The problem with a film like Him is that 99% of audiences will dismiss it as pure fiction. To the sleepwalkers glued to their screens, the idea of occult forces infiltrating professional sports sounds like absurd Hollywood hokum.
But wake up: this isn’t fantasy—it’s a mirror to the shadows lurking in plain sight, especially in the NFL, America’s cultural coliseum. For decades, football has eclipsed God in the national pantheon. Families bolt from church early to catch kickoff, their priorities laid bare like a confessional slip.
If entertainment’s occult underbelly—think Illuminati whispers in pop videos—bleeds into sports, should anyone be shocked? What we call a “game” is a multibillion-dollar gambling machine, point-shaving gladiators in shoulder pads, rigged rituals where athletes sacrifice more than their bodies.
If you’re still blind to the spectacle, this review—and the movie—will sail right over your head. Him, Jordan Peele’s latest Monkeypaw production, cracks open that door. Marlon Wayans stars as Isaiah White, the eight-time champion quarterback for the San Antonio Saviors, a GOAT (greatest of all time) archetype straight out of Tom Brady’s playbook.
As Isaiah nears retirement, nursing a brutal leg injury, he eyes his successor: Cameron “Cam” Cade (Tyriq Withers), a hotshot rookie idolizing the legend since childhood. Isaiah invites Cam to a secluded, week-long training camp to test if he’s worthy of the torch.
At first, it’s all protein shakes and playbook drills—until Cam uncovers the real agenda. This isn’t about X’s and O’s; it’s grooming for a shadow cabal, a demonic fraternity demanding soul-deep sacrifices to claim the throne. Wayans channels Brady’s unyielding aura, but with a sinister edge: Isaiah’s not just mentoring; he’s gatekeeping a pact with something infernal.
The film weaves occult motifs—goats as satanic symbols, blood rituals disguised as “team-building,” cryptic incantations over game tape—into the gridiron grind. Cam’s arc forces the gut punch: How far will you go for glory? Sacrifice your family, your faith, your very essence to the elite hordes pulling strings from luxury boxes?
It’s Hollywood’s first real peek behind the veil of sports’ dark side, questioning if “GOAT” means champion or something far more biblical, like the beast in Revelation. The Brady parallel hits hard. Remember his old interview, spilling how ex-wife Gisele Bündchen—self-styled “good witch”—built altars with crystals, chanted mantras, and wielded “protection stones” to fuel his seven rings?
He mocked it at first, called it “crazy,” but after that 28-24 Seahawks comeback? He bought in hook, line, and sinker. Wins piled up under her pagan playbook; divorce hit, and boom—Brady’s Buccaneers flamed out, the old man benched like yesterday’s turf. Him mirrors that: Isaiah’s empire crumbles without his hidden rituals, and Cam must decide if he’ll trade his soul for rings.
Why do every star NFL quarterback shack up with a Hollywood siren? Coincidence, or initiation into the club? Julia Fox nails the role of Isaiah’s enigmatic girlfriend/confidant—a self-admitted witch in real life, pulling occult wires while the spotlight blinds the masses. Her eerie presence adds a layer of meta-chill: Is this fiction, or the industry winking at us?
Yet for all its intrigue, Him fumbles the execution. Director Justin Tipping builds dread masterfully in the first two acts—isolated compound vibes evoking Get Out‘s unease, body horror spiking during “training” montages that twist CTE fears into literal demonic possession. Wayans chews scenery like turf, his charm curdling into menace, while Withers brings raw vulnerability as the wide-eyed recruit.
But the third act devolves into chaotic excess: a baroque gore-fest with goat herds stampeding through locker rooms and a finale so absurd it undercuts the satire. The occult-sports fusion is bold, but the messaging muddles—Satan as gladiator god? Fine, but it needed sharper claws, not circus antics.
Clocking in at 96 minutes, it never bores, but the scares are sparse; if you’re chasing jump cuts over existential dread, you’ll yawn. Still, Him lingers like a bad hit. It’s not the scariest horror of 2025 but as a wake-up call? Potent.
Marlon Wayans nailed it in interviews: This flick’s ahead of its curve, a veiled exposé on ambition’s blood price. In a league where owners treat players like disposable idols, and fans worship Sundays like sacraments, how much is scripted? Fiction or fact?
The world may never know—but Him dares you to look closer. Worth the ticket for the mind games alone.
3/5
Society Reviews 
Leave a comment