Of Gods and Monsters and Authors
I'm hard at work on my current novel and decided to revisit a classic piece of cinema to keep the atmosphere right. 1992's Candyman is an interesting film for several reasons, but one stands out. The entire movie defies genre lines.
The titular Candyman is a supernatural being but he forgoes the flashy kills for more guttural guttings with his meat hook-prosthetic. While he is a slasher to be sure, that's not what the movie is about. It's not until the sequel that he really joins that motley crew. In the first film, he only has two confirmed kills and one of them is off-screen. The film is paranormal horror in that the Candyman is a spectral thing that is summoned by his victims, but he is also so much more. That ‘more’ is the subject of this article. I feel like I've left you with an unanswered question, however.
What kind of film is Candyman?
Simply stated, a masterful one. The character is a slasher, trapped in a dark fantasy film that embodies classical horror and artistic exploration of the urban condition. It is a film that points a unique and critical lens at the correlation between poverty and superstition. Likewise, the Candyman can be seen as the perfect metaphor to gang life and its violence. The film is atmospheric, dramatic, creepy as hell and, more than anything else, entertaining. If you care to look closer, beyond the eerie surface lies a masterpiece of cinema full of powerful lessons and examinations that far exceed the expectations of genre-lovers. It is bleak and harrowing as it is scary. That symbolism is at the heart of the piece you’re about to read.
The Candyman is a sort of ghetto god. He has, as he calls them, a congregation at the Cabrini-Green housing projects. People there believe in the Candyman. They paint his picture throughout the halls, bring him offerings, warn their children against him, and fear him in the dark. Then along comes Helen Lyle, the protagonist who inadvertently makes people stop believing. That’s where shit gets gruesome.
The Candyman sets about proving his existence once again. He needs people to fear him or he’ll cease to exist.
While investigating the urban legend of the Candyman, Helen visits the Cabrini-Green projects and the home of a supposed victim. Unlike other modern folklore, there’s real evidence to support the existence of the killer. She explores the dead woman’s apartment and then ventures into the adjoining unit where she finds the most interesting example of symbolism in the film.
We see Helen between the open jaws of the Candyman. This is extremely interesting to me because the painting is similar to depictions of Orcus and, in this picture I found on Pinterest, the similarity is even eerier. The Candyman is a god, in danger of being forgotten. Orcus is in fact a forgotten god. We’ve talked about Candyman, so let’s look at Orcus for a moment.
Orcus is a rarely mentioned Roman god of the underworld and also the name of that underworld in some sources. A lot of information has been lost over time and it’s unclear if he was a separate entity from Pluto or simply a darker manifestation thereof. In Roman and Italic mythology, the underworld’s ruler is generally more benign than in Abrahamic lore. Orcus was much more in line with modern interpretations of the Devil and Hell than his contemporaries. He was the punisher of the dead, especially those that broke their word, and tortured the living shit out of evil-doers for his own pleasure. Overtime, he’s been transmutated from evil ruler of the underworld into another “wild man” symbol of neo-paganism.
This scene in the film is short, but powerful. Besides the obvious fact that both are evil gods there’s a lot more going on here. Helen calls the Candyman in the mirror the night before and nothing happens. It’s the next day that she enters his domain. She sees the work of his congregation and the offerings to his name. Still she refuses to believe. When she steps through the painting’s mouth, she’s stepping into Orcus, the land of the dead. That’s the most literal translation of the scene. It’s beautifully shot and the artist(s) responsible for the murals in the film is amazing. Another variation of the image is used in the sequel but misses the power and elegance of this representation. Not to say that it isn’t well done, but the artistic style in the second film is influenced by the New Orleans aesthetic and doesn’t carry the same weight, in my opinion. You can be the judge.
After Helen steps into Orcus things become much stranger. She sees the Candyman, but he’s clearly not there to other people. Deaths happen and she’s blamed and, really, we aren’t sure she’s not responsible. There are times you’re sure she’s losing it. Then there are times you’re sure you missed something because the whole movie juked right and left you looking stupid. The first time you watch the film can be frustrating because of this. The land of the dead is a very confusing place and director Bernard Rose does a spectacular job translating that into something palpable for the viewers.
Remember what I said about people not keeping their word? Orcus is the Roman translation of the Greek daimon Horkos. Horkos means ‘oath’ and the entity that bears the name seeks out and punishes those that break vows, tell lies, and give false testimony. This is important because of the unspoken promises made to Daniel Robitaille, the individual that would become the Candyman.
Daniel, who’s name isn’t given in the first film, was the son of a former slave. Post-war racial violence was a broken promise all by itself. And worst of all, he was killed because of love. Love conquers all. Except for when it gets your hand chopped off, your body smeared in honey, and you left to be stung to death by thousands of bees. It doesn’t conquer that shit. Fucking lies, everywhere.
Then there’s the setting. Cabrini-Green is a very real place and the city of Chicago promised people that it would provide clean and safe housing for those that needed it. In real life, and in the film, it is a cesspool full of drugs and violence and the citizens trapped inside are left to rot by a city government that doesn’t give a damn. Part of the reason Bernard Rose chose to not only set the film in Cabrini-Green, but to actually film there, was because of how afraid everyone was. Even without a real life Candyman, the residents lived in constant fear. Especially in 1992, when crack was king and the gangs were multiplying faster than the Wayans family. The projects are both a broken promise and a legitimate land of the dead.
Horkos, in one parable, crosses paths with a man who has stolen from a friend. The thief asks Horkos when he’ll return to the village and the god tells him that he returns every thirty or forty years. So, the thief is feeling rather good about himself and runs back to his friend. He swears that he hasn’t taken the money and Horkos immediately appears. They don’t mention it in the story, but I’m pretty sure the thief shit himself at that point. Horkos tells him something to the effect of “if you push me, I’ll come back the same day.” He then threw the fucker off a cliff because he didn’t have the pizazz to pull off the meat hook and pimp coat like Tony Todd’s Candyman.
This is very much in line with the film. Once Helen convinces the people of Cabrini-Green that the Candyman doesn’t exist, he comes back that same day to prove that he does. He steals a baby, decapitates a dog, frames her for a few murders, and tells her the only way he’ll stop is if she comes to the projects to be his victim in front of all the witnesses. Because, to quote another Tony Todd character, “you don’t want to fuck with that mack daddy.”
The entire film is rich with symbolism and metaphor. There were many to choose from, but I felt this one was the subtlest and well developed. Candyman is a true classic, and not just to horror fans. The 90s were a sort of post-apocalyptic landscape in America. It’s hard to find things to love about that decade but like all apocalypses, ours is still ongoing. The last eighteen years haven’t turned out anything that we’ll look back on nostalgically. At least the 90s gave us the Nintendo 64 and Surge. We’re not going to talk about the fucking clothes, okay. That shit proves it was the end of the world.
Candyman is one of the few good things to happen in those ten years and does an excellent job showing us that world while not dating itself. There’re a few things here and there, like the bright purple windbreakers worn by members of the dominant gang, that set you in the time period. Overall, there’s nothing to tell you it isn’t happening right now. I might be giving the director too much credit in assuming he filmed it this way, but I’d like to think that’s exactly what he did. Either way, the film holds up very well considering it is now twenty-six years old.
As a writer, this is one of the most important films you could ever see. A story must please three people; the writer, the publisher, and the reader, in no particular order. If it isn’t entertaining, it will fail all three. I love writing stories strictly for entertainment value, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. What does the story really say? Often, writers try to include a greater message and deliver it with all the subtlety of a steam-driven dildo. Other times, they wave their personal beliefs in your face like it’s their first boner. Readers don’t care about your beliefs, just like I’m sure no one involved in the making of Candyman gave a damn about gang violence in the ghetto. But they talked about it through metaphors, by making the Candyman a metaphor and still got the message across.
People say to read the kinds of books that you want to write. I say that’s complete bullshit. If you’re a good writer that knows their craft, then when you’re reading you’ll turn on your inner-editor and start critiquing the author’s efforts. That’s helpful in improving your skills, not your style. Film is style. Watch movies and see how they use scene to tell the story. See how they use characters as living, breathing simile. Pay attention to the ways people move and put a name to it. When you read, you’re seeing a one-man play. The author is filling all the roles, which means the actions are limited. When you watch a movie, each actor brings their character to life. Likewise, a dozen people behind the camera are working their own magic on every scene to give you a better look at their world. Give movies some time to improve your writing, there’s a plethora of great ones out there to benefit your style. Just do yourself the favor of starting with Candyman.
