American football isn’t just a game; it’s a religion. The rituals, the chants, the stadiums packed with worshippers draped in team colors, it all mirrors a form of collective devotion. In Justin Tipping’s new psychological thriller HIM, produced by Jordan Peele, football becomes something far more literal: a site of sacrifice, worship, and horror.

At its core, HIM asks a haunting question: what are Black athletes asked to give up for greatness — and who profits from their pain?

In HIM, the line between faith and fanaticism blurs. The Saviors, the fictional football team at the film’s center, are treated like divine figures. Their memorabilia sits on mantles like relics, their players elevated to the status of gods. Early in the film, Isaiah (Marlon Wayans), a legendary quarterback with eight championship rings, declares that his priorities are “football, family, God”, pointedly flipping the familiar phrase “God, family, football.”

This hierarchy reveals the film’s central tension: football isn’t just a game; it’s a belief system.

From the grueling week-long training camp Cameron (Tyriq Withers) undergoes to the private initiation rituals involving blood and sacrifice, every element is steeped in religious imagery. Tipping even stages one pivotal moment as a direct homage to The Last Supper, visually aligning the player preparing to give his body over to the cause.

It’s an unsettling reflection of how real-life sports culture can demand blind devotion, not just from fans, but from the athletes themselves.

One of the film’s most striking sequences comes early on, when Cameron is stripped down for a “physical exam.” His height, weight, wingspan, and neck measurements are taken with cold precision, echoing the dehumanizing inspections of enslaved people.

This isn’t accidental. Tipping uses the lens of body horror to show how Black bodies are still commodified, only now through billion-dollar sports franchises instead of auction blocks. Every injection Cameron receives during training literally infuses him with “GOAT blood,” a disturbing metaphor for how athletes are molded to fit the image of those who came before, expected to carry not just the game, but the weight of entire communities.

Football, in this context, isn’t about joy or play. It’s about ownership, and not just of teams, but of people.

The title HIM works on multiple levels. It references the modern term of “He’s HIM,” meaning the greatest of all time, while also invoking the “GOAT,” both as an acronym and as a symbol of pagan sacrifice.

In religious tradition, there are always two goats: one is sacrificed, and the other is sent into the wilderness carrying the sins, the literal scapegoat. In the film, Cameron is bred from childhood to become this figure. His success isn’t his own; it’s the product of generations of sacrifice, carefully orchestrated by owners who treat him like a pawn on a divine chessboard.

The final act, with owners sitting on thrones wearing animal masks as they demand Cameron’s signature, makes the metaphor literal: for this system to thrive, someone must always bleed.

While HIM is rich in symbolism, it’s Marlon Wayans’ performance that grounds the film. Known primarily for comedy, Wayans delivers a chilling, layered portrayal of Isaiah. He’s part mentor, part tormentor, a man who has given everything to the game and now resents the young player who represents his replacement.

Isaiah’s relationship with Cameron mirrors the film’s larger themes: legacy, jealousy, and the dangerous cycle of grooming young Black athletes to take their place in a system designed to consume them.

Wayans makes Isaiah both terrifying and tragic, a cautionary tale of what happens when a man becomes a god in a world that worships winning above all else.

By framing its critique through horror, Him forces viewers to confront truths they might otherwise ignore. It’s easy to cheer for a touchdown on Sunday. It’s harder to look at what it costs physically, mentally, spiritually, for players to deliver that moment of joy.

Jordan Peele’s influence as a producer is clear here, particularly in the way humor, tension, and social commentary intertwine. The result is a film that doesn’t just scare you, it lingers, demanding that you sit with your own complicity as a fan, a viewer, a participant in this cultural ritual.

HIM is not just a sports thriller; it’s a meditation on power, exploitation, and the myths we build around our heroes. It asks us to question what we’re really cheering for, and what sacrifices are being made so that the game can go on.

Justin Tipping has crafted a film that’s as visually stunning as it is thematically rich, offering audiences a chance to see football, and fame, through an unflinching new lens. For those willing to look deeper, HIM isn’t just about a game. It’s about the cost of glory, and who pays the price.