“You were not content with the stories, so I was obliged to come.”
The first time we see the titular Candyman (Tony Todd) on-screen in the 1992 cult classic, it’s a little under halfway through the film. For over 40 minutes his presence eludes both us and protagonist Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen), to the point where we begin to question his very existence. An urban legend, of course, isn’t tangible. It’s not something one can touch, or feel, or size up on a physical plane. It floats from generation to generation, passed down on the lips of those blessed (or cursed) with the responsibility of storytelling, becoming more obtuse and unfathomable as time goes on.
Yet, when we finally see Candyman standing at the back of that empty parking garage, the moment suddenly feels disturbingly genuine. There are no words, no pages, no whispers to obfuscate his existence. Draped in a thick fur coat, distinguished and menacing, the atmosphere of terror clings to Daniel Robitaille like an intoxicating scent you can’t wash away — yet, the character himself is a radical departure from both the traditional image of a slasher movie villain, as well as the description provided by author Clive Barker himself.
In Barker’s original short story, The Forbidden, Candyman is less of a character with an intimate history and more of an idea given shape. With waxy yellow skin and a patchwork coat hiding a tangle of flesh and honeycomb, the figure in the original story represents the power of legend; the ability for story and myth to both paralyze and hypnotize with fear. We’ve all heard the stories told around campfires, the ones whose only purpose seems to be sending a chill up the spine of those listening. There’s power in the subjectivity of truth, the gray area that lies between substantiated fact and obscure anecdote. Within Barker’s story there are two distinct groups: those that buy into legend and those that don’t. For the people who believe in Candyman’s myth, there’s a collective fear of pushing against the taboo, of attempting to deny the power held by his specter. And for those who don’t believe in the legends, there’s an almost seductive desire to cut to the heart of the tale, to either dispel the collective delusion and be seen as a champion of intellectualism, or fall prey to the stranglehold of legend and become a believer as well.
The Forbidden was first published in 1985 and set in Liverpool. But two years later and across the world in Chicago, another story was capturing public attention, this one much more real and much more tragic. The murder of Ruthie Mae McCoy, a Black female resident of one of Chicago’s many housing projects, piqued director Bernard Rose’s interest. Armed with Barker’s original short story and a desire to write a film that depicted the residents of poor, predominantly Black neighborhoods as actual human beings (eschewing a lot of the racial stereotypes and negative caricatures promoted by the media), Rose wrote the script for what would inevitably become Candyman, attracting the attention of plenty of people within Hollywood, including Tony Todd.
Todd had been drawn to the forbidden romance at the heart of the film, and crafted a backstory for Candyman that established him as Daniel Robitaille, a successful Southern painter during the Antebellum Era. After falling in love with and impregnating a rich white woman, Daniel is lynched by a white mob; his hand is cut off and his body is smeared with honey before being stung to death by bees, a horrific display of the lawless racial violence baked into the heart of America. Despite the intricate backstory, the filmmakers and cast were worried that the movie would receive pushback and criticism from the African-American community for its depiction of a horror movie slasher as a Black man; however, they received the exact opposite reaction. Members of the NAACP were open and receptive to the film, describing it as “good fun” and embracing the possibility of having an iconic horror movie villain comparable to the likes of Michael Myers and Freddy Krueger.
And while Candyman certainly excels at delivering the heart-quickening terror and disturbing imagery that die-hard fans of the horror genre crave, there’s another element buzzing just underneath the flesh that captivates the imagination. Intrinsically tied to the themes of mythological immortality found in Barker’s original short story, as well as the socio-economic plight suffered by African-Americans that became the foundation for Rose’s film, is Candyman’s existence as sheer allegory; a haunting spirit that represents the legacy of racial violence and systemic racism ever-present in America.
Candyman’s legend posits that Daniel’s remains were cremated and then scattered over the area that would eventually become the Cabrini-Green housing projects in Chicago. Depicted in decrepit detail through Anthony B. Richmond’s haunting cinematography, Cabrini-Green was notorious in the 80s and 90s for unprecedented gang violence and criminality, traits that served to further demonize the Black community in the news media. The area was frequently depicted as a lawless wasteland, and members of Chicago’s high class perpetuated rumors that you were likely to be robbed or murdered for even venturing inside. But the truth of the matter is far more complex. Since its creation, Cabrini-Green was neglected by the city of Chicago, leading to disrepair in the housing units and virtually unlivable conditions for those within. The criminal element that grew out of the area was a direct response to the rampant poverty that afflicted its residents; the community desperately needed help from a government that treated them as disposable.
Despite the area and the African-American residents who live there serving as the backdrop for the film, Candyman’s true protagonist is Helen, a young white college student working on a thesis about urban legends. When Helen first catches wind of the legend of Candyman, her curiosity is piqued, and her interest leads her to the Cabrini-Green housing projects. While recognizing the pitiful conditions that the residents of the neighborhood are forced to live under, Helen’s primary concern is the community’s collective belief in what she views as a delusion; Candyman, to her, represents an escape from the horror of their everyday lives. This is where the film’s central allegory takes shape: Candyman as the specter of institutional racism. Despite her intentions, Helen is ultimately blinded by ignorance and the societal insulation that she’s received as a white woman. She foolishly believes that Candyman isn’t real, merely another of the urban legends she’s spent her college career researching. However, the residents of Cabrini-Green know better. They see Candyman everywhere, and the evidence is all around them, crying out to be witnessed by those with eyes to see. Candyman is a daily reality for them, something not quite tangible, yet disturbingly material in his continued oppression.
For generations, African-Americans have been painfully aware of the real-life consequences that have been inflicted on us as a result of the systemic institutions of racism. Despite being a sociological phenomenon, racism is structurally intertwined with the economic infrastructure of American capitalism, and has been since the first slave was bound and shipped to our nation. Generational wealth attained by the white elite was built on the labor and trauma of Black bodies, and that same trauma now haunts our continued existence in this nation the same way that the spirit of Candyman haunts the residents of Cabrini-Green. An argument frequently made by detractors of the film suggests that, because Candyman is killing other Black people, then the movie can’t possibly be a progressive horror movie. But it’s precisely in this paradox that the movie’s thesis works. Candyman, the spirit of a Black man brutalized by a white mob, inflicts violence on those that occupy a low rung on the socio-economic ladder, the same way that systemic racism, itself an evolution of America’s original sin, prevents African-Americans from moving up or down that economic ladder.
Helen, in her eagerness to dispel the shadow cast over the Cabrini-Green housing projects, fills the role of the white neoliberal. American capitalism is sustained by those who turn a blind eye to the purposeful suppression of undesirables that keep its cogs turning. The American public is constantly regaled with stories of “self-made billionaires,” success stories that exemplify the spirit of the “American Dream.” Politicians and bureaucrats frequently espouse the idea that anyone can make it here, that all it takes is a little elbow grease and a willingness to abandon a “victim mindset.” Helen embodies this; her desire to expose Candyman as a falsehood is born out of a subtle yet ignorant perception that the residents of Cabrini-Green can change their material conditions only after shedding their childlike belief in their oppressor. It isn’t until Helen comes face-to-face with Candyman, until she’s confronted with the horrific actuality of his existence, that she truly recognizes the plight of the film’s Black characters.
While Helen’s infatuation with the residents of Cabrini-Green is deepened after she comes face-to-face with its residents, it’s important to recognize that the birth of her ill-fated journey comes from a desire to be recognized within the world of academia. Helen chooses Candyman as her thesis because she recognizes the potential for notoriety that comes with the subject; there’s even a point in the short story where she wonders whether or not she can secure a book deal with her investigation. This is a microcosm of a deeper problem, one that the film doesn’t explore in full: Black trauma as a resource to be mined for white consumption. There’s a scene earlier in the movie in which Helen discusses the origins of Candyman at a dinner with several other academics and professors, only one of which is African-American. Professor Philip Purcell (Michael Culkin), a self-described Candyman expert, recounts the origins of the legend in graphic detail. While the scene highlights the belittlement and sexism that Helen experiences as a woman in her field of study, the scene is unconsciously disturbing in the way that Philip describes Robitaille’s murder — reveling in the excess, savoring the details. Daniel’s final moments become a topic of light discussion over dinner, his body torn apart and dissected even in death.
As a painter in life, there’s a deep sense of irony in Candyman’s legacy existing through media; in graffiti, in the written word, and even in art. This is a theme that seems to be a major topic of discussion in Nia DaCosta’s upcoming Candyman sequel. The first trailer for the film re-introduces us to Anthony McCoy, the child kidnapped by Candyman in the original movie, now grown up. The movie’s synopsis tells us that Anthony is a photographer and artist, struggling for a muse until he stumbles upon what’s left of the Cabrini-Green housing project. After discovering the area’s history, and particularly the disturbing urban legend referenced in hushed whispers, Anthony channels Candyman’s legacy through his art, a decision that seems to attract the well-to-do white elite that now reside in the gentrified areas of Chicago.
Black trauma regurgitated for absorption by white audiences is a conversation that has been in rotation for decades. It arises every time a video of a Black person’s violent death circulates on the internet, digested and dissected by the masses until they’re reduced to nothing but their suffering. Even now, as protests against police brutality continue to rage across the nation, we can point to several recent images of Black bodies being brutalized and broken by the state, captured by photographers eager to capitalize on the moment and turn it into a viral snapshot; a commodity.
The most recent trailer for the 2020 film hints at this phenomenon, illustrated with detailed puppetry and presented with a haunting score in the background. The animation shows Anthony painting portraits of Black victims of racial violence; James Byrd Jr., young George Stinney, and finally, Daniel Robitaille himself. Each one was a human being with dreams and aspirations, now reduced to the finality of their deaths through photos, stories, films, and even paintings. The idea that this trauma, projected onto a canvas to be assimilated through the white gaze, will facilitate the return of Candyman and his thirst for blood is all too fitting in a medium that seems eternally preoccupied with displaying Black suffering on-screen.
The legacy of Candyman looms over his victims in a way that’s disturbingly familiar to the Black audiences who experienced the original back in 1992, and now DaCosta is poised to summon his spirit once again. Horrific yet tragic, repulsive yet seductive, the character of Candyman and the story of Daniel Robitaille is a work of fiction informed by the very real threat of racial violence that has lingered in American culture. Hidden amongst the sweet smell of honey and the rhythmic hum of bees is the threat of violent oppression and the promise of blood spilled, a disturbing and immutable truth understood by those who have seen the specter firsthand.
