I watched for a week the hype fest that Nia DaCostas Candyman was getting upon release. Then, slowly, poured in — first one, then two, then more — not-so-gracious reviews. How could yet another Jordan Peele-produced film be so polarizing, and why is no one talking about it? Probably because like the millions of Black Americans and their allies, we’re tired. Tired of racially-charged films. Tired of blatant based-on-real-events brutality. Tired of Black Trauma films. Candyman, a film which did in 1992 what Get Out did in 2017, was turned into yet another movie made by Blacks, but certainly not for them.
I waited to see Candyman for myself before reading any of the bad reviews. I had an inkling that it wouldn’t be fantastic, but didn’t want to bias myself before giving it a proper chance. No point in reading the good reviews either, as it was sure to get the majority of them. And when the credits rolled, I sat in a sort of bewildered stun, wondering why this had fallen so hard from the original. Forgive me for the constant comparisons, but I do think it is important to compare, as the 1992 version is (now) a prequel and heavily referenced in this story’s continuation.
Let me be clear that I am absolutely for diversity in film, and am glad to see so many faces and experience so many cultural nuances that we normally aren’t privy to in film. The problem here is that it is still a caricature, rife with stereotypical clichés about mental illness and assimilation and Black Excellence and Blacks in horror. I learned absolutely nothing from Candyman; and that’s fine if it were truly meant for me (which it was loudly touted to be — for a Black audience), but even my white side learned nothing. I would have expected to at least feel some sort of remorse for what Black Americans go through on a daily basis, but I felt an astounding nothing. In fact, I felt slightly annoyed by the whole experience.
Let’s take it back to 1992 with the original. A bleak Chicago skyline surrounds a white woman, Helen Lyle, on a journey to solving the generational trauma that is “Candyman” to the residents of the Cabrini-Green housing project and surrounding area. We see struggle juxtaposed to elite society, dingy with the stains of racism and classism. In her research to further her academic career, Helen finds herself the subject of an eternal boogeyman’s gaze, as she resembles his long lost love (the one he was murdered over to begin with). Throughout the film, she is almost in a state of ecstasy-ridden hypnotism; no matter how much she tries to escape the Candyman’s grasp, he finds ways to bring her closer and closer through indiscriminate killing confined mostly to Cabrini-Green. Helen is unknowingly helping his cause by researching and perpetuating his urban myth within the community (and wider, through her own white elite community); the more he is remembered, the more he is summoned, the more powerful his grasp on reality — and Helen. 1992’s Candyman is about subtlety. They talk about race, but it is by no means shoved in your face. A perfect example of “show, don’t tell,” we see the conditions the residents of Cabrini-Green live in and what happens when a city actively discriminates against a group of people. We walk away from that movie both entertained, but also left with a feeling of great sorrow, pretty much for every character. Just as the Candyman was a legend in the film, he becomes a legend in our lives as well.
This 2021 continuation follows the “prodigal son” in a Purge-level social justice frenzy. It is entirely too on-the-nose, which is disgustingly patronizing to the main audience seeing this film: Black people. They rehash things we literally say and that have very recent ties to America’s racism and police issue today (i.e., “Say his name” and Breonna Taylor, or excessive police violence/extrajudicial killing and George Floyd). Other films, like the aforementioned Purge series, do similar things about wealth disparity, racism, and the like, but they have gone to Sharknado-levels of self awareness, and are therefore not seen as preachy as this. What makes it worse is that I still don’t feel the characters truly represent today’s Black people. Of course, there is a range in how people of all backgrounds think and act, but this felt completely black and white (no pun intended); Black characters were either “woke” or “oreos,” and white people were either somewhat empathetic but still apathetic, or total shit-bags.
Which brings me to another point. The ’92 Candyman, played by horror favorite Tony Todd, killed not based on race, just based on summoning. With the exception of one person — in a flashback, no less — all of the deaths in the 2021 sequel were white people, as if revenge for being racist (or really, just existing while white); it makes sense considering that was the backstory for the lineage of Candymen, but not much sense in audience. Because if you’re making a movie to hit the hearts of aggressors, you should probably paint them in a slightly better light so they buy into it.
Now about the movie itself. Candyman was beautiful. Bright open spaces, beautiful people, beautiful art. A sharp contrast to the drab, cold aesthetic of the original. That is all fine, seeing as they take place in different seasons. The problem here lies in how pretty it is. Death is, more often than not, quite hideous, especially if you’re being gutted open by a giant hook. The blood spill was too silky. The dilapidated remnants of Cabrini-Green were almost too clean; I couldn’t “smell” decay and sadness, only fresh-cut grass and clean air. Death and horror can be aesthetically pleasing, but it still has to be scary — Candyman was not.
The scares in general were pretty much nonexistant. A small amount of body horror with protagonist Anthony, but it paled in comparison to the original, visceral, guttings. And don’t believe anyone that says you don’t need to see the original “because they explain it in this one”; there is so must lost through telephone-style ghost stories and snippets of recorded audio. It’s as if the essence of the Candyman mythos was lost as well.
I could forgive some of these misgivings if they had at least gotten the story straight, but I ended up with a million questions and no solid answers. If Anthony is the baby from the 1992 version, why is this Candyman rendition one from someone else’s (1977) story? If Helen was promoted to Candyman status via Troy’s story, where is she? If I called Candyman right now, would it be Tony Todd, Anthony, Helen, or the ’77 version? The version also dictates the outcome; I’m mixed so do I live or die? Slasher 101 is to follow the rules you create for yourself, and that couldn’t even be accomplished here.
Overall, I’m just so tired of films preying on discriminated groups’ insecurities for a quick buck, all while cheapening a franchise in the process (note: we’re not talking about the other 90s sequels, just the original and this one). And for what? The attempt was there, but Candyman left us confused, triggered, and bored… At least it was nice to look at.
What did you think of Candyman? Leave a comment and let us know.
For a better (and much more well-thought out) review explaining why Candyman (2021) is problematic, read Angelica Jade Bastién’s Vulture article.
