In July 2009, a philosopher by the name of Adam Young waxed poetic in the song “Fireflies” about the instability of reality. Specifically, he pontificated, “I’d like to make myself believe/That planet Earth turns slowly/It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay awake when I’m asleep/’Cause everything is never as it seems.” Wise words from within the borders of Owl City. Rarely is something exactly as it appears on the outside. Unfortunately, Justin Tipping’s (with fellow screenwriters Skip Bronkie and Zack Ackers) HIM makes a liar of Owl City with their shallow creative vision that never goes deeper than the surface.

College football star Cameron Cade’s (Tyiq Withers) destiny lies in greatness. His skills on the field make an impressive argument, and everyone around him seems to agree. However, a concussion leaves him staring down the barrel of potential painfully unrealized. The initial sequences framing on-field injuries and creepy fans through horror movie imagery and music cues aren’t super inspired. Nonetheless, they suggest the film may recontextualize genre leitmotifs within the sports world’s weirdest corners.

Tragically, that’s not where the story goes. Rather, Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), an iconic quarterback whom Cade has idolized for decades, invites the young player to train and recover with him for a week. The stint requires a trip to White’s isolated, lavish compound, leaving everyone else behind. That strands the film in the same kind of isolation that enveloped a deluge of post-COVID thrillers, including the likes of The Menu, Don’t Worry Darling, and Opus. These titles followed a handful of characters (can’t have too many people on a set with COVID restrictions) heading off to a remote, opulent destination where everything seems cool…until grisly chaos breaks out.

HIM follows the tropes—a cult-like vibe, a charismatic but unhinged leader, the communications blackout—to a tee. Adhering to such a standard structure eliminates the unpredictability needed to make the story of Cade’s potential disconnect with reality compelling. The script’s love for itself only makes matters worse. While its story evokes Infinity Pool or Blink Twice, everyone in this world endlessly monologues like they’re auditioning for a Noah Hawley movie. The dialogue tends to steer towards either unoriginal historical references (like comparing football to Roman gladiators) or ham-fisted exposition. For instance, when Cade encounters a horde of fans hooked on parasocial toxicity, the film can’t let the scene speak for itself. No, his driver has to underline it by declaring, “They’re like a cult!” That kind of writing is a plague upon HIM.

HIM’s visual flourishes, courtesy of Tipping and cinematographer Kira Kelly, exist in contrast to the weak screenwriting. The pair lend a grandiose vision to the proceedings, rife with theological trappings, Greek mythology references, and wide shots. At times, the combination of lush tableaus with the stone textures in White’s compound evokes the arresting imagery of Tarsem Singh’s Immortals. That’s an admirably unique frame of reference for a modern horror movie. Unfortunately, the callbacks to mythology/religious lore never rise above Zack Snyder-like surface readings.

Sadly, there are other disappointments when it comes to the visuals, beyond their shallowness. Several visual motifs simply don’t work, including rendering Cade and other characters as skeletons through an X-ray filter. If Tipping wanted to tip his hat to Harmony Korine’s Aggro Dr1ft, mission accomplished. Otherwise, it’s an uninteresting detail that only provides an extra barrier for the audience in a film that already gives them little reason to attach to the characters.

Even the stunt casting of Marlon Wayans as a dangerously erratic football titan doesn’t go anywhere despite the actor diving headfirst into the role. There’s just not much surprising about Isaiah White. His personality in the film’s finale is way too similar to his most unhinged qualities in the first act.

This stagnancy epitomizes HIM’s greatest sin. It’s a buttoned-up movie struggling to channel freak impulses. This is a story and universe crying out to go unhinged and scorched Earth.

Instead, the surrealist digressions feel unimaginative. Its stabs at social commentary don’t go anywhere. Even a gore-laden finale lacks the rebellious verve it cries out for, drowned in expository chatter in an attempt to justify itself. The film would be better served to run across the field in pursuit of its strangest, most unpredictable impulses. The closest it comes to letting its freak flag fly is by providing a showcase for assorted costumed characters (including a mascot that looks like one of Orville Peck’s masks made a wish to become human) that can wander around future Universal Horror Nights iterations.

Otherwise, HIM is a derivative exercise lacking either scares or surprises. It’s a paint-by-number rendition of a story that needed to unleash its imagination. At the very least, Kipping and company shouldn’t have made everything so surface-level. Only Kelly’s cinematography emerges truly unscathed. Why would they betray the ethos of Owl City’s words so gravely?

HIM charges out of the tunnel and onto the multiplex field starting September 19.

HIM Trailer: