Candyman (2021): A Messy Spiritual Sequel That Can't Get Out From Under The Original's Shadow
Writer/director Nia DaCosta becomes the first Black filmmaker to take on the Candyman franchise with the 2021 soft reboot sequel to Bernard Rose’s groundbreaking 1992 original. Joined by co-screenwriters Win Rosenfeld and Jordan Peele (who also co-produced the film), DaCosta and company clearly have a lot to say, but their overtly signaled social messaging muddies the film’s mythology and dampens the horror.
A decade after the last of the Cabrini-Green towers were torn down, visual artist Anthony McCoy and his partner, gallery director Brianna Cartwright, move into a luxury loft condo in Cabrini, now gentrified beyond recognition and inhabited by upwardly mobile millennials. With Anthony's painting career on the brink of stalling, a chance encounter with a Cabrini-Green old-timer exposes Anthony to the tragically horrific nature of the true story behind Candyman. Anxious to maintain his status in the Chicago art world, Anthony begins to explore these macabre details in his studio as fresh grist for paintings, unknowingly opening a door to a complex past that unravels his own sanity and unleashes a terrifying wave of violence that puts him on a collision course with destiny.
Nia DaCosta tells us all we need to know about her soft-reboot/spiritual-sequel hybrid with the film’s opening title sequence. We’re presented with disorienting shots of downtown Chicago skyscrapers in the dead of night, upside down and shrouded in a haze of fog, which sets up the cloudy and convoluted events that follow. For all intents and purposes, 2021’s Candyman is just an inversion of Bernard Rose’s 1992 film of the same name, which remains a grim and poignant body horror masterpiece. Where Rose’s original broke new ground with its high interest in social issues, DaCosta and co-writers Jordan Peele and Win Rosenfeld unfortunately stick to painting in broad, basic clichés with their social commentary, which they try to pass off as something thought-provoking and new.
Don’t get us wrong, DaCosta’s Candyman has a lot of things on its mind, but none of them are particularly deep or profound. A majority of its message has been plastered all over the news; gentrification is bad, and shoot-first-ask-questions-later cops are bad, too. Over the past several years, we’ve seen many films that deal with White/Black race relations, gentrification, trigger-happy cops, and the Black experience that not only hit much harder, but are also much more clear in the things they explore and communicate, Thunder Road, The Last Black Man In San Francisco, Blindspotting, Sorry To Bother You, and If Beale Street Could Talk being just a few examples. This really wouldn’t be so problematic if its social messaging didn’t turn the film’s mythology into a murky mess that eclipses its horrors, but woefully, it absolutely does both of those things.
The original Candyman used its twisted modern folklore to make a powerful statement about the historical pain Black Americans have had to endure since they were forced upon this land. It’s an urban folk tale rooted in hate and unjust violence that’s ultimately a way in which we try to rationalize the hurt that’s been unjustly inflicted. Rose’s film also touches on gentrification, and makes a statement about how White people tend to appropriate Black culture and claim it for their own. The 2021 film feels like a reclamation of the franchise, and while it does some intriguing things with the mythology, it reimagines it in ways that don’t fully stack up. The writing definitely isn’t as strong here, and while DaCosta cultivates a decent foreboding atmosphere, it’s not nearly as robust or palpable as Rose’s original. The scares are practically nonexistent as well, with the turbid social commentary obscuring any potential genre thrills. There’s also the noticeable absence of the hauntingly beautiful Philip Glass score that doesn’t do the film any any favors.
This is a real shame because DaCosta has such a strong visual eye and assured style, and while the tension and frights are scant, she really does direct the hell out of this film and gives fans some brutal kills. As stylish as it is though, there are some elements that didn’t quite mesh for us. A lot of the folk tales told in the film are depicted through highly stylized shadow puppets, which aside from one tiny narrative moment, don’t feel justified in its gratuitousness. As cool as it is, it feels a little out of place here. The performances are pretty great though, as is the cinematography and camerawork by John Guleserian, but it’s the sound design from Michael Babcock that is the real star here. He really creates a lush aural landscape and allows us to feel the world the film inhabits, whirring florescent lights and all. Catrin Hedström also does a fine job editing the film. She makes some smart cuts that create a jarring, yet fluid feel that generates a sense of unease.
While there are definitely aspects about the film to praise, everything ultimately falls apart due to the film’s feeble writing, which lacks the character motivation, subtlety, and mystique of its predecessor. It contorts one of the greatest horror villains of all-time into a vengeful, supernatural Black Lives Matter superhero of sorts that feels more hokey than authentic. When all the dust settles, Candyman 2021 definitely gets your head buzzing, albeit not in the ways that make the original a sterling high watermark for socially-conscious horror. It begins with quite a lot of promise, but slowly unravels into a convoluted mess that doesn’t amount to much. Its fairly basic and vanilla social messaging just doesn’t have the impact or staying power of the 1992 film, which it essentially rehashes. Much like the film’s obsession with shadow puppets, the 2021 Candyman can’t quite get out from under the original’s shadow, and it leaves you feeling a bit confused and underwhelmed.
Recommendation: If you’re a fan of the original Candyman, definitely give this one a watch, but just don’t expect to get anything as groundbreaking as the original.
Rating: 3 malevolent reflections outta 5.
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