At the very end of “Him” a red, white and blue ceremonial flypast welcomes the signing of a new American football player by the team’s owner. The festivities are on a private football pitch, ordained with cheerleaders, a marching band, lawyers, hangers-on, and fans in hideous fancy-dress costumes (including a pig’s head). The American National Anthem is voiced—rather than sung—by the film’s cast, who have gathered on the pitch as if for a theatrical curtain call. The dazzling ninety minutes of action prior to this extraordinary climax deconstruct each of these elements, revealing, ridiculing and reimagining society’s greedy love of competitive sports.
This year has been an outstanding year for the horror genre and “Him” (Universal), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse, is superficially a horror movie too. But it lands a political message as strong as anything I have seen this year. I don’t have the space to describe it in detail; in brief, it is about Black American football players, their money-orientated white team owners, and the universe of exploitative punditry and fandom that surrounds the game.
There is nothing about “Him” that isn’t exceptional. In the first few minutes, a clever montage of overlapping, repetitive commentary hyperactively yelled into microphones by testosterone- (or perhaps cocaine-) fired male pundits—“Will he be back for more or will he retire?” “We could be witnessing the beginning of the greatest quarterback to ever play”—sets up the stage brilliantly. These days, fans want YouTube-able, social-media-friendly, short highlights which can be shared, played (loudly) and critiqued over and over and over. We voluntarily submit to the kind of cacophony ruthlessly pilloried in “Him.” Even a well-attended press conference—which reveals nothing—delivers lines like “He’s not a prize pig at a state fair.” And as the players wait on the sidelines of the pitch, their cellphones display new notifications every couple of seconds. It’s a modern-day hell.
Our hero, Cameron Cade, played by Tyriq Withers, has been egged-on by his dad (“no guts; no glory”) to first become a football fan then a player. He is talented, but suffers a serious head injury while training. Perhaps he can never play again. But he is selected for a secretive training academy at a secluded underground venue in New Mexico, where a famous old-timer quarterback, Isaiah White, played by Marlon Wayans, becomes his mentor for the aptly-named “Saviors” team. Each day has a different theme (Day One—Fun; Day Two—Poise; Day Three—Leadership; …), thus providing a elegant episodic structure to the film. The successful rookie has the opportunity to become “Him,” also known as “The Goat.”
Introducing Cameron’s brain damage near the film’s opening allows the convoluted cleverness of what follows to startle the audience. Look carefully at the surgical scar. It’s designed like the seam of an American football (both are often shown in closeup). His concussion is a device to sew seeds of confusion in the audience during some of the more bizarre scenes later. Is this part of his training-camp experience, or because of the trauma?
The ingenious production design at the training ground comprises an art installation, inside football field, and various health suites; all are used for satisfyingly unpredictable sequences. Most of the lighting is in the colours of the American flag. Isaiah’s fans are dressed in striking costumes and lashings of face paint (one wears a red-tinsel outfit). The installation features the skulls of various animals: “I like to live off the land when I’m out here,” as Isaiah tells Cameron, who replies, “Did you kill that yourself?” A perfectly symmetrical shot in the sauna is enhanced by the shadows created by the lighting design (“Find your own way to greatness, Cam.” “Don’t be me. Be better.”).
Cameron poses naked in the middle of the football field for his intimate physical exam. Other players watch nosily in the background as doctors and technicians scrutinise his body from every angle with relish. The filmmakers play with this metaphor—fans believe they have the right to parade their favourite player’s every secret—using a slow arc-shot to emphasise his extreme exposure. The thoughtfully cast, semi-comic, strange doctor, played by Jim Jefferies, keeps injecting Cameron with a vial of something (a nod to doping): “You’ll thank me later.” In fact Cameron is getting hallucinations and headaches. Because of the head injury? Because of the training? Because of the unidentified injections?
Isaiah is almost like the tempter in the wilderness. He is fond of pop quizzes, “Which would you prefer? To never get tired or to never get injured;” mission statements, “Football. Family. God;” and motivating by insulting, “Emotional little pretty boy, chasing validation from strangers because your father didn’t love you.” The Christian symbolism—“Saviors,” “Isaiah,” the crucifix necklace—is reinforced throughout: “What are you willing to sacrifice,” Isaiah asks. Or later, “What’s the opposite of a saviour”—a test question—“A killer,” Cameron correctly answers.
Through mock-up press interviews, semi-nude, suggestive photoshoots (“That’s the cover of ‘Sports Illustrated’”), product endorsements, and visits from menswear designers, Cameron is lured into the strange ownership of the club as it becomes increasingly likely that he will succeed: “Better get used to it, franchise boy.” At one point he bench-presses wearing a white bow tie and tuxedo. He is taught how to make the line “I’ve never been more certain of [anything] in my life” sound natural.
In a wonderfully candid, perfectly judged scene outside the crazy camp between the doctor and Cameron, the implied link to gladiatorial combat—which has infused the film by this point—is made explicit. The doctor suggests—reasonably—that Cameron might imagine the rest of the players of either team as gladiators; spectacle, warrior-vocabulary, deadly injuries. “In the Coliseum only one leaves,” the doctor says. “It turns out that human skulls aren’t designed to hit each other.”
Adam Poole
10th October 2025
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