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I imagine Candyman sitting in traffic, sweating and stewing under that heavy coat while listening to The Kingfish implore him to “chill” and “have some gumbo,” just aching to find the nearest pay phone, frantically dial with his good hand, and proclaim across the airwaves: YOU ARE NOT MY SUPERVISOR!!!
Like the gaudy, shiny beads one might receive via air mail at a particularly racuous Mardi Gras parade, Candyman’s first sequel is glossy on the outside, but plastic and hollow in the middle. A few years before he became an Oscar-winning screenwriter-turned-director who balanced smaller, more personal work with splashy blockbusters, Bill Condon cut his teeth in the horror game like many other future Hollywood big shots. A continuation of Clive Barker’s, nee Bernard Rose’s saga considering the significant locale changes the original’s director dreamed up, wasn’t inevitable, but the vengeful, scintillating spirit of Daniel Robitaille wasn’t likely to rest when there are a million mirrors and a million more gullible non-believers who give in to peer pressure and wanna impress their buds. The problem is, Farewell to the Flesh has little to contribute and, if you’ll forgive the pun, “fleshing” out Candyman’s origins turns out to be unnecessary.
“He was torn apart by sumthin’ powerful and it wasn’t your brother.” You callin’ my brother a pussy? Kelly Rowan might as well put down those incompetent N’Awlins detectives ‘cause they’re TERRIBLE at their jobs! The investigation into the deaths of the many unfortunates who cross the path of a young woman with a deep connection to the infamous urban legend is marred by incompetence and regrettably poor plotting. She’s constantly getting off scot free from what should at least be regarded as highly suspicious multiple murders. Meanwhile, her own investigation lazily unfurls against a colorful backdrop of New Orleans and the many waterlogged weirdos who dwell well under the Mason-Dixon line. Even when she’s confronted by filthy squatters in her decrepit childhood home, she’s unfazed to the point of catatonia. It doesn’t help that Philip Glass’ score is not only a rehash of his original, but is easily the most reminiscent of the one South Park so brilliantly parodied in their first Christmas episode: “As I turn and look into the sun, the rays burn my eyes. Happy Happy Happeeeee. Everybody Happeeeee.”
Useless characters like a loony brother and a soothsaying snowcone entrepreneur are just there to be slaughtered by Tony Todd’s intimidating badass. The kills lack the visceral horror of the original and despite Condon’s direction being creative and full of pep, the story is never compelling. Only near the conclusion when Todd is allowed to stretch his acting muscles beyond getting covered by bees and whispering creepy dialogue does the tale become a bit more intriguing. Rowan lacks that spark of sensuality which Madsen had in spades. You really believed that she could be seduced and even join Todd as his “victim,” and it was both dangerous and exciting. Condon is too smart of a filmmaker for this material, which is itself too serious and either should’ve gone for campy extremes or a deeply depressing wallow. Instead, it opts for a middle-of-the-road approach where scares are mild and secondary players are insignificant and expendable. Mid-90s CGI morphs Todd into Tron, then the Terminator, then ultimately, a Windows 95 screensaver. It’s a mildly diverting watch, but lacks the intensity of the original.
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