A few months ago when this year looked like things were going to go in a conventional manner, the trailer for the Candyman (2020) remake landed. More than anything, I was attracted to the idea of seeing Jordan Peele’s name attached as a producer. After all, he is one of the best filmmakers right now managing to make Get Out (2017) and Us (2019) into these powerful allegories of race in America. There had to be a bigger reason why he would give his stamp of quality to this movie.
To be honest, I still haven’t seen that trailer because it got me curious to visit the original. As someone who’s slowly discovered the horror classics, I’m only familiar with Candyman (1992) in the broad strokes. I know the idea that it’s an urban myth that scared an entire generation. I’m aware of the imagery of a man covered in bees, which is so grotesque that I’m sure it implicitly kept me away from the film for longer. That and Candyman as a supernatural villain lacks the cultural permanence of his peers Jason Vorhees and Freddy Krueger. He was stuck in this obscure box, needing every fan he had to do the heavy lifting.
So, I may as well start with this sentiment. As I started the movie, I walked to the mirror in my bathroom and repeated his name five times:
Candyman
Candyman
Candyman
Candyman
Candyman
As the lights go out, I found him behind me, ready to unleash his madness with his hook hand. Sometimes he attacks me, other times it’s someone in the vicinity. I am stuck asking myself: who is he and why is he here? Anyone who is scared of bees may as well avoid this movie entirely because from what I heard actor Tony Todd had to wear protective gear in his mouth so that it looked like they were flying inside him. It’s a film so layered in bees that it’ll cause you anxiety just to watch them swarming around Chicago’s more notorious areas.
That is one of the crazier things about films like Candyman. Whereas modern CGI technology has made it easier to cut corners with more life-threatening stunts, there were those who risked personal health to make a shot so amazing that you can’t help but be entranced by it, overthinking the safety of Todd as he took on this crazy character.
With that said, he is so masterful at playing evil that you understand why he is seductive. Even with a hook for a hand, he has this attractiveness. His voice is like demented silk, luring you into his lair so that you can witness whatever sick sights are inside. Most people wouldn’t dare go in because, you know, those stories are horrifying. He lures you in with candy, and what happens from there is a cavalcade of imagery that is best discovered on your own.
Then again, that’s what we get when dealing with a Clive Barker-inspired work. In all honesty, I am tepid to go further down the Barker hole because I can find gore to be too unpleasant in cinema. It’s why I have yet to really dive into Hellraiser (1987), which supposedly was his masterpiece of special effects. He loves tearing apart the fabric of humanity in ways that are symbolized by these cruel images. Candyman is no exception. Even if it’s only based on his short story “The Forbidden,” you already have a trail of sweat moving down your head as the opening credits start to roll.
I also want to give a shout out to composer to Phillip Glass, who has had one amazing career as a musician. How you go from Candyman to more conventional period pieces like The Hours (2002) is beyond me. But what’s amazing is how well he works within each frame. Here he creates the ultimate death march, as choirs sing with hellish despair. When you listen to Glass’ work, you are already thinking about the horrors that echo through these neighborhoods, creeping through the walls and attacking you at your most vulnerable. How Candyman landed Glass is beyond me, but he does so much in making the pain of this film spiritual, making his story sound like a legend dislodged from time.
Here’s what’s brilliant about Candyman as this looming threat. When I was a child, there was the Bloody Mary myth. Depending on how gullible you are, you will be dared to go into the school bathroom and perform it. You’ll be brave at first, but by the third utterance, you’re more timid and unwilling to go through with this. You’re just a kid playing games. You don’t want to ruin your life by having Bloody Mary show up and traumatize yourself.
Of course, this doesn’t happen, but most of us will have doubt that we’re about to test a supernatural force. We believe in realism, but Bloody Mary still haunts us like a handful of spooky myths. These thrilling stories have informed so much of our social contract that they have lasted centuries. We’re born with these folk stories that may have lost their significance in a literal sense, but symbolically open up something curious in us. There is a reason that Halloween brings with it icons like The Headless Horseman or Dracula.
These figures are timeless, and it’s difficult for new figures to enter this canon because they have to have a certain plausibility to them. You have to believe that they existed first in some hallway as a story told by kids just having fun.
It’s why Candyman has an immediacy to it. As you watch the film, you’re already imagining that he’s a villain that has existed in Chicago for decades. He is a modern Bloody Mary, albeit one who feels more real because of the stories of abuse sound familiar. When you grow up in America, the story of urban environments being ravaged with violence and suppression is so common that figures like Candyman sound like plausible boogeymen, at least by the media. He’s as much a product of his environment as the stereotypes being thrust upon people who only want to live normal lives.
That’s the beauty of Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen) going on this journey. The film opens with her walking into a lecture about the value of mythology and how it creates this understanding of communities, as a piece of storytelling that informs ideas. As she begins talking to people, she decides to explore the myth of Candyman, who exists in a notorious community in Chicago. If you drive through there, have your windows rolled up and don’t make eye contact. There is a fear so common that it stereotypes everyone that lives there.
What the audience discovers is that this mythology is as much a real force as it is an oversight. When Helen enters the community, things become immediately clear that while there are people dressed in typical gangster wear, none of them are imposing. There aren’t really any deaths to be accounted for. It’s not even clear if Candyman is more than a psychological worm, as Helen spends the film questioning if she committed a central murder. There isn’t enough deniability to keep Candyman from being as terrible as he sounds.
That’s what’s scary about him. Even if we recognize him as a force throughout the film, it’s ultimately a study of how Helen sees him. It’s a symbolism of how the world sees urban communities, brimming with trash and facilities that are unkempt. It’s the idea that they’re luring us in with candy only to corrupt the innocence that we all have deep down. The fact that there are doubts about his actions alone shows a shift in how Candyman wants us to see these communities. Stereotypes are broken in favor of subversion, forcing the viewer to see the world differently.
The service of this urban myth is to create a conversation that’s overdue. While some can see it as Black on Black crime, most of the victims don’t have as predictable of a structure. There’s a deeper symbolism in the uncertainty of the deaths, making it clear that Helen and a white perspective project their fears onto a figure, mythic in his personal trauma. Because he was mistreated, he is going to be an awful person. Because it’s believed enough, it becomes a real myth, making a real-life subtext that is brilliant and makes the film far more interesting.
By the end, Helen becomes as much of a negative myth as Candyman.
While you can argue that Candyman isn’t the most exciting serial killer (he only “kills” two people), there is a lot of significance in his character that overwhelms the story. Not only does it feature a great cast and crew, but it brings the brutal imagery to life with such discomfort that it elevates the already provocative message to something richer.
We have to ask ourselves why characters like Candyman exist, and the more that we engage with the myths, the more that we understand what is real. How much of it is just outside forces like the media making paranoid justifications for not treating communities with shared honesty. Time and again, the film shows Black characters being more human and sincere than the white counterparts, and it’s more than fun gimmicks. This is a genuine paranoid that existed in 1992 and clearly exists enough in 2020 that Jordan Peele wanted to produce a remake.
I think if there’s any issue with Candyman, it’s that there’s very little about its premise that warrants a franchise. The world of horror needs to be fruitful and multiply, and the choice to demystify an urban boogeyman doesn’t have a lot of legroom. Not without getting very silly, anyways. That’s why the Candyman sequels likely have received less favorable reviews. Once the significant message was made clear, there was no point for it to exist. As a result, it remains this oddity from early-90s horror, unable to make a sincere franchise.
Even if you’re not wanting to watch this for sociopolitical commentary, it’s a horrifying film that is visceral and unflinching. Tony Todd’s performance is an incredible sight full of amazing moments that will make you genuinely uncomfortable. As one of the few black horror icons, he makes the most of his limited screen time and makes you terrified by his very presence.
There is a reason that horror buffs have been trying to convince me for years that Candyman was terrifying. Whereas I’m not as moved by conventional jump scares and serial killer tropes, I am drawn to a story that challenges you to think about things on a deeper level. Maybe it’s not themes of injustice, but how to hold suspense from one minute to the next. Candyman is one of those examples of horror being able to do so much more than make you scared. Maybe it’ll be a tough sell if you hate bees, but for everyone else prepare to feel the chills down your spine, realizing that you’re watching a master of visual intensity at his best, making you look at the world (and yourself) in very strange ways.
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