X-ray cinematography that literally exposes the bone-deep damage lurking beneath perfectly sculpted athlete bodies. It’s body horror meets sports drama, and the result is intoxicating.
The film opens with a masterclass in visual storytelling—young Cameron witnessing Isaiah’s championship-winning leg break from his living room floor while his father’s toxic mantra of “no guts, no glory” echoes like a death knell. This isn’t just character development; it’s cultural excavation, unearthing the violent mythology we’ve built around masculine achievement.
Yet for all its stylistic brilliance, “Him” stumbles when it comes to football authenticity. Any viewer with even cursory knowledge of the sport will find themselves rolling their eyes at the film’s more fantastical elements. The idea that a quarterback of Cameron’s caliber would endure the same physical trials as lesser prospects? Please. It’s like suggesting Gigi Hadid would audition for a department store catalog shoot. The economics don’t add up either—Wayans at 53 playing a still-active legend wealthy enough for desert compounds reads more fantasy than reality.
The film’s treatment of the NFL combine sequence particularly grates. Modern elite quarterbacks routinely skip these dog-and-pony shows, yet here we have Cameron treating it like the Met Gala of athletic performance. Similarly, the obsession with Cameron’s physical perfection feels dated in an era where dad-bod quarterbacks dominate headlines. Tom Brady’s famously unimpressive shirtless combine photo from decades past serves as a reminder that football greatness rarely correlates with Instagram aesthetics.
Where “Him” truly succeeds is in its unflinching examination of acceptable psychoticism in professional sports. The film presents football as one of the few remaining arenas where complete mental breakdown isn’t just tolerated—it’s actively encouraged. This psychological brutality, wrapped in the gleaming package of the San Antonio Saviors (complete with devil imagery that would make a heavy metal album cover jealous), creates a horror story that feels all too plausible.
Tipping’s visual language throughout remains consistently arresting. The desert compound setting functions as both sanctuary and prison, its stark beauty masking the psychological manipulation occurring within. It’s “The Shining” meets “Friday Night Lights,” and the aesthetic marriage is surprisingly seductive.
While “Him” may falter in its sports authenticity, it soars as a meditation on toxic masculinity and the price of greatness. In a genre typically dominated by inspirational platitudes, Tipping offers something far more valuable—uncomfortable truths served with impeccable style. It’s the kind of film that stays with you long after the credits roll, like a perfectly applied red lip that demands attention.
This is sports cinema for the sophisticated palate, unafraid to serve bitter medicine in beautiful packaging. Exquisite, disturbing, and absolutely essential viewing.
