In the outer boroughs of Chicago, there is a legend of a mysterious maniac nicknamed Candyman, an inhabitant of a parallel world. He doesn’t need a knife to inflict wounds: his prosthetic hook-shaped hand is the perfect instrument of crime.
For now, Candyman is beyond reality. But if you stand in front of a mirror and say his name five times in a row, he will cross that shaky line. And then no one will be able to escape.
A group of young scientists, who do not believe in the mysterious Candyman, take on the task of studying this legend. But at any moment, instead of their reflection in the mirror, they may see the killer…
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Candyman. I think I’ve… heard that name. He’s a killer. He revels in fear. With his hook embedded in the flesh of his severed right arm, he rips his victim’s belly open from groin to chest. And he disappears as if he never existed. Without a trace. Like a ghost. Maybe he really is a ghost.
At least he’s definitely not a man anymore. He’s over a hundred years old since he died. He died for loving. For tasting the sweetness of love. The sweetest thing on earth. The real sweetness, the white virgin whose beauty he was told to capture in a painting. Apparently, he should burn in hell for it. For love. And for his romance, he felt all the bitterness of the bees’ poison, wizards of sweet honey. Irony and sophisticated revenge. The blood became sweeter.
Candyman. I think I… saw his face. Tony Todd’s face. The wise pathologist from Destination, whose voice was Death himself. And here he’s still so young. And too human. For a mad killer, his eyes were too expressive and trusting. He gave the feeling not of a homicidal maniac without principles but with the philosophy of a madman, but of an elegant Phantom of the Opera. Something in his movements was high, exquisite. Like the death he dreamed of giving to his main victim.
It was enough to say his name five times in front of the mirror to see for yourself. It was like Russian roulette, where you got lucky four times. But the rules were ironclad, and the bullet still found its owner, though the owner was not at all aware that he would pull the trigger for the last time in his life. It took Bloody Mary three times to hear her suicide call. But here it’s much simpler and angrier. Perhaps our killer himself admits that his method of appearance is neither fresh nor original. In addition, he doesn’t leave his victims a chance. He doesn’t warn them over the phone. He is not picky about blacks, prostitutes, sleepers, teenagers, etc. You just call him up, he won’t leave anyone out. Except Helen.
Candyman. I think I … saw the place where he lived. An abandoned neighborhood. A forbidden place. A slum of spray-painted entryways and streets. A tall building with the most resilient, all African-American, left to live in. That’s a tough welcome. Racist. For obviousness. Clive Barker has never felt the urge to wise up his creations. He is as much a killer as his characters. The only difference is that he kills fictional characters. And his characters kill people who are already alive. He likes to play with fear by channeling it into disgust. In a direction that is littered with the blood and guts of living beings. It’s as if his mind has risen from hell, and his characters save his soul by expelling the dark energy into another dimension. A dimension of fantasy. He had long ago determined his priorities for himself and had learned to emphasize in his creations the line between story and action that he himself had once built.
First a legend to show us what to fear and what to expect from it. Then the silence. We are put to the test when characters already dear to us, who appear in the frame for more than one line, jump out from around corners or jump on the bed. And we like to shiver. We haven’t seen the killer yet, but we’ve enjoyed plenty of his art and the charlatans who pass themselves off as idols. Afterward, we’re finally happy to get a glimpse of Tony’s face standing in the parking lot. It’s very strange. We, after all, expected him to hide his face, to see only his shuffling feet and bloody hook to the last, although you can see him in the first few minutes for a split second if you press pause. But here he is, standing as if he were a man like the rest of us, with a lively look and a last century style of speech. He is just another character, the most vivid, and, unfortunately, the most uneven, though perhaps that’s what should give him away as a madman. And then we could have applauded the killer, but we will know that he just got lucky with the actor. And the fourth part of the macabre story is when, following several paths, we finally discover the knot. A prize for those who despise the exquisite blood of death, and a welcome addition to lovers of the horror genre from Clive Barker.
Candyman. I think I… saw his victims. Inexpressive actors. When he was getting ready to kill, he made sure to show himself to the victim. An ugly ghost. He admired Helen’s helplessness, chopping up everyone connected to her. And left her alone, alone with a corpse, in a pool of blood. She, the fool, always grabbed the fucking knife, thinking she’d protect herself from the ghost. But, like a cheap clichÃ©, she was forever alone with the knife in her hands, and the gutted body lying next to her. The cops were too lazy to look into it, there was enough blood on the knife and fingerprints on the blade, and you can’t blame them for that. Helen, on the other hand, could be blamed. She got naked in front of the camera twice. You can feel sorry for her. Because the strings that hold her in our reality are rapidly being cut with a blunt hook, and blood is left on the edges. And at some point, when her sweet life threatens to turn its back on her and slam the door on her, the most terrifying and maddening thought is born that straps her to a hospital bed. After all, everything leads to the fact that the most real thing in her life remains a legend. Bravo, Clive. My first and only “Bravo!” to you. But my clap went into the silence and came back with a quiet shuddering echo.
The music was high. Not in the way you thought. The music was high-spirited. It was as if it laughed with a refined aristocratic chime and was utterly unwilling to give the viewer a racing heartbeat. No, it was often silent, but when it sounded, it raised the spirits. As if it cheered me up. And that was what made it not scary, but somehow sad. At once the world became gray. And the blood is dark. And the taste of honey is bitter. Like a kiss overflowing with buzzing bees. The crunch, the feeling of needles sticking into your tongue…
A most mesmerizing and beautiful offering. To be a victim. To feel the special pain. Strict and proud. To watch the world spread thousands of rumors of your death. To become an eternity and revel in blood and honey…
Codec: HEVC / H.265 (71.8 Mb/s)
Resolution: Native 4K (2160p)
HDR: Dolby Vision, HDR10
Aspect ratio: 1.85:1
Original aspect ratio: 1.85:1
English: DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1 (48kHz, 16-bit)
English: Dolby Digital 5.1
English: DTS-HD Master Audio 2.0 (48kHz, 16-bit)
German: DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1 (48kHz, 16-bit)
English SDH, German.